III
Inigo Jollifant Quotes Shakespeare and
Departs in the Night
I
We have left all the hills behind; our faces are turned towards the long strands, salted and whistling, of the North Sea. Here, the land is a great saucer, patterned with dykes and arrowy roads. To the north and to the south are smudges of smoke, the bright webbing of railway lines, towers that are older than the distant fields they chime to, Peterborough, Ely, Cambridge. We are on the edge of the Fens. It is a place plucked from the water. Only here and there remains the old darkly gleaming chaos of marsh and reeds, alders and bulrushes, the sudden whirr and scream of wildfowl. All else is now deep pasturage and immense fields bright with stubble, feeding the windmills and the scattered redbrick farms. It is a country to make a farmer fat; these are fields to put beef and pudding and ale on a man’s table. Yet it seems to be still haunted by its old desolation. Perhaps the sky, which can show a spread of cloud and blue by day, a glitter of stars by night, not to be matched elsewhere between Berwick and Penzance, is too big, too masterful, for a man’s peace of mind, unless, like so many in the old days, he comes here simply to worship God. Perhaps too much is heard of its bitter neighbour, the North Sea, and of winds that come from the Steppes. Perhaps it is only because it is a hollow land, which every darkness turns again into a place of spectral marshes and monkish ghosts. Something desolating certainly remains, a whisper not to be drowned by the creaking of the heaviest harvest-wagons. The little farms seem lonelier than lighthouses. The roads go on and on, one ruled mile after another, but would never appear to arrive anywhere. The very trains, cautiously puffing along a raised single track, seem to be without either starting-places or destinations, and so wander undramatically across the landscape, only heightening, by their passing, the long silences. The vague sadness of a prairie has fallen upon this plain of dried marshes. Like a rich man who gives but never smiles, this land yields bountifully but is at heart still a wilderness.
Somewhere in the middle of this region, a narrow side-road finds its way to a hamlet, made up of about twenty houses, a tiny shop, and an alehouse, and then wanders on another mile or so in order to arrive at a house of some size, where it stops, despairingly. This is easily the largest house in the neighbourhood, a redbrick building in no recognizable style of architecture, and perhaps sixty or seventy years old. It was built by a strange gentleman from Australia, who had for years dreamed of a country mansion, and, once he was installed in it, proceeded very quietly to drink himself to death. Now, as certain sheds and newer outhouses, goalposts and worn fields testify, it is no longer a country mansion. It is some years since James Tarvin, M.A. (Cantab.), married a woman ten years older than himself, bought with her money the desirable property known as Washbury Manor, and transformed it into Washbury Manor School, in which some fifty or sixty boys, preferably the sons of gentlemen, are prepared for the public schools and whatever else may befall them in this life. Letters from all over the world arrive now at Washbury Manor. Men and women in far-distant bungalows receive little scrawls from there and are very proud and boring about them. Quite a number of the small boys at Washbury have parents who are in India and Africa and such places, and not a few of the rest have no parents at all but merely guardians, persons who are conscientious enough but cannot be expected to discover the relative merits of all the preparatory schools in England. Not that Washbury Manor is a bad school; but, on the other hand, it is certainly not one of the best. One visiting uncle, a master in the merchant service, put it to himself and to anybody who might be listening: ‚ÄúIt don‚Äôt smell right.‚Äù But he himself was not the kind of person that Mr.¬ÝTarvin‚ÅÝ‚Äîit is his own phrase‚ÅÝ‚Äîwished to have associated with the school. Mr.¬ÝTarvin could afford to be contemptuous of such criticism. He had references from public men, including a Colonial Bishop; some scholarships to the school‚Äôs credit; pure air and water, a bracing atmosphere, perfect sanitation, good playing fields; and a teaching staff of three university graduates, Robert Fauntley, M.A. (Oxon.), Inigo Jollifant, B.A. (Cantab.), Harold Felton, B.A. (Bristol); a matron, Miss Callander, with a diploma in the domestic sciences; and an ex-regular noncommissioned officer, Sergeant Comrie, to take drill and carpentering. Moreover, the health and comfort of the boys are the care of no less a person than Mrs.¬ÝTarvin herself, the daughter of the Rev. George Betterby. If you are a parent in India, is it not worth cutting things down a little, depriving yourself of a few holidays in the hills, we will say, merely to know that your boy is in such hands as these? Term by term, Mr.¬ÝTarvin received tribute from the very frontiers of our Empire, and rarely had he to complain that one of his little iron bedsteads was without its weight of boy.
They are all in bed now, these boys, but they are not all asleep. Mr.¬ÝFelton has already looked in once at the older ones, who may be subject to the vaguely disturbing influences of Saturday night, and has told them to be quiet. All the other adult persons in the house are trying to forget the existence of boys. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin has commanded the presence of Miss Callander in her drawing-room and is pleasantly occupied in bullying her. Mr.¬ÝTarvin himself, having been told to keep out of the way for half an hour after dinner, has retired to what he calls his study, and there, pasty, damp, and breathing heavily, he has cast off both the schoolmaster and the anxious husband and has turned himself into a dozing middle-aged sedentary man, with a weak stomach lulled for a little while into a false peace. Mr.¬ÝFauntley has disappeared on one of his mysterious Saturday night excursions. Sergeant Comrie is walking over the fields to the village inn, where he is regarded as a rich cosmopolitan character. Mr.¬ÝJollifant is in his bed-sitting-room, a very small and stuffy apartment not far from the roof, which he prefers to the equally small and stuffy common-room because at this moment he is engaged in what he imagines to be literary composition.
He is sitting in a Windsor chair that he has tilted back to a very perilous angle, and his feet, enclosed in vivid green carpet slippers, are resting on the sill of the open window. There is about both his attitude and his apparel that elaborate carelessness of the undergraduate, though Inigo Jollifant, now in his twenty-sixth year, left Cambridge three years ago. He is a thin loose-limbed youth, a trifle above medium height. His face does not suggest the successful preparatory-school master. It seems rather too fantastic. A long lock of hair falls perpetually across his right eyebrow; his nose itself is long, wandering, and whimsical, and his grey eyes are set unusually wide apart and have in them a curious gleam. He wears a blue pullover, no coat, a generous bow-tie, and baggy and rather discoloured flannel trousers. He is smoking a ridiculously long cherrywood pipe. There is about him the air of one who is ready to fail gloriously at almost anything. We realize at once that his History, French, English Literature, his cricket and football, are dashing but sketchy. At this moment he is ostensibly engaged in writing an elaborate essay‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a manner of the early Stevenson‚ÅÝ‚Äîentitled ‚ÄúThe Last Knapsack,‚Äù an essay that he began many weeks ago, in the middle of the long vacation. His right hand grasps a fountain pen and there is a writing block on his knees, but never a word does he set down. He blows out clouds of smoke, keeps his feet on the windowsill, and balances his chair at a still more alarming angle.
There is a knock at the door, and then a face looks in, bringing with it a flash of eyeglasses.
“Hello! Who’s that?” he cries, without turning round. “Come in.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Jollifant.” And the visitor enters.
“Oh, it’s you, Felton, is it?” Inigo twists his head round, and grins. “Come in and sit down.”
Felton is about the same age, but after that there is no further likeness. He is a pleasant, earnest young man, whose rimless eyeglasses give him a rather misleading look of energy and alertness. Two years ago, he left the University of Bristol, at which he had spent four undistinguished years, with the determination to do his duty, speak the truth, and be friendly with everybody; and a certain sense of anxiety discovered in his face, voice, manner, suggests that he has not found it easy. Already he is beginning to approach life, or at least every succeeding new manifestation of it, with a slightly halting step and a little prefatory cough. He goes warily through the term, occasionally reading large dull biographies and smoking non-nicotine cigarettes and always agreeing with everybody, and then tries to forget his responsibilities in cautious foreign travel.
He sat down, then cleared his throat. “Look here, Jollifant, I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“Felton, you do not trouble me,” said Inigo, regarding his companion as if he were a fairly intelligent fox terrier. “It’s true I was in the throes of composition. Throes! What damned silly words we use! Have you ever been in throes?”
“Yes, I see you were,” replied Felton, looking with something like reverence at the writing block. He had a deep veneration for literature, so deep that he hardly ever made acquaintance with it. He did not know whether these things that Jollifant was always trying to write were literature or not, but as usual he was not taking any risks. “It’s about the washing lists,” he added apologetically.
‚ÄúThe washing lists!‚Äù the other cried, in an ecstasy of scorn. ‚ÄúThis is Saturday night, Felton. Think of that, Saturday night! Remember your orgies at Bristol. Now I‚Äôm prepared, as you see, to devote myself, in stern seclusion, to Art, searching for the exact Phrase. Don‚Äôt forget that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe exact phrase. Takes a devil of a lot of finding. Again‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he looked very severely at his visitor and took out the cherrywood pipe‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI‚Äôm prepared to come down from yonder height, as it were, to make merry with you, to exchange ideas, to hear you talk of the old wild days of Bristol. But no washing lists! Not on Saturday night!‚Äù
‚ÄúI see what you mean,‚Äù said Felton. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs an awful nuisance, of course. But still, Mrs.¬ÝTarvin said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Inigo held up his hand. “Her words fall on deaf ears. That woman’s a gorgon. Tonight, I refuse to believe she exists.”
‚ÄúWell, we told you what she was like,‚Äù said the other. This was his fourth term at the school, and it was Inigo‚Äôs third. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin had been away, for a long rest-cure, during both the previous terms, so that Felton had known her for about eleven weeks, whereas Inigo had only known her for one. ‚ÄúWe told you what it would be like when she came back,‚Äù he added, with all the irritating complacency of the successful prophet.
“What you told me was a mere nothing,” Inigo cried. “You said, for instance, that the food would be cut down a bit when she came back. It’s not been cut down, it’s been cut out, clean out. There’s nothing left but the smell, which is worse than ever. Look at tonight’s mess!”
“I know. Pretty bad, wasn’t it?”
‚ÄúShepherds‚Äô pie‚ÅÝ‚Äîand no shepherd would ever touch it‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the second time this week, and prunes for the third or fourth! And she calls that a dinner‚ÅÝ‚Äîon Saturday night, too! And there she sits, the shapeless old guzzler, choking herself right under our noses with cutlets and cream and God knows what. That‚Äôs the last refinement of torture. If she was in the trough with us, groping amongst the minced stuff and prunes and muck, it wouldn‚Äôt be so bad. But to sit there, letting us see that real food still exists, letting us watch it being converted into that fat of hers, it‚Äôs simply piling on the insult, it‚Äôs devilish! If there‚Äôs another dinner like that, I shall take sandwiches and chocolate down and eat them in front of her. It isn‚Äôt that I care so much about food. My soul, Felton, is like a star and dwells apart, absolutely. But I ask you! Can you worthily instruct the young, can you wrestle with the problems of French and History, day after day, on prunes? It can‚Äôt be done.‚Äù
“No. I see what you mean, of course. Though as a matter of fact,” he added hesitantly, “I rather like prunes.”
“Under which king, Besonian? Speak or die!” Inigo shouted, pointing his pipe-stem at the startled Felton. “He that is not with us is against us. Do you ask for prunes, Felton? Do you creep down to that wretched female Tarvin, with your tongue lolling out, and say, ‘More prunes. Custard or no custard, more prunes’?”
“Don’t be an ass, Jollifant,” Felton wriggled. “Besides, I hate shepherds’ pie as much as you do. It’ll be like that all the term. I told you what it would be.”
‚ÄúThe whole subject,‚Äù the other began loftily, ‚Äúis profoundly distasteful to me. Let me read you a sentence or two from ‚ÄòThe Last Knapsack,‚Äô an essay celebrating‚ÅÝ‚Äîmournfully, you understand‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe final extinction of the walking tour. Have you an ear for a phrase, Felton?‚Äù
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know. Yes, I think so. But, look here‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôd like to slip up later and hear that‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut what about those washing lists?‚Äù
Before Inigo could express his opinion again on the subject, there came a little knock at the door. It was Miss Callander, and she looked as if she had just retreated to her room in a shower of tears and had hastily quitted it in a cloud of powder. She was a distant connection of Mr.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs, a tall, rather plump girl of twenty-seven, who would not have been noticeable in the nearest town but who seemed in this wilderness almost a beauty, and was certainly too well-favoured to be successful as the school matron, especially since she had been appointed by Mr.¬ÝTarvin during his wife‚Äôs absence at the beginning of the year. She had only spent ten days so far trying to please Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, but already she was beginning to realize the hopelessness of the task. For the past four years, she had been engaged off and on to a cousin who was out in Egypt. During the last three months, the engagement had been off, but even now she was meditating a letter that would put it on again.
Inigo beamed upon her snub nose, round and rapidly doubling chin, and large and rather foolish eyes. They were, he told himself again, the eyes of a stricken deer. “This, Miss Callander,” he announced gravely, “is an honour.”
‚ÄúOh, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she fluttered, ‚Äúis Mr.¬ÝFelton here? Oh, I see he is. Mr.¬ÝFelton, it‚Äôs about the washing lists‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Felton,” said Inigo sternly, turning round, “what about those lists?”
“That’s just what I was asking,” Felton began, hastily coming forward.
Inigo cut him short with a superb gesture, then smiled at Miss Callander with deep tenderness and looked for a moment as if he were about to pat her hand. “You want them now, I take it?”
‚ÄúI do, yes. As soon as possible. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs perfectly furious about everything.‚Äù And her eyes grew and grew and her mouth dropped.
‚ÄúSay no more,‚Äù cried Inigo, with an air of immense benevolence. ‚ÄúWhat man can do, we will do, at least if Felton will condescend to give me a little assistance.‚Äù He rummaged amongst a mass of papers on his table, found what he wanted, then added: ‚ÄúForward to the common-room. And the motto is, ‚ÄòOne for all, and all for one‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely. Lead on, Miss Callander. Master Felton, take these papers, and shake off that deep lethargy.‚Äù And off they went, with Miss Callander, giggling a little, in front.
By the time that Inigo had carefully filled and lighted his absurd pipe and had smiled dreamily for a few moments through the haze of smoke at his two colleagues, they had completed the lists. “There now,” he said, as Miss Callander gathered up the papers. “That’s done with. What do we do now? I can’t go back to that beastly little room of mine and try to write. The mood, Miss Callander, the precious mood, is shattered; the golden bowl, Felton, is broken. I shall try a little music.”
Miss Callander, at the door, turned wide eyes upon him. “How can you, though? I mean, where will you go?”
‚ÄúAren‚Äôt you forgetting,‚Äù he replied with dignity, ‚Äúthat there is an instrument‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI won‚Äôt say a piano, but anyhow something in the semblance of a piano‚ÅÝ‚Äîin our rotten schoolroom?‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, but Mr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù she gave a tiny giggle that was a mixture of delight and apprehension. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you remember Mrs.¬ÝTarvin said it wasn‚Äôt to be used in the evening? She did, didn‚Äôt she, Mr.¬ÝFelton?‚Äù
“She did, you know, Jollifant,” said Felton, with an earnest flash of his glasses. “It’s a shame, of course, but that’s what she said.”
‚ÄúMy friends, my old companions in misfortune, I thank you for these words of warning, but I know nothing of such orders, tyrannical commands which‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîstrike at the very roots of liberty. Is thy servant a dog that he shall not do this thing? The answer is, ‚ÄòNo, decidedly not!‚Äô I go to play‚ÅÝ‚Äîas best I can, and by George, that‚Äôs not saying much because half the keys stick all the time‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI go to play, I repeat, upon the schoolroom piano. Open your ears‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean yours, Miss Callander, because Felton‚Äôs, as you can see, are open enough‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they shall drink in melody and harmony and what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚Äîa spot or two of counterpoint.‚Äù And Inigo marched downstairs to the dismal little schoolroom, once the drawing-room of Washbury Manor and now a cheerless huddle of desks and blackboards and yellowing maps. It was dusk now, and he switched on a naked and shivering electric light, then walked over to the far corner of the room and seated himself before one of those cottage pianos, with ochreous fronts and mournful blue-white keys, that are designed and glued and varnished for no other places but miserly institutions. The pedal creaked, the keys stuck together, the tone was sadly tinny, but it was a piano, and music could be wrung out of it.
It must be said at once that Inigo‚Äôs playing, like his French and History and cricket, was dashing but sketchy. He was not of your cool and impeccable executants, delicately phrasing, to the last grace-note, their Bachs and Mozarts. His technique was faulty and his taste was worse. He himself thought little of his musical powers, and all his serious thought, his fine energies, were devoted to the composition of elaborate prose. In more expansive moments, he saw himself as another Pater or Stevenson. But he was not a writer, and never would be. Try as he might, he only succeeded in putting honest words on the rack, leaving them screaming, though of this he was happily unconscious. He was marked out to be one of those wistful adorers who never even catch a glance from the Muse. He would never create literature, though his life itself might be rich with its scents and flavours. He would always be one of its failures, though perhaps one of its happy failures, that company of humble aspirants‚ÅÝ‚Äîand at heart Inigo was humble enough‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho discover more joy in the sight of a sadly botched manuscript than many a successful writer has found in a row of admired volumes. On the other hand, in his antics at the piano, which had made him so popular at school, at Cambridge, and at odd parties everywhere, those antics that he regarded with smiling contempt, there was really a glint of genius. His touch was light, crisp, and somehow deliciously comic; he could start the keys into elfin life; and not only could he read easily at sight, and improve as he read, the common sort of music, the songs and dance tunes that were so often demanded of him, not only could he play by ear and throw in a trick or two of his own as he played, but he was able to improvise the most amusing little tunes, cynical-sentimental things of the moment, not unlike all the other butterfly melodies that wing their way across the world and then perish obscurely, and yet all his own, with a twist in them, something half wistful, half comic, in their lilt, that belonged to nobody else. He would play these things until every foot was tap-tapping, and many a listener, vainly attempting to catch again the deft little phrases, would be maddened for weeks. But he would only try variations of key and manner until at last his ear was satisfied. He never tried to put them down on paper. It had not occurred to him that the world was being scoured for such tunes; and if it had occurred to him, he would probably have remained indifferent, having a ‚ÄúLast Knapsack‚Äù still to finish.
For several days an unusually impudent and delicious little tune had been capering at the back of his mind, and now, after some preliminary flourishes, he set out to capture it. He fumbled about for a few minutes in the key of D major, but then slid into his favourite E flat. The next moment the poor hulk of a piano leaped into life. The tune was his, and he began toying ecstatically with it. Now it ran whispering in the high treble; now it crooned and gurgled in the bass; and then, off it went scampering, with a flash of red heels and a tossing of brown curls. There was no holding it at all. It pirouetted round the room, mocking the desks and blackboards and maps: the air was full of its bright mischief. Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee, rumpty-dee-tidee. But why try to describe that little tune or make any mystery of it? All the world knows it now, or did yesterday, as “Slippin’ Round the Corner.” What Inigo played that night was not quite the final melody that became so famous as a song and a dance tune afterwards: the butterfly was hardly out of the chrysalis yet; but, on the other hand, the lilt that came out then had not been blared and bleated and howled and vulgarized in every conceivable fashion, and still had all its enchanting mockery of things heavy and dull and lifeless. Inigo twisted it this way and that, sent little glittering showers of high notes over the melody, let it sink down in mock despair to the bass, then made it ring so triumphantly through the schoolroom that it shattered the place altogether and set up in its stead a room that was all long windows and gardens beyond and youth and happy folly. As he did this, Inigo laughed aloud.
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù A voice at the door.
Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee. This was the best tune yet. It was what Saturday night ought to be. It danced clean over Washbury Manor School at the very first note, cleared the long sullen fields, and then went capering through bright towns that could not be found on any map.
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù The voice was closer and louder, a screech.
Rumpty-dee-tidee. And friends you had never seen before joined hands with you, and away you went, past lines of laughing girls.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ
‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù
And Inigo let his hands fall from the keys and awoke to make the discovery that Mrs.¬ÝTarvin really existed and was standing before him, very angry indeed. There followed a moment during which he was able to examine distastefully and in silence her shapeless black figure, her grey hair with its odd ribbon in front, her steel spectacles, her long sallow face that always contrasted so dramatically and repellently with her bulk of body.
“Didn’t you hear me calling?” she demanded furiously.
“I’m afraid I didn’t.” Inigo smiled at her in a dazed fashion. The tune was still running through his head.
‚ÄúWell, please stop playing at once, at once,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. She had a trick of repeating phrases, raising her voice the second time, that had been meat and drink to mimics at Washbury for years. ‚ÄúI thought it was clearly understood that this piano was not to be played at all, not at all, in the evening.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut that‚Äôs the only time I can play it, absolutely the only time,‚Äù Inigo replied, quite unwittingly falling into mimicry there and then. ‚ÄúAnd after all, I give some of the boys music lessons. Music‚Äôs an extra and‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe share the profits. And I can‚Äôt give music lessons unless I play myself sometimes, can I?‚Äù And he gave her a broad smile.
It was not returned. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin had known Inigo only a week, but already she had begun to regard him as another of her husband‚Äôs unfortunate appointments. ‚ÄúThe music lessons are not important, not important, at all,‚Äù she said coldly. ‚ÄúAnd in any case, I don‚Äôt see that it is at all necessary that in order to give them, you must play music-hall tunes as loudly as you can when all the boys are in bed, yes, long ago in bed.‚Äù
“The longer in bed, you know, the deeper the sleep,” he began.
‚ÄúThat will do, please, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. The rule is that this piano shall not be played, not be played, in the evening.‚Äù And she swept round as if she were on a swivel, drew herself up, and marched out.
Inigo followed, whistling softly the night’s tune, which now was not only deliriously lilting but also had a certain rebellious note in it. At the head of the stairs, on the way to his room, he met Miss Callander, who looked as if she had been standing there, listening.
“Oh, I heard her go down. Did she stop you?”
“She did, she did,” he replied. “And just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. Did you hear the thing I was playing? A poor thing, but mine own.”
“Was it really? I thought it was lovely. You are clever.” Then she dropped her voice. “I knew she’d stop you. She’s been fearfully cross all evening and blamed me for all kinds of silly things just after dinner, and I really don’t know what to do.” And she put a hand to her cheek and looked at him forlornly.
He took her hand and held it somewhat absentmindedly. ‚ÄúShe thinks by keeping us on a low diet‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean shepherds‚Äô pie and prunes‚ÅÝ‚Äîto crush our spirit. But she won‚Äôt succeed, unless perhaps with Felton, who hasn‚Äôt much spirit anyhow, and likes prunes, or says he does. But you and I, Miss Callander‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he completed the sentence by squeezing her hand.
She withdrew her hand, though not hastily. “She’s really awful, isn’t she? And only a week of term gone! And weeks and weeks yet! What will she be like at the end? Better perhaps.”
‚ÄúWorse, decidedly worse,‚Äù said Inigo impressively. ‚ÄúNine weeks more of her‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs unthinkable. Believe me‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now his voice sank to a fearsome whisper‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúyoung as the term is, short as the acquaintance of this gorgon-like female and myself, the fates have already conspired together and woven a web and laid a train, and very soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo you know what will happen here very soon, do you know what there will be?‚Äù
Her round eyes and parted lips were sufficient to frame the question. But Inigo’s sense of the dramatic compelled him to wait a few moments. His stare was heavy with doom.
“A bust-up,” he said at length, “and a bust-up of the most astounding and shattering proportions.” He gave her another fateful glance, then quite suddenly grinned at her, waved his hand, and went striding down the corridor, whistling his tune, that tune which is perhaps the leitmotif of the piece.
II
Sunday was surprisingly warm for a late September day. It was not, however, a pleasant and bright warmth, but sulky grey heat, as if the whole place had been shovelled into a huge dim oven. Not a breath stirred the surrounding fields, and all the air inside the school seemed to have been used over and over again. Midday dinner with the boys had been a misery, and Inigo, who had hacked off innumerable slices of boiled beef, had had some greasy traffic with carrots, and had then watched fifteen boys eat tapioca pudding, felt hot, sick, and cross.
‚ÄúI was wrong about there being only two smells here,‚Äù he announced angrily to Felton, with whom he left the dining-room. ‚ÄúThere are two smells-in-chief, I admit. The smell of boy is the first, of course. And the smell from the kitchen, which must be piled high with decaying bones and drenched in cabbage water, is the second. These are what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚Äîdominant. But‚ÅÝ‚Äîare you listening, Felton?‚Äù
“Not more than I can help, I must say,” said Felton, without turning round. They were now going upstairs, and he was in front. “But go on, Jollifant, if it amuses you.”
‚ÄúAh, Felton, even you feel the iron entering your soul. Where is that genial comradeship, that old West Country good nature? And let me tell you that it doesn‚Äôt amuse me. But what I was going to say was that it‚Äôs a mistake to imagine that there aren‚Äôt other smells here, little old smells that live in corners, large vague smells that drift about the corridors, smells that‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh, do shut up!” Felton increased his pace. “I’ve just had dinner.”
“And you want to wrestle with it in peace? You intend to turn it into an honest bit of Felton? These be mysteries, not to be tampered with or butted into by the profane.”
“I’m wondering what to do,” said Felton, standing at the door of his room.
“You’re wondering what to do!” cried Inigo, patting him on the shoulder. “Then I say you’re lucky. I’ve got past that. I know that it’s a warm Sunday afternoon in a smelly school miles from anywhere and there’s nothing to do.”
“I think I shall go for a walk.”
‚ÄúWhat! the same old round‚ÅÝ‚Äîthrough the fields, Washbury, over the old bridge, back down the road. Oh no, Felton, you don‚Äôt mean it.‚Äù
“No, not that way. I thought of going along the dyke to Kinthorpe,” said Felton, with the air of a modest hero. “You can get tea there, too.” And he nodded brightly and went into his room.
By the time Inigo had stretched himself across his two chairs and had lit his pipe, he had an inspiration. He knew that Daisy Callander was free until early evening. Why shouldn’t he take her to Kinthorpe or somewhere to tea? She was not perhaps an enthusiastic walker but she could manage that distance. There were times when he half fancied he was in love with Daisy, though he never could shake off the knowledge that he had only to see half a dozen other girls to be quite sure he was not in love with her. He knew too that it was impossible to spend more than an hour alone with Daisy without flirting with her, because somehow there was nothing else left to do. But then he had no objection to flirting. He had no objection to anything, apart from work and from the baser and more violent crimes, that would pass the time. Languidly, he began to change some of his clothes, beginning with his collar.
There was a knock, and Felton looked in, all neat and shining. The very sight of his trim brown felt hat, his dreary blue tie, his flashing eyeglasses, gave Inigo an awful sense of dullness. A walk with Felton would be like a stroll across the Gobi Desert.
“You’re not coming, Jollifant?”
Inigo gave him a long head-shake. ‚ÄúNo, thanks. Some other time when I‚Äôm a stronger and saner man and the wild Northeaster does whatever what‚Äôs his name‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝKingsley‚ÅÝ‚Äîsays it does. But not today.‚Äù
“I thought not.” Felton grinned, rather surprisingly, and withdrew.
“And that,” Inigo told himself, “disposes of you, Master Felton. Now for the fair Daisy.” And he pulled what seemed to him a fine melodramatic face and even went over to the glass to see what it really looked like; and hurried on now with his toilet. The fair Daisy seemed fairer still, her company for two or three hours a rich prospect. The awful boredom vanished, dispersed by a tiny flame of excitement. He fell to whistling his tune.
A glance through the window showed him a few boys drifting out into the grounds. He cast upon them a look of pity. They would be soon assembling for their Sunday crawl, under the direction today of Tarvin himself. Then they would return to produce, under that same paternal eye, their laborious little weekly letters. Poor infants! What a Sunday afternoon they had! But then, just as he was turning away, two larger figures caught his eye. One was Daisy Callander. And her companion, stepping along so briskly, was the wretched and perfidious Felton. He had sneaked down and captured her, and was now taking her out to tea. He was coolly walking off with Inigo‚Äôs whole afternoon. Inigo stared at their backs, then noticed the daft hat in his hand, threw the thing across the room, and then stared out again and this time saw nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîapart from a few idiotic little boys‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut a huge and faintly sizzling blackness.
There was just one moment when he might have wept out of sheer self-pity. But he gave his hat a kick, muttered words that he ought not to have known at all, sat down, and thought of Felton, of Miss Callander, of the whole burst afternoon, and suddenly he chuckled. Then he went to call on Fauntley, to borrow from that gentleman’s ample store a detective tale.
Fauntley was lolling in his old basket-chair, sucking a pipe and finishing a whisky and soda. He was a large, sagging man, about fifty, with formidable eyebrows, a clipped moustache, a heavy jowl, and a face enpurpled by a host of tiny veins. He was also the only really able master in the school. Such scholarships as came its way were snatched by Fauntley, who now and then persuaded himself that a boy had ability and promise and so promptly crammed knowledge into him. Why he should ever have come to Washbury Manor or, having come, should have remained, was a mystery. He seemed to have drifted there out of some queer past. It would be an exaggeration to describe him as that familiar type (in fiction), the brilliant failure; nevertheless, he was a sound scholar‚ÅÝ‚Äîinfinitely superior to Tarvin himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîand an old Rugger Blue, and he seemed like a man-of-war rotting in some dilapidated little harbour. He jeered at all modern literature (pointing out its mistakes in grammar), but read enormous numbers of detective stories. Once, and sometimes twice, a week, he disappeared for the whole evening, not returning until very late, and never offered any account of these expeditions. (Inigo periodically shocked Felton by suggesting that their older colleague had a mistress in one of the neighbouring villages.) He was very fond of whisky, and when he had taken a sufficient quantity of it he would either express at length his regret that he had never gone into the Church and then proceed to denounce all modern civilization, or relate with a certain scholarly distinction of phrase, which never appeared in his ordinary conversation, any number of dirty stories. Such was Fauntley. It was impossible to dislike him, but it was not difficult to feel that somehow one would be better off in some place where he was not. The sight of him frequently turned Inigo‚Äôs attention to the thought of other careers.
“Well, Jollifant,” Fauntley growled amiably, putting down his glass, “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a whisky, but there isn’t any more. I had to have that to take the taste of that damned lunch out of my mouth. Sit down.”
“I couldn’t touch it even if you had any,” said Inigo, “not at this hour. I can’t drink whisky, somehow, until it’s dark. And talking of whisky, it’s my birthday tomorrow.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Good God!” And Fauntley regarded him closely. “Twenty-six. I’d forgotten it existed. But where does the whisky come in?”
‚ÄúI thought we might celebrate the great event, in the common-room after dinner‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúIf you‚Äôre thinking of asking our worthy Mrs.¬ÝTarvin,‚Äù said Fauntley‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho hated her‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith a grin, ‚Äúyou‚Äôll be disappointed. The Tarvins are dining out tomorrow night, I happen to know. They usually do about this time every year.‚Äù
“All the better. Felton will be able to get tight in peace, the deep and treacherous dog. But I want two bottles of whisky for the occasion, and I thought you would know where I could get ’em.”
“Two bottles, eh? Stout feller!” Fauntley rumbled. “The notice is too short for me to get ’em for you. I know, though. Comrie’s the man. He’ll get ’em for you by tomorrow night. You’ll make sure if you let him know today.”
“Good. I’ll see the dashing Sergeant, then,” said Inigo. “But what becomes of him on Sundays?”
“You’ve noticed that fair-haired rather tall maid who occasionally waits at table? Her name’s Alice.”
“And very suitable, too. I know the one you mean. The most buxom and least ill-favoured of our handmaids. But what about her?”
“Give a message to Alice,” remarked Fauntley blandly, “and it will reach Comrie tonight.”
‚ÄúWell, well, well!‚Äù Inigo cocked an eye at his companion. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll pardon me for saying so, Mr.¬ÝFauntley‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Fauntley, please,” that gentleman put in, “even if you are about to insult me, as I see you are.” But he grinned amiably.
‚ÄúBut you seem to know a devil of a lot about what I might call the inner workings of this establishment. Now I thought I knew everything that‚Äôs going on in the place‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Not you, Jollifant; you flatter yourself. But anyhow, you try it and see. Give Alice a note.”
“I will. And you’ll join me tomorrow night?”
“Honoured!” grunted Fauntley. They smoked in silence for a minute or two. Then Inigo looked disconsolately out of the window.
“I suppose,” he began, “you wouldn’t like to come out for a walk.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t,” the other replied. “And when you’ve been here as long as I have, you won’t either. Besides, I never walk just for the sake of walking. I’ve no doubt Tarvin will let you take the boys out.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôve no doubt he would. And I‚Äôve no doubt Mrs.¬ÝTarvin would let me soak the prunes for tomorrow. It won‚Äôt do. I don‚Äôt want to live entirely for pleasure. Will you lend me one of your latest masterpieces of crime and detection, something very thin in clues and thick with suspicions?‚Äù He began looking about him.
Fauntley yawned. “Take what you like. That one’s not bad, The Straw Hat Mystery. It’ll puzzle your tender brains. I’m going to sleep for an hour.”
Inigo crawled away with his book and, after a few minutes in his stuffy little room, he decided to go out and read under one of the five trees at the back of the school. On his way out, he came across one of the maids, who promised to give the note he handed her to the fair Alice, busy, it appeared “a-tidying ’erself.” Then he found his tree and proceeded to stun the gigantic and silly afternoon with The Straw Hat Mystery which he did not finish because he fell asleep. When he awoke he made a number of discoveries, the most important of them being that it was past teatime and much cooler and that he was very stiff and had a slight headache. He limped round to the main entrance just in time to see Miss Callander and Felton arrive there, and to notice that they looked dusty and tired and out of spirits. They were in front, and he let them go without a word.
When Inigo came down, two hours later, to the usual Sunday night cold supper, he was feeling hungry. Everybody was there, but only Mr.¬ÝTarvin was making an effort to talk. He was a spectacled pompous little man, with an unusual and quite misleading expanse of forehead and a large and shaggy moustache that had been trained to hide what would undoubtedly be discovered to be a weak little mouth. He had a habit of punctuating his speech with a curious explosive sound, which must be inadequately represented by chumha. And this was the first thing Inigo heard as he reached the table.
‚ÄúA‚ÅÝ‚Äîha, Jollifant!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTarvin. ‚ÄúJust in time, but only just as the‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚ÄîScotsman said of his change.‚Äù
“What Scotsman?” Inigo inquired, with an innocent glance that immediately became less innocent when it moved round to Fauntley, who raised ponderous eyebrows.
‚ÄúThe exact Scotsman is not specified. Chumha.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝTarvin began rubbing his hands as he looked at the food before him.
There was the boiled beef, now cold, with beetroot and mashed potatoes. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, however, had a generous plate of cold chicken in front of her. Inigo examined it out of the corner of his eye, and then chanced to meet the wide gaze of Miss Callander, who suddenly lowered her eyes and was troubled by a delicate fit of coughing. They all champed their way through the first course, with Mrs.¬ÝTarvin occasionally addressing a remark to Felton, Mr.¬ÝTarvin and Fauntley throwing a word at one another, and Miss Callander and Inigo exchanging glances now and then across the table. Inigo was convinced that he was suffering from a fit of deep depression. ‚ÄúMy heart aches,‚Äù he told himself, poking away at a slippery piece of beetroot, ‚Äúand a drowsy numbness pains. Absolutely.‚Äù He seemed to have spent nearly all his glittering young manhood eating old meat with these people.
The plates were changed. Before Mrs.¬ÝTarvin a dish of cr√®me caramel and a jug of cream were placed. Then came, for the middle of the table and presumably the remainder of the company, the usual butter and the wooden slab of cheese‚ÅÝ‚Äîand stewed prunes. They were not even new prunes, Inigo declared angrily to himself; they were old and withered prunes, the very prunes some of them, he was ready to take oath, that he himself had rejected several days ago, prunes that by this time he knew shudderingly by sight.
‚ÄúNo, thank you,‚Äù he cried when the dish came his way. ‚ÄúNot for me. I don‚Äôt like prunes. Do you like prunes, Mrs.¬ÝTarvin?‚Äù he added impudently. There was an instant hush.
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think I‚Äôve asked you, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she replied coldly, ‚Äúto consult me about my taste in food. As a matter of fact, I used to be very fond of prunes, very fond of prunes‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“I thought I was at one time,” Inigo put in recklessly, “but now I find I can’t stand them.”
“But I am not allowed now to eat everything I like,” she went on, “not allowed at all. I have to be careful, to be very careful.”
“Certainly. Very careful. Chumha,” said her husband.
‚ÄúWhen you are young, you can eat anything, anything at all,‚Äù she pursued, ‚Äújust as sometimes you imagine you can say anything or do anything. Though that is often a mistake, quite a mistake.‚Äù She looked at him steadily through her steel spectacles, then slowly turned to her neighbour. ‚ÄúWhat were you saying, Mr.¬ÝFelton?‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd of course, Fauntley, you can‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîgo on spending public money like‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTarvin was rushing in too.
“Did you have a good walk this afternoon, Miss Callander?” Inigo roared across the table. “Have some cheese?”
Ten minutes later, the first to leave the table, they strolled out into the garden together. “I must have a cigarette after that,” she whispered. “Can I have a cigarette, please?”
“You can,” said Inigo. “But tell me, did you enjoy your walk with Felton this afternoon? I must have the answer to that question before I pour out to you the secrets of my heart.”
“Oh, must you! Well, of course I did.”
“You did,” he said with a stern melancholy. “Then the secrets of this heart are ever denied you.”
‚ÄúWell, then‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she hesitated. They were still in the light of the doorway, and she took the opportunity of showing him her large liquid orbs. ‚ÄúIf you feel like that, I‚Äôll confess. I didn‚Äôt enjoy it much. He‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝFelton‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîdullish, isn‚Äôt he?‚Äù
“Felton is very dull. You set my mind at rest. I intended to ask you myself to go for a walk.” And he explained at length how he had missed her, then went on: “We’ll talk sympathetically under the stars, and tonight I shall call you Daisy.”
‚ÄúOh, will you? I don‚Äôt know about that. But listen‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôre absolutely in Mrs.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs bad books. I heard about last night from her; she was furious. And then tonight‚ÅÝ‚Äîthose prunes. I thought I should have screamed when you asked her if she didn‚Äôt like them‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe greedy old thing. But really, you‚Äôll have to be careful or there‚Äôs sure to be trouble.‚Äù
‚ÄúI am a man,‚Äù announced Inigo, with a fine Byronic air, ‚Äúborn for trouble. It is only when I‚Äôm with you, Miss Cal‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean Daisy, that this restless heart is stilled. Not altogether stilled mind you, because Beauty itself‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh, do be quiet,” she cried, after waiting in vain for him to tell her what Beauty did. “You’re too absurd, and worse than ever tonight. I don’t think it’s safe being out here with you.” Then she lowered her voice, drew closer to him. “But really she is an awful old cat. I’m sure I shall never stick it, I really shan’t. She hates me like poison already.”
Inigo murmured sympathetically and drew her arm into his. They walked slowly, close together, over the lawn. The night was large and cool-breathing, deep purple with a faint gold glimmer of stars, full of owl-haunted distances. Inigo, squeezing her arm within his, was already embracing the night itself, with which he had fallen instantly in love. Miss Callander herself, however, was not only shedding certain defects of form and feature, but was even escaping from her own trite prettiness; the night lent her beauty. Could she have borrowed its silence too, she would have been throned even higher in Inigo’s imagination.
‚ÄúI can‚Äôt do anything right for her,‚Äù she continued in a rapid whisper. ‚ÄúShe grumbles at everything. Oh, and do you know she won‚Äôt let Mr.¬ÝTarvin talk to me alone a single minute? She won‚Äôt really. She comes flying up at once, saying ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äô The day before yesterday he came and said something to me just outside the door, and she was at the other end of the garden, miles away, and she saw us and came hurrying up‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wouldn‚Äôt think she could move so fast, but she can‚ÅÝ‚Äîsaying ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äô It‚Äôs because he‚Äôs about ten years younger than she is. She keeps her eye on him all the time. As if I wanted‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, a dingy little middle-aged man like James Tarvin‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt it ridiculous? He‚Äôs my mother‚Äôs cousin, you know. She can‚Äôt forgive me for his having engaged me when she was away.‚Äù
Inigo let her run on, content to give her arm an occasional squeeze and drift into an amorous reverie. They halted near the shrubbery and she grew silent as he glanced from the stars to the dim ivory round of her cheeks. But a noise in the shrubbery made her jump and she clutched at him. He slid an arm around her. “All right,” he muttered, “it’s nothing.” And the arm tightened about her unresisting body.
‚ÄúI thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîit might be Sturry,‚Äù she gasped. Sturry was the gardener, a long, shambling, melancholy creature who was subject to epileptic fits. These fits were perhaps the most exciting events at Washbury Manor, and at any time when you were taking a class, droning away at French or History, you might glance through the window and see Sturry falling into a fit outside. All the boys kept their eye on him whenever they could, hoping that it might arrive at their turn to throw up a hand and cry ‚ÄúPlease, sir, Sturry‚ÅÝ‚Äî!,‚Äù sounding gloriously the alarm.
‚ÄúWhat would Sturry be doing mooching about here now?‚Äù But while Inigo put the question‚ÅÝ‚Äîand tried to make it sound tender and protective‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe could not help thinking that it was useless to ask what Sturry was doing anywhere and at any time.
“I don’t know,” she went on, in a tiny troubled voice, “but he’s so horribly queer isn’t he? He follows me up and down. He comes and stands and stares. I see him staring through the window at me sometimes. He frightens me. Yes, he does, really.”
“Poor girl,” he murmured, drawing her closer. “Never mind the loathsome brute. He won’t hurt you.”
She said nothing but let her hand rest idly against his coat. Her large eyes, deep and expressionless, were fixed upon his; her face itself, so close now, was a mysterious silent world; everything of her waited. Inigo knew that the moment had arrived. He kissed her.
“No, no,” she whispered when it was done. “You really mustn’t.” Her face went back about three inches, but was still tilted towards his. He kissed her again, then again, and held her close while she showered upon his face a host of little kisses. All this they did with a certain vague suggestion of absentmindedness, as if it was really happening in their sleep so that they could not be held responsible for it. Inigo felt triumphant but at the same time a trifle foolish. The trouble was, he had nothing to say. What he was feeling was too strong for the usual idle pretences and yet it was not strong enough to put real words into his mouth. He was rather relieved when she gently disengaged herself and began to move forward.
Before they had moved ten paces, there was another rustling in the shrubbery. “Who’s that?” Inigo called sharply. A figure shot out and ran past them. Miss Callander gave a little scream, swung round, and tripped heavily over a stone. Inigo, prepared to give chase to the retreating figure, stopped and found her stretched at full length, whimpering a little.
“It’s my ankle,” she moaned. “I can’t get up. I’m sure it’s broken.”
It wasn’t, but it was badly sprained, they discovered. Inigo got her gingerly to her feet again, and she put one arm round his neck and slowly hobbled back to the house.
Somebody came peering out of the doorway. ‚ÄúIs that you, Daisy?‚Äù he called. ‚ÄúAnd who‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîis that?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTarvin walked to meet them.
“Miss Callander tripped and fell and sprained her ankle,” Inigo explained. And the lady herself, turning a face pale with suffering upon the staring little headmaster, gave further details.
‚ÄúWe must get you indoors at once. Now lean on me. Chumha. Allow me, Jollifant. That‚Äôs right. Th‚Äëa‚Äëat‚Äôs right.‚Äù And Inigo found himself dispossessed by his superior, who promptly put an arm round Miss Callander‚Äôs waist, drew her own arm round his neck and retained the hand he held, and did it all with a certain gusto. The two of them so affectionately entwined, tottered towards the doorway, and at every step there seemed to be more of Miss Callander and less of Mr.¬ÝTarvin. They were actually standing, swaying there in the light, and Mr.¬ÝTarvin was consoling his burden with soft little chumhas, when footsteps came pattering up the hall. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin burst round the corner.
“What’s this, what’s this?” she flung at them, almost before she could see anything. “James! Miss Callander!”
All three began explaining at once, though Mr.¬ÝTarvin, in spite of his deficiencies, was easily the loudest and most voluble.
‚ÄúIndeed! Very unfortunate, most unfortunate, though why Miss Callander should choose to wander about in the dark, I can‚Äôt imagine. Just take hold of my hand, please, Miss Callander, and see if you can‚Äôt walk. No, James, stand away, stand away. Not at all necessary, quite unnecessary. Now Miss Callander, if you have no objections to leaning upon me. I will find you a cold water bandage. Yes, cold water, absolutely cold. We shall manage very well, quite well in fact, by ourselves, James.‚Äù And Mrs.¬ÝTarvin moved off, jerking forward her victim and leaving the two men staring at a back that seemed to rustle with indignation.
‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîthank you,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTarvin; and with an embarrassed chumha he followed, though not too closely, the two women.
Inigo stared after him, and when they had all disappeared he still hung about, filling and lighting his pipe, and feeling vaguely as if he had just slipped out of a theatre in which an idiotic play was being performed. For ten minutes nothing happened at all; nobody came; there was not a sound. Then a noise behind made him turn round, and, with a shock of surprise, he found himself looking at a girl he had never seen before, quite a pretty girl in bright blue, with cheeks like an apple.
“Please, sir,” she began. And then he realized that this was Alice, the maid that Fauntley had mentioned, who was to take his message; but Alice without her uniform, in her best clothes, a free and perhaps saucy Alice.
“I took that message, an’ Sergeant Comrie ’e says ’e can get them two bottles of whisky tomorrow an’ ’e’ll let you ’ave ’em in the afternoon an’ please will you give ’im the money then. An’ ’e says,” she continued, breathlessly, “will Old Rob Roy do?”
“Will Old Rob Roy do what?” Inigo inquired solemnly. “I don’t know because I’ve never met the old gentleman. But he sounds as if he could do almost anything.”
She giggled, and then opened her eyes wide at him. “It’s the name of the whisky, you know it is. An’ will it do, ’e says?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Inigo heartily, though he had never heard of it before. “It’s for my little birthday party tomorrow night,” he added in a confidential whisper. “Suppose I give you the money, could you pass it on and take the bottles in for me? Just, you know, as a special birthday favour.” Alice could, and he counted out the twenty-five shillings, gave it to her, then found another half-crown. “You know, I think Comrie’s a very lucky man. I didn’t recognize you, you’re such a tremendous swell in your Sunday clothes. I hope Comrie appreciates them.”
“Oh, I don’t go with ’im every time ’e likes,” cried Alice, tossing her head. “I likes to please myself about that. Sometimes I goes out by myself.”
“Yes,” said Inigo vaguely, for this was an invitation to which he did not feel he could respond. Nevertheless, he beamed upon her. “I can see that you’re a proud girl, Alice. But I hope you’re not too proud to accept this for taking my message.” And he pressed the half-crown into her palm and folded her fingers round it. His glance fell upon her ripe and smiling mouth. The night was still working obscurely inside him. There was something very inviting about those generous lips.
‚ÄúAh, Jollifant,‚Äù said a voice behind him. Inigo jumped. Mr.¬ÝTarvin had returned.
“Alice here,” said Inigo blandly, “has been taking a message for me, haven’t you, Alice?”
“Yes, yes, of course, one of the maids. Alice. I didn’t recognize who it was. Chumha.” And he looked at her with such interest that Inigo made a note of it, for the benefit of Fauntley.
‚ÄúI was just saying the same thing myself,‚Äù Inigo pursued. ‚ÄúI was saying that she was so smart in her Sunday clothes‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey are your Sunday clothes, aren‚Äôt they, Alice?‚Äù
‚ÄúLet me see,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTarvin reflected, ‚Äúyou‚Äôve been here how long now?‚Äù He seemed to be in no greater hurry to get rid of her than Inigo was. And it was this last query, keeping him staring there another minute, that was his undoing.
“Oo!” cried Alice.
The two men turned round. Too late! Mrs.¬ÝTarvin was upon them. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this? Really now I can‚Äôt understand, I really can‚Äôt understand‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Good night, everybody.” Inigo left his unhappy headmaster to explain everything. When he reached the landing that led to his own room, he ran into Felton.
“What have you been doing all night, Jollifant?”
‚ÄúThere are times, Felton,‚Äù said Inigo, solemnly shaking his head, ‚Äúwhen the sight of your bright innocent face, those unstained eyeglasses, that cherubic mouth, the wild yet shy gambols and romps that have brought so many happy hours to Bristol and even Clifton‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Oh, do shut up about Bristol!”
‚ÄúThe very pink that now mantles your youthful cheek‚ÅÝ‚Äîall these things, Felton, at times, I say, go to my heart and there lay a what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚Äîa heavy burden, and I tell myself that Washbury Manor has much to answer for. This is one of the times, Felton. I grieve for you. Good night.‚Äù
III
“Having drunk your health, Jollifant,” said Fauntley, his fingers closing round the bottle of Old Rob Roy, “I will now proceed to give you a little good advice.” He spoke in that unusually careful and dignified manner often found in men who have just accounted for half a bottle of whisky and are busy pouring out the other half.
This was Monday night and the little birthday party. The revellers had the place to themselves, for the Tarvins were dining out and Miss Callander had retired early, to rest her ankle. Indeed the tiny common-room, which had sufficient haze of smoke and reek of Old Rob Roy to be a highland den, seemed to have removed itself altogether from Washbury Manor. Perhaps one of the trio, Felton, can hardly be described as a reveller. He did not like whisky and was secretly troubled all the time by the thought of what his companions might say or do under its influence, but being a good-natured and gregarious youth, he did his best, by drowning his tots of liquor in soda water and then taking blind gulps at the stuff, by smoking quite a number of his non-nicotine cigarettes, by laughing whenever the others laughed, to be one of the party. And perhaps Fauntley, who was there to deal justly with the Old Rob Roy, did not quite succeed in revelling. With Inigo himself, however, there can be no such reservations. He was there to do the honours, to drink with and beam upon his companions in misfortune, to forget, to expand. He was not really very fond of whisky but already he had had a great deal more of it than he was accustomed to, and now his lock of hair seemed longer and more troublesome than usual and his smile a trifle broader, his gestures had a certain amplitude and nobility, and his spirit, discovering again the enchanted richness of life, was taking wing.
‚ÄúBut before I give you this advice,‚Äù Fauntley continued, ‚ÄúI should like to ask you a few questions, in what is‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou must understand, Jollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîa purely friendly spirit. No discourtesy is intended.‚Äù He brought out these remarks with the care of a pleading K.C. In a few more glasses‚Äô time, he would stand at the familiar crossroads, being compelled to go one way and discuss his lost position in the Church and the decay of civilization or to go the other way and talk bawdy. At the moment, however, he was still free and so was enjoying his capacity to choose, develop, expand, any theme. ‚ÄúMy first question is this. Have you any money?‚Äù
“About two pound ten,” replied Inigo.
“No, not actual money, cash in hand, but means, income, capital.”
“Oh, that! I’ve a private income of about sixty pounds per annum, derived, gentlemen, from investments. One is the Western Gas Company, and the other the Shuttlebury Bag and Portmanteau Corporation. I may add that the Bags and Portmanteaus are a bit rocky.”
“Very well. You can’t live on that, can you? Still, it’s something,” said Fauntley, examining the stem of his pipe with great gravity. “My next question is this. What about your people? Have you any expectations? Have you anybody dependent on you?”
‚ÄúNeither.‚Äù Inigo took up his glass. ‚ÄúI am, my friends, a man without family. You see before you a Norphan. As a matter of fact, I‚Äôve an uncle‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs in the tea trade and lives at Dulwich‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho sort of helped to bring me up until I left Cambridge. I was staying with him during the Long. He‚Äôs a pleasant old stick and the only man I know what still wears a straw hat.‚Äù
“I know a man who wears one in winter,” Felton put in modestly.
“Have another drink, Felton,” said Inigo, pushing across the bottle. “In winter, too, eh? There’s more in you than meets the eye. An all-the-year-round-bounder, eh? I must tell my uncle that; he’ll be furious. But where does this lead us, to what dark clue, Fauntley?”
“My advice to you, Jollifant, is this. Get out of this place. You’re only wasting your time. You don’t like it, and I don’t think it likes you.” Fauntley emptied his glass and relit his pipe. “I don’t mean go to another school. There are plenty of prep schools better than Washbury, much better, and there are some worse. I’ve known one or two a damned sight worse.”
“You stagger me,” cried Inigo.
‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù said Felton, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve heard of schools‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù But what he had heard was never revealed because his troubled piping was completely drowned by Fauntley‚Äôs heavy bass.
‚ÄúWhen all‚Äôs said and done, these prep schools are not your damned Board or Council schools or whatever they call ‚Äôem now‚ÅÝ‚Äîreading and writing factories. A gentleman can still teach in ‚Äôem. Don‚Äôt forget that, you youngsters. These are the only places left for a gentleman.‚Äù
“No doubt,” observed Inigo sadly. “But it’s pretty ghastly being a gentleman, isn’t it?”
“It’s nearly played out,” said Fauntley. “And so, by the way, is this bottle. There’s another somewhere, isn’t there, Jollifant?”
“There is, and I’ll open it. But what am I to do when I get out?”
“Well, of course, that’s your affair,” said Fauntley, who seemed to think that up to this time the conversation had been on some public question, and had all the appearance of a man who had successfully settled it. “I don’t pretend to know about these things. But you write a little, don’t you? Why don’t you become a journalist?”
‚ÄúBecause I was born at least thirty years too late,‚Äù replied Inigo. ‚ÄúNow if I‚Äôd been writing in Henley‚Äôs time‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Good feller, Henley!” Fauntley ejaculated this with such an air that the wondering Felton, who only knew Henley as the man who was captain of his soul, thought the two must have been at Oxford together.
‚ÄúI could have done something,‚Äù Inigo pursued wistfully. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs too late now, though. Why, I‚Äôm working at a thing now, an essay on ‚ÄòThe Last Knapsack‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout walking tours, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat Henley would have jumped at. But I‚Äôm absolutely certain,‚Äù he added, with prophetic truth, ‚Äúthat there isn‚Äôt a paper in the country would take it now. No, I‚Äôve thought about that, and it‚Äôs useless. Some day, perhaps, I may‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he finished the sentence with a graceful gesture; that, no doubt, of a man accepting or refusing several wreaths of laurel.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs no good then,‚Äù said Fauntley so heartily as to be almost brutal. ‚ÄúWhat else is there? Of course you‚Äôre devilish clever at the piano‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve heard you‚ÅÝ‚Äîalways reminds me of a feller who was up at Merton in my time. He was the cleverest feller I ever heard at a piano, could play and sing you anything, though I can‚Äôt say it ever did him any good in the long run. The last time I heard of him, he was seen opening oysters‚ÅÝ‚Äîprofessionally, I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a bar in Sydney. Still,‚Äù he conceded, ‚Äúyou might be able to make something out of it.‚Äù
‚ÄúSome fun, that‚Äôs all. But, by Jingo! I concocted a gorgeous little tune the other night‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSaturday, it was. Did you hear it, Felton? It‚Äôs about the best I‚Äôve struck.‚Äù And he began whistling his little tune and it sounded better than ever.
“Let’s have it, Jollifant,” said Fauntley.
“What do you mean? Go down to the schoolroom?”
‚ÄúI do. A quick one all round‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he tipped some Old Rob Roy into the three glasses‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúthen some music.‚Äù
“Right you are!” Inigo drank his approval.
“But look here,” Felton began, signalling an alarm with his eyeglasses.
“No time to look there, Felton,” said Inigo sternly. “Drink up. He’s worried because the Tarvin stopped me on Saturday,” he explained to Fauntley.
“She’s out,” said Fauntley, “and I don’t know if it would matter if she weren’t.” And he drank confusion to the woman. “Bring your glasses and a syphon. I’ve got the bottle.” And Felton, sorely troubled, followed them down.
‚ÄúA little one before you begin,‚Äù Fauntley suggested, and so Inigo had another drink. He had never seen a keyboard that looked so inviting. He felt he could do anything with it, any mortal thing. He liked this phrase so much that he found himself repeating it: ‚ÄúAny morr‚Äëtal thinggg.‚Äù It gave him a feeling of joyous confidence. Terum, perum, perum‚ÅÝ‚Äîpum‚ÅÝ‚Äîpum, trrrum. That was the fine opening flourish. Now he was sliding into his tune, gently, gently at first. Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was undoubtedly better than ever‚ÅÝ‚Äîrumpty-dee-tidee. He played it through softly.
“Is that it?” asked Fauntley, out of a golden mist of Old Rob Roy.
“It is. D’you like it?”
“Well, I don’t pretend to have any ear, but it seems to me absolutely first-rate, Jollifant, far better than most of the things you hear nowadays. You ought to get somebody to print that. Rumpty-dee. No, I haven’t quite got it. We’ll have it again in a minute. Here’s luck!”
Inigo emptied his glass in reply, then began playing again. He went through half a dozen tunes of his own, and Fauntley tapped his feet and Felton nodded his head, though a trifle dubiously.
“Bravo!” cried Old Rob Roy, speaking through Fauntley. “You’ve got a touch, you know, Jollifant, a wonderful touch. And a talent, distinctly a talent.”
“You heard those tunes of mine?” said Inigo, wheeling round excitedly. “I have a phrase describing ’em, thought of it the other day. They’re like a family of elves in dress suits. How’s that?”
“Not bad,” said Fauntley, “but I’d rather have the tunes. Let’s have that first one again.”
And Inigo, deciding that as a phrase-maker he was above the heads of his present company, went back to his Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee, and this time he crashed it out fortissimo, so that instead of slyly hinting that you might slip round the corner, the tune now loudly defied anybody or anything that would keep you in your place and ended by fairly hurling you round the corner. Fauntley kept time with his glass on the little table near the piano, and even Felton tapped his feet. There was such a noise in the room that a car might have been driven up to the front door, the door might have been opened without anybody there being any the wiser.
Concluding with a final crash, Inigo sprang to his feet.
“And that’s the tune,” he cried, “that the wretched Tarvin woman, that putter of prunes on other people’s plates, stopped me playing the other night.”
“A damned shame!” growled Fauntley. “She’s an old spoilsport.”
“Yes, I don’t like her much, I must say,” added Felton, now throwing discretion to whatever winds Old Rob Roy may have known.
‚ÄúLike her, Felton! I loathe her. What a pair they make! I‚Äôve not told either of you yet what happened last night.‚Äù And he plunged excitedly into an account of the proceedings of the night before, beginning with Mr.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs discovery of Miss Callander outside the door. As soon as he had brought Mrs.¬ÝTarvin on to the scene for the first time, Inigo‚Äôs narrative began to lose its grasp upon truth until at last it was an Arabian Night of embarrassed chumhas and ‚Äúwhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äù
“Oh, damned good, damned good!” Fauntley was rolling in his chair. “I don’t believe a word of it, Jollifant,” he roared. “But it’s damned good.”
‚ÄúHonest truth, I assure you!‚Äù Inigo roared in reply. He was sitting down now and the three of them had their heads together. ‚ÄúSo she came along, crying ‚Äòwhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this? I can‚Äôt understand, I really can‚Äôt understand. Now tell me, tell me, tell me.‚Äô ‚ÄòWell, you see,‚Äô said poor old Tarvin, ‚Äòyou see‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha.‚Äô ‚ÄòNo, I don‚Äôt see chumha. I don‚Äôt see chumha at all,‚Äô she screamed back at them. ‚ÄòI see you talking to a girl, a girl, quite young, a young girl. I cannot have you talking to a girl, cannot have it all, not at all.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù Inigo stopped for a moment, exhausted.
“She never said that, though,” Fauntley roared again. “You can’t tell me she said that.”
“No, I know she didn’t.” Inigo sprang up, flung back his wandering lock, then slapped his knee. “But don’t you see I’m giving you the soul of the thing, absolutely? That’s what she meant.”
‚ÄúIs it, is it, indeed?‚Äù It came in a scream of rage from the door at the other end. There stood Mrs.¬ÝTarvin.
The shock, the sight of her standing there, coming at the end of a long crescendo of excitement, cut the last binding thread of self-control in Inigo. Up jumped Old Rob Roy himself to answer. “How now, you secret, black, and midnight hag!” he thundered down the room.
“What!” she shrieked, and swept forward, followed by her husband. “What did you say? You’re a drunken rowdy. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life. And by one of our own masters! I’ve never heard, never never heard, of such a thing. The schoolroom a taproom, mimicry and insults and abuse! Why don’t you say something, say something, James? Tell him to leave the place at once.”
‚ÄúYou ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jollifant,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTarvin as sternly as he could. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîdrunk. Chumha.‚Äù
Fauntley was trying to rouse himself. “He’s a bit tight, Tarvin. Birthday. Get him to bed.”
“Pardon me, Fauntley, but I’m perfectly sober,” said Inigo. “And I refuse to be got to bed.”
‚ÄúIs this‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis fellow to stay here?‚Äù demanded Mrs.¬ÝTarvin of her husband, in a passion.
‚ÄúOf course not. Expect resignation,‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝTarvin.
“He must leave in the morning, in the morning. I won’t have him here a moment longer, not a moment.” Her rage seemed to increase.
“Quite understand. Chumha. Disgraceful business,” her husband muttered again. “Rather awkward, though, to leave in the morning.”
“And why, pray?”
“Well, to begin with, must have term’s notice. Chumha.”
“In short,” said Inigo, making a sweeping gesture but speaking quite distinctly, “if I leave in the morning you must pay me a term’s salary. Fifty-two-pounds. A mere pittance, but mine own.”
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt care about that,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, looking at Inigo as if he were a kind of reptile, then glaring at her husband. ‚ÄúI won‚Äôt have him here any longer, not a day, not a day. I knew what it would be from the first, from the very first. Another of your ridiculous appointments. I‚Äôll have him out tomorrow, whatever it costs.‚Äù
‚ÄúVery well, my dear,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTarvin, who knew only too well where all the money came from. ‚ÄúWe will have to manage somehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor a week or so. You will‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîhave your term‚Äôs cheque in the morning, Jollifant, and leave us then.‚Äù
‚ÄúI should think so indeed, I should think so,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. At this moment, Inigo was trying to close the lid of the piano and not succeeding very well because he had failed to notice that a large matchbox had been left on the keys. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt touch that piano, don‚Äôt touch it,‚Äù she went on. ‚ÄúTake yourself off to bed and get ready to leave in the morning.‚Äù
“I am not leaving in the morning.” Inigo announced loudly.
“Certainly you are.”
“Oh no, I’m not. I’m leaving tonight. Now.”
“Don’t be an ass, Jollifant,” said Fauntley, putting a hand on his arm. “You can’t leave tonight. It’s impossible.”
“Not at all impossible. An excellent idea.”
“There’s no train,” Fauntley pursued. “You couldn’t go anywhere.”
“I can walk,” said Inigo triumphantly. “I can put a knapsack on my back and walk. I leave tonight. It’s not raining, is it? Is it raining, Felton?”
‚ÄúI‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know,‚Äù stammered poor Felton, who had been busy trying to efface himself for the last five minutes.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm surprised, very surprised, at you, Mr.¬ÝFelton,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝTarvin severely. ‚ÄúI expected better things of you.‚Äù
‚ÄúFelton was dragged into this,‚Äù said Inigo, ‚Äúbecause I told him it was my birthday. Felton can‚Äôt resist a birthday, can you, Felton? Mr.¬ÝTarvin, I‚Äôm leaving tonight and so I will ask you to make my cheque out now.‚Äù He spoke very slowly and carefully.
‚ÄúThis is‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîridiculous, Jollifant. You‚Äôll have to go, of course, but still‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha.‚Äù
‚ÄúLet him go, let him go,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. ‚ÄúWe shall only be spared trouble in the morning. I don‚Äôt see why we should have to make out cheques at this time of night, but the sooner he goes the better, and if he has to sleep in a ditch it‚Äôs no concern of ours, no concern at all. Mr.¬ÝFelton, kindly remove these filthy glasses and open all the windows. This place is disgusting, disgusting.‚Äù She turned a still quivering back upon them and marched out.
Quarter of an hour later, Inigo had his cheque in his pocket and had packed his immediate necessaries in a knapsack. “I’ll tell you where to forward the trunk and the suitcase,” he said to Fauntley, who was looking on. “Keep an eye on these things, will you, until I want them? It must be twelve, isn’t it? And I don’t feel a bit sleepy and it’s a fine night and I’ve finished with this place and I needn’t look for another for some time and I don’t give a damn. I call it a glorious exit.”
“And I call it damned silly,” said Fauntley, grinning. “And God knows how we shall manage those classes next week, or what sort of blighter the agencies will rake up for Tarvin. But good luck, Jollifant! Here, there’s a spot of whisky left. We’ll have a parting drink.”
They were having it when Felton looked in. “You’re really going then? I told Miss Callander you were. She looked out of her bedroom and asked me what was the matter. Can I do anything, Jollifant?”
Inigo shook him by the hand. “Not a thing but say goodbye. I commend your soul to the Eternal Verities, Felton, though I haven’t the least notion what they are. We shall meet again sometime, I feel it in my bones.” By this time, he had put on a raincoat and swung his knapsack over it, found his hat and a fierce ash stick, and was ready to go. Fauntley went out with him. As they passed her door, Miss Callander looked out. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Inigo whispered to Fauntley, and stayed behind.
“You really are going?” Miss Callander, in her dressing-gown, looked rather like a pink rabbit. She opened her eyes as wide as possible and her mouth hardly at all.
“I’m sacked and I’m going.”
“You crazy boy!” she whispered. “I’m awfully sorry. It will be my turn next, very soon, and really I shan’t be sorry, I really shan’t.”
Inigo looked at her steadily, with a small friendly smile. “I should try Egypt if I were you.”
She nodded confusedly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been‚ÅÝ‚Äîbeen writing there. Oh, but‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve got something for you.‚Äù She produced a little packet. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs only some biscuits and chocolate, but I don‚Äôt suppose you‚Äôve got anything to eat with you, have you? And you‚Äôll get awfully hungry.‚Äù
Inigo was really touched. It came to him in a flash that nobody had done anything like this for him for years. He had been living almost entirely in a world of services for money. “Daisy Callander,” he cried softly, “you’re a brick. I’m tremendously grateful. I’d forgotten how hungry I should be in an hour or two.”
“Where are you going?”
He stared at her. ‚ÄúDo you know, I‚Äôd entirely forgotten that. I‚Äôve no idea where I‚Äôm going. I shall just walk and walk. Goodbye‚ÅÝ‚Äîand good luck!‚Äù He held out his hand.
She slipped her hand into his instead of shaking it. Then she raised her face a little. “Goodbye,” she said, rather tearfully.
He realized that she wanted him to kiss her. Strangely enough, though he had never liked her more than he did at this moment, he did not want to kiss her. But he did kiss her, gently, then gave her hand a final squeeze, and hurried downstairs to find Fauntley waiting for him at the front door.
“Fine, but coldish and black as pitch,” said Fauntley. “In an hour you’ll wish you’d stayed here and gone to bed. You’d better change your mind now.”
“Not I,” said Inigo, peering out, “I like the smell of it. I’ll push on, Peterborough way.”
“You’re a young ass, Jollifant.”
“And I’ll let you know what happens to me, Fauntley, give you an outline of my adventures till we meet again.”
“I repeat, Jollifant, you’re an ass. And if I were twenty years younger, I should come with you.”
Two minutes later, Fauntley had bolted the door and Inigo had turned out of the grounds into the lane, walking quickly westward.