THE SECOND ROUND
"One sleeps, indeed, and wakes at intervals,
We know, but waking's the main part with us,
And my provision's for life's waking part.
Accordingly, I use heart, head and hand
All day, I build, scheme, study and make friends;
And when night overtakes me, down I lie,
Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it,
The sooner the better, to begin afresh.
What's midnight doubt before the dayspring's faith?
You, the philosopher that disbelieve,
That recognise the night, give dreams their weight--
To be consistent--you should keep your bed,
Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man,
For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares!
And certainly at night you'll sleep and dream,
Live through the day and bustle as you please.
And so you live to sleep as I to wake,
To unbelieve as I to still believe?
Well, and the common sense o' the world calls you
Bedridden,--and its good things come to me."
ROBERT BROWNING: "Bishop Blougram's Apology."
The Bullingdon Ball took place on the Tuesday night, and Joyce
returned to town the following morning. Her brother may have mentioned
the time, or it may have been pure coincidence that I should be buying
papers and watching the trains when she arrived at the station with
the girl she was chaperoning. We met as friends and exchanged papers:
I gave her the _Morning Post_ and received the _New Militant_ in
return. As the train slipped away from the platform, she waved
farewell with a carefully gloved left hand. Then Dick and I strolled
back to the House.
In drowsy, darkened chamber Robin was sleeping the sleep of the just.
As I voyaged round his rooms, I reflected that undergraduate humour
changes little through the ages, and in Oxford as elsewhere the
unsuspecting just falls easy prey to wakeful, prowling injustice. An
enemy had visited that peaceful home of slumber. Half-hidden by
disordered bed-clothes, a cold bath prematurely awaited Robin's foot,
and on his table was spread a repast such as no right-thinking man
orders for himself after two nights' heavy dancing. Moist, indecorous
slabs of cold boiled beef, beer for six, two jars of piccalilli and a
round of over-ripe Gorgonzola cheese, offered piteous appeal to a
jaded, untasting palate. Suspended from the overmantel--that soul
might start on equal terms with body--hung the pious aspiration--"God
Bless our Home."
"Garton, for a bob!" Robin exclaimed when I described the condition of
his rooms.
Flinging the bed-clothes aside, he fell heavily into the bath,
extricated himself to the accompaniment of low, vehement muttering
that may have been a prayer, and bounded across the landing to render
unto Garton the things that were Garton's. I followed at a
non-committal distance, and watched the disposal of two pounds of
boiled beef in unsuspected corners of Garton's rooms. Three slices
were hidden in the tobacco jar, the rest impartially distributed
behind Garton's books--to mature and strengthen during sixteen weeks
of Long Vacation. Balancing the jug of beer on the door-top--whence it
fell and caved in the fraudulent white head of a venerable
scout--Robin hastened back to his own quarters and sported the oak.
"I was thinking of a touch of lunch on the Cher," he observed,
exchanging his dripping pyjamas for a dressing-gown and making for a
window-seat commanding Canterbury Gate, a cigarette in one hand and a
Gorgonzola cheese in the other. "If you wouldn't mind toddling round
to Phil and the Seraph and routing the girls out, we might all meet at
the House barge at one. I'll cut along and dress as soon as I've given
Garton a little nourishment. I suppose the pickles 'ud kill him," he
added with a regretful glance at the two-pound glass jars.
I communicated the rendezvous to Philip, threw an eye over the "Where
is Miss Rawnsley?" article as I crossed the Quad, and dropped anchor
in the Seraph's rooms. His quaint streak of femininity showed itself
in the bowls of "White Enchantress" carnations with which the tables
and mantelpiece were adorned. A neat pile of foolscap covered with
shorthand characters indicated early rising and studious method. I
found him working his way through the _Times_ and _Westminster
Gazette_ for the last three days.
"I suppose there is no news?" I said when I had told him Robin's
arrangements for the day and described the Battle of the Beef.
"Nothing to-day," he answered. "Have you seen yesterday's _Times_?"
I had been far too busy with Joyce and my three wards to spare a
moment for the papers. I now read for the first time that the Prime
Minister had moved for the appropriation of all Private Members' days.
The Poor Law Reform Bill would engage the attention of the House for
the remainder of the Session, to the exclusion of Female Suffrage and
every other subject.
"That's Rawnsley's answer to _this_," I said, giving the Seraph my
copy of the _New Militant_.
"I wonder what the answer of the _New Militant_ will be to Rawnsley,"
he murmured when he had read the article.
"That is for you to say," I told him. "You read the Heavens and
interpret dreams and forecast the future...."
"Fortunately I can't."
This was an unexpected point of view.
"Wouldn't you if you could?" I asked.
"Would any one go on living if he didn't cheat himself into believing
the future was not going to be quite as black as the present?"
This was not the right frame of mind for a man who had spent two
nights dancing with Sylvia--to the exclusion of every one else, and I
told him so.
"Come along to the Randolph," he exclaimed impatiently. "To-day,
to-night; and to-morrow all will be over. I was a fool to come. I
don't know why I did."
We picked up our hats and strolled into King Edward Street.
"You came because Sylvia invited you," I reminded him. "I heard the
invitation. Young Rawnsley was not there, but Culling and Gartside
were, and a dozen more I don't know by name. Any of them might have
been chosen instead, but--they weren't. You should be more grateful
for your advantages, my young friend."
"I'm not."
I linked my arm in his, and tried to find out what was upsetting him.
"You've been having some senseless, needless quarrel with her...." I
hazarded.
"How can two people quarrel when they've not a single point in common?
Our lives are on parallel lines, continue them indefinitely and
they'll never meet. Therefore--it's a mistake to bring the parallels
so close together that one can see the other."
For a moment I wondered whether he had put his fortune to the test and
received a rebuff.
"Does Sylvia think your lives are on parallel lines?" I asked.
"What experience or imagination do you think a girl like that's got?
It never occurs to them that everybody's not turned out of the same
machine as themselves, with the same ideas, beliefs, upbringing,
position, means. D'you suppose Sylvia appreciates that she spends more
money on dress in six months than I earn in a year? Can she imagine
that I hate and despise all the little conventions that she wouldn't
transgress for all the wealth of the Indies? The doctrines she's
learnt from her mother, the doctrines she'll want to teach her
children--can she imagine that I regard them as so much witchcraft
that I wouldn't imperil my soul by asking any sane child to believe?
I'm an infidel, a penniless, unconventional Bohemian, and she--well,
you know the atmosphere of Brandon Court. What's the good of our going
on meeting?"
"Nigel is neither infidel, unconventional, nor Bohemian," I said.
"Moreover, he stands on the threshold of a big career...."
"I daresay," said the Seraph as I paused.
"Nigel was not invited. Gartside may be an infidel if he ever troubles
to think of such things; he is certainly not penniless or Bohemian. He
is a large-framed, large-hearted hero, with every worldly advantage a
girl could desire. Gartside was not invited. No more were the others.
You were."
"She hadn't known me two days; perhaps two days aren't long enough to
find me out."
"Feminine intuition...." I began.
"Feminine intuition's a woman's power of jumping to wrong conclusions
quicker than men. Unless you want to get yourself into trouble, you'd
better not march into Sylvia's presence with a _New Militant_ in your
hand."
I thanked him for the reminder, and bequeathed the offending sheet to
the Martyrs' Memorial. The heavy type of the headline, "Where is Miss
Rawnsley?" reminded me of our earlier conversation.
"I shan't be sorry to get rid of my charges," I remarked. "They're a
responsibility in these troublous times."
"Sylvia's in no danger," he answered with great confidence.
"I'm not so sure."
"She's absolutely safe."
"How do you know?"
He looked at me doubtfully, and the confidence died out of his eyes.
"I don't. It's--just an opinion."
"Even if you're right, there's still Gladys," I said.
"I'd forgotten her."
"She's a fair mark."
"I suppose so."
"Though not as good as Sylvia."
"I assure you Sylvia's in no danger."
"But how do you know?" I repeated.
"I tell you; it's only an opinion."
"But you don't express any opinion about Gladys."
"How could I?"
"How can you about Sylvia?"
He hesitated, flushed, opened his lips and shut them again in his old
tantalising way.
"I don't know," he answered as we entered the Randolph, and walked to
the end of the hall where the three girls were awaiting us.
Robin had provided an imposing flotilla for our accommodation. His own
punt was reserved for Cynthia, himself, and the luncheon-baskets; a
mysterious reconciliation had placed Garton's at the disposal of
Philip, Gladys, and myself, while Sylvia and the Seraph were stowed
away in a Canadian canoe, detached by act of sheer piracy from the
adjoining Univ. barge. We took the old course through Mesopotamia and
over the Rollers, mooring for luncheon half a mile above the Cherwell
Hotel. Hunger and a sense of duty secured my presence for that meal
and tea; in the interval I retired for a siesta. Distance, I find,
lends enchantment to a chaperon.
It was in my absence that Philip asked Gladys to marry him. On my
reappearance at tea-time, Robin shouted the news across a not
inconsiderable section of Oxfordshire. I affected the usual surprise,
warned Philip that he must await my brother's approval, and shook
hands with him avuncularly. Then I watched the orgy of kissing that
seems inseparable from announcements of this kind. A mathematician
would work out the possible combinations in two minutes, but his
calculation would, as ever, be upset by the intrusion of the personal
equation, for Robin kissed Gladys not once, but many times, less with
a view to welcoming her as a sister than from a reasonable belief that
such ill-timed assiduity would exasperate her elder brother.
In time it occurred to some one to make tea, and at six o'clock the
flotilla started home. Robin ostentatiously transferred me from
Philip's punt to his own, and with equal ostentation announced his
intention of starting last so as to round up the laggards. The
Canadian canoe shot gracefully ahead, and was soon lost to view; a
fast stream was running, and the boat needed little assistance from
the paddle. I have no doubt that in the late afternoon sun, and with
an accompaniment of rippling water gently lapping the sides of the
boat, time passed all too quickly. Fragments of conversation were
disinterred for my benefit in the course of the following weeks, to
set me wondering anew what sympathetic nimbus I must wear that girls
and boys like Sylvia and the Seraph should unlock their hearts for my
inspection.
I gather that Sylvia called for the verdict on the success of their
expedition to Oxford, and that the Seraph found for her, but with
reluctant, qualified judgment.
"You're not sorry you came?" she asked. "Well, what's lacking? I'm
responsible for bringing you here; I want everything to be quite
perfect."
"Everything _is_ perfect, Sylvia."
She shook her head.
"_Some_thing's wrong. You're moody and silent and troubled, just like
you were the first time we met. D'you remember that night? You looked
as if you thought I was going to bite you. I don't bite, Seraph. Tell
me what's the matter, there's still one night more; I want to make you
glad you came."
"You can't make me gladder than I am. But you can't find roses without
thorns. I wish we weren't all going back to-morrow."
"It's only to London."
"I know, but it'll all be different."
"But why?"
"I don't know, but it _will_ be. These three days wouldn't have been
so glorious if I hadn't remembered every moment of the time that they
were--just three days."
Shipping his paddle, he lay back in the boat and plunged his arms up
to the elbow in the cool, reedy water. Sylvia roused him with a
challenge.
"Four days would have bored you?"
"Have you ever met the man who _was_ bored by four days of your
company?"
"Don't you sometimes fancy you know me better than most?"
"I've known you since Whitsun."
"You've known me since...."
She stopped abruptly. The Seraph lifted a wet hand, and watched the
water trickling in zigzag rivulets up his arm.
"Shall I finish it for you?" he asked.
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"You've known me since the day I was born."
"Why do you think I was going to say that?"
"You were, weren't you?"
"I stopped in the middle."
"You'd thought out the end."
"Had I?"
"Unconsciously?"
A hand waved in impatient protest.
"If it was unconscious, how should I know?"
The Seraph glanced quickly up at her face, and turned away.
"True," he answered absently.
"No one could know," she persisted.
"_I_ knew."
"Guessed."
For answer he picked up his coat from the bottom of the boat, and
extracted a closely written sheet of college note-paper. Folding it so
that only the last line was visible, he handed it her with the words--
"You'll find it there."
Sylvia read the line, and gazed in perplexity at her companion.
"But I never _said_ it," she persisted.
"You were going to."
She turned the paper over without answering.
"What's on the other side?" she asked.
The Seraph extended an anxious hand.
"Please don't read that!" he implored her. "It's not meant for you to
see."
"Is it about me?"
"Yes."
"Then why shouldn't I see it?"
"You may, but not now."
"Well, when?"
The Seraph's manner had grown suddenly agitated. To gain time, he
produced a cigarette, but his agitation was betrayed in the trembling
hand that held the match.
"When we meet again," he answered after a pause.
"We meet again to-night."
"When we meet--after parting."
"We part to dress for dinner."
"I mean a long, serious parting," he replied in a low voice.
Sylvia laughed at his suddenly grave expression.
"Are we going to quarrel?" she asked.
He nodded without speaking.
"Why, Seraph?" she asked more gently.
"We can't help it."
"It takes two to make a quarrel. _I_ don't want to."
"We shouldn't--if we were the only two souls in creation."
Sylvia sat silent, fidgeting with a signet ring, and from time to time
looking questioningly into the troubled blue eyes before her.
"How do you _know_ these things?" she asked at length. "You can't
know."
"Call it guessing, but I was right over the unfinished sentence,
wasn't I?"
"Perhaps, but how do you know?"
"I don't. It's fancy. Some people spend their lives awake, others
dreaming." He shrugged his shoulders. "I dream. And sometimes the
dream's so real that I know it must be true."
Sylvia smiled with a shy wistfulness he had not seen on her face
before.
"I wish you wouldn't dream we were going to quarrel," she said. "I
don't want to lose you as a friend."
"You won't. Some day I shall be able to help you, when you want help
badly."
Almost imperceptibly her mouth hardened its lines, and her eyes
recovered their disdainful, independent fire.
"Why should I want help?" she asked.
"I don't know," was all he could answer. "You will."
Their canoe had drifted to the Rollers. The Seraph landed, helped
Sylvia out of the boat, and stood silently by while it was hauled up
and lowered into the water on the other side. As they paddled slowly
through Mesopotamia neither was able--perhaps neither was willing--to
pick up the threads of the conversation where they had been dropped.
In silence they passed the Magdalen Bathing Place, through the shade
of Addison's Walk, under the Bridge and alongside the Meadows.
Sylvia's mind grappled uneasily with the half-comprehended words he
had spoken.
"Do we meet and make it up?" she asked with assumed lightness of tone
as the canoe passed through the scummy, winding mouth of the Cher and
shot clear into the Isis.
"We meet."
"And make it up?" she repeated.
"I don't know."
"Do you care?"
"Sylvia!"
"What will you do?"
"If we don't?" The Seraph sat motionless for a moment, and then began
paddling the boat alongside the barges. "I shall go abroad. I've never
been to India. I want to go there. And then I shall go on to Japan,
and from Japan to some of Stevenson's islands in the South Seas. I've
seen everything else that I want to see."
"And then?"
He raised his eyebrows and shook his head uncertainly.
"Burial at sea, I hope."
"Seraph, if you talk like that we shall quarrel now."
"But it's true."
"There'd be nothing more in life?"
"Not if we quarrelled and never made it up."
"But if we _did_----"
"Ah, that'ud make all the difference in the world."
For a moment they looked into each other's eyes: then Sylvia's fell.
"I don't want to quarrel," she said. "I don't believe we shall, I
don't see why we need. If we do, I'm prepared to make it up."
"I wonder if you will be when the time comes," he answered.
We were, with a single, noteworthy exception--a subdued party that
night at dinner. Philip and Gladys had much to occupy their minds and
little their tongues: Sylvia and the Seraph were silent and
reflective: I, too, in my unobtrusive middle-aged fashion, had passed
an eventful night and morning. The exception was Robin, who furnished
conversational relief in the form of Stone Age pleasantries at the
expense of his brother in particular, engaged couples in general, and
the whole immemorial institution of wedlock. I have forgotten some of
his more striking parallels, but I recollect that each fresh dish
called forth a new simile.
"Pity oysters aren't in season, Toby," he remarked. "Marriage is like
your first oyster, horrid to look at, clammy to touch, and only to be
swallowed at a gulp." "Clear soup for me, please. When I'm offered
thick, I always wonder what the cook's trying to hide. Thick soup is
like marriage." "Why does dressed crab always remind me of marriage? I
suppose because it's irresistible, indigestible, and if carelessly
mixed, full of little pieces of shell." "Capercailzie is symbolical of
married life: too much for one, not enough for two." "Matrimony is
like a cigarette before port: it destroys the palate for the best
things in life."
No one paid any attention to Robin as he rambled on to his own
infinite contentment: he would probably still be rambling but for the
arrival of an express letter directed to me in Arthur Roden's writing.
We were digesting dinner over a cigar in the hall, and after reading
the letter I took Sylvia and the Seraph aside, and communicated its
contents. By some chance it was included in a miscellaneous bundle of
papers I packed up before leaving England, and I have it before me on
my table as I write.
"Private and Confidential," it began--
"MY DEAR TOBY,"
"If this arrives in time, I shall be glad if you will send me a
wire to say all is well with Sylvia and the others. We are a
good deal alarmed by the latest move of the Militants. You will
have seen that Rawnsley got up in the House the other day and
moved to appropriate all Private Members' time till the end of
the Session, in this way frustrating all idea of the Suffrage
coming up in the form of a Private Member's Bill.
"The Militants have made their counterstroke without loss of
time. Yesterday morning Jefferson's only child--a boy of
seven--disappeared. We left J. out when we were running over
likely victims at Brandon: he was away in the _Enchantress_
inspecting Rosyth at the time, and I suppose that was how we
forgot him. We certainly ought not to have done so, as he has
been one of the most outspoken of the anti-militants.
"The child went yesterday with his nurse to Hyde Park. The
woman--like all her damnable kind--paid no attention to her
duty, and allowed some young guardsman to sit and talk to her.
In five minutes' time--she says it was only five minutes--the
child had disappeared. No trace of him has been found.
Jefferson, of course, is in a great state of worry, but agrees
with Rawnsley that no word of the story must be allowed to reach
the Press, and no effort spared to convince the electorate of
the utter impossibility of considering the claims at present
put forward by the Militants. I am arranging a series of
meetings in the Midlands and Home Counties as soon as the House
rises.
"And that reminds me. Rawnsley received a second letter
immediately after the abduction of J.'s boy, telling him his
action in respect of Private Members' time had been noted, and
that he would be given till the end of the month [June] to
foreshadow an autumn session. There may be an autumn
session--that depends on the Committee Stage of the Poor Law
Bill--but the Suffrage will not come up during its course, and
Rawnsley is purposely withholding his announcement till the
month has turned.
"For the next ten days, therefore, we may hope to be spared any
fresh attack. After that they will begin again, and as my
Midland campaign is being announced in the course of this week,
it is more than probable that the blow may be aimed at me.
"Please shew this letter to Sylvia and the boys, and explain as
much of the Rawnsley affair as may be necessary to make it clear
to her. At present she has been told that Mavis is ill in London
and may have to undergo an operation. Tell her to use the utmost
care not to stir in public without some competent person to
escort her. Scotland Yard is increasing its bodyguards, and
everything must be done to assist them.
"You will, of course, see the necessity of keeping this letter
private.
"Ever yours,
"ARTHUR RODEN."
As I gave the letter to Sylvia and the Seraph to read, I will admit
that my first feeling was one of unsubstantial relief that Joyce had
been in Oxford when the abduction took place in London. I did not in
any way condone the offence, I should not have condoned it even had I
known that she was mainly responsible for the abduction. Independently
of all moral considerations, I found myself being glad that she was
out of town at the time of the outrage. The consolation was flimsy. I
concede that. But it is interesting to me to look back now and review
my mental standpoint at that moment. I had already got beyond the
point of administering moral praise and blame: my descent to active
participation in crime followed with incredible abruptness.
I felt the "Private and Confidential" was not binding against the
Seraph, as he had been present when Rawnsley described the
disappearance of Mavis. While he expounded her father's letter to
Sylvia, I gave its main points to Philip and Robin. The comments of
the family were characteristic of its various members. Philip shook a
statesmanlike head and opined that this was getting very serious, you
know. Robin inquired plaintively who'd want to abduct a little thing
like him.
"I don't want any 'competent escort,'" Sylvia exclaimed with her
determined small chin in the air.
"For less than twenty-four hours," I begged. "I'm responsible for your
safety till then. After that you can fight the matter out with your
father."
"But I can look after myself even for the next twenty-four hours."
I assumed my severest manner.
"Have you ever seen me angry?" I said.
"Do you think you could frighten me?" she asked with a demure smile.
"I'm quite sure I couldn't," I answered helplessly. "Seraph, can you
do anything with her?"
"Nobody can do anything with her...."
"Seraph!"
"...against her will."
"That's better."
I struck at a propitious moment.
"When we leave here," I said to the Seraph, "you're to take her hand
and not let go till you're back in the hotel again. I give her into
your charge. Treat her...."
I hesitated, and Sylvia interrogated me with a King's Ransom smile.
"Treat her as she deserves," I said. "If she were my wife, ward or
daughter, I should slap her and send her to bed. So would you, so
would any man worthy of the name."
"Would you, Seraph?"
He was helping her into her cloak and did not answer the question.
Suddenly she turned round and looked into his eyes.
"Would you, Seraph?" I heard her repeat.
"I shall treat you--as you deserve to be treated," he answered slowly.
"That's not an answer," she objected.
"What's the good of asking him?" I said as the rest of our party
joined us.
In the absence of Joyce I spent large portions of a dull and
interminably long night smoking excessive cigarettes and leaning
against a wall to watch the dancers. Towards three o'clock I
discovered an early edition of an evening paper and read it from cover
to cover. Canadian Pacifics were rising or falling, and some
convulsion was taking place in Rio Tintos.
The only other news of interest I found in the Cause List. I remember
the case of Wylton _v._ Wylton and Sleabury was down for trial one day
towards the end of that week.