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.