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