by Hugh Walpole
He escaped whilst they were all in chapel. He lit his bicycle-lamp, wrapped a long, thin coat about him, and escaped. It had been a cold, fine day. The sun was just setting over the sea as he spun down the hard, white road.
As he flew between the dark, sweet-scented hedges, as he felt the wind in his ears and about his face, as the smell, salt and sharp, of the sea came to him, it was strange to find how the cares and troubles of those brown buildings on the hill fled away from him. He was already his old self; he sang to himself.
A faint red glow hovered over the dark, heaving water; the trees stood black on the horizon, and the long, low lines of shadow, white and gray, stole about the road as the evening sky slowly settled, with a little sighing of the wind, into the colors that it would bear during the night. The lights of the little village behind him made a red cluster against the dark shoulder of the Brown Hill.
He sang aloud.
It was a most enjoyable dance; he had never enjoyed a dance so much before. He realized that he was looking on the past six weeks as imprisonment; he also noticed that when he told his partners that he was a schoolmaster they stared at him a little apprehensively. It was delightful to see Robin Trojan again. They walked into the garden and strolled about the paths together; he was much improved since the Cambridge days, Traill thought — less self-assured and with wider interests. And then Sir Henry Trojan always gave Traill a broader feeling of life — sanity and health and strength — and he had an admirable sense of humor.
And then it was over, and Traill was speeding back over the hill again. He thought of Isabel all the way back. He fancied that she was with him in the dark. The night was so black that he could only see the little round white circle that his lamp flung on the road in front of him. The hedges, like black, bulging pillows, closed him in.
He seemed to be back in no time. He heard the school clock strike one. He took the Yale key and fitted it into the door; it would not move; he tugged, pulled it out, forced it in again, and pushed it. With a click it broke in half.
He looked at the big, black, silent buildings in despair — supposing he had to stay out all night. He would die rather than ring.
He went round to the other side of the building and looked up. Then he saw that the dining-room windows were not very high and that he might climb. He caught on to a buttress and pulled himself up; then another hand on the window-sill drew him level.
He found to his delight that the window was not latched. He pushed it up, and then, with one hasty look into the dark cavern beneath him, jumped. He was saluted on his descent with a noise as though all the crockery in the world had fallen about his ears. The sharp collapse of it seemed to go rushing through the silent house for hours; he knew that he had cut his hand and had bruised his knee.
For a moment he was stunned; then slowly he realized what he had done: the tables were laid for the next morning’s breakfast, and he had jumped down straight amongst the cups and plates.
He sat up on the floor and began, with his head aching, to staunch the blood that came from the cut. He saw, as in a dream, the door open. Someone was standing there, in a nightshirt, holding a candle; it was Perrin.
“Who’s there? What’s that?” Perrin held a poker in his other hand.
Traill got up slowly from the floor. “It is I — Traill,” he stammered. He was still feeling stunned.
Perrin held the candle a little closer. “Oh, is it you, Traill?”
“Yes, I have been out. I fell on to the plates and things. I am sorry.”
“You made a great noise.” Perrin was speaking very slowly. “You woke me up.”
“Yes; I am most awfully sorry.”
Traill moved towards the door. Perrin still stood there, holding his candle, his nightshirt flapping about his legs. He did not seem inclined to move.
“You made a great noise. It is one o’clock.” He said it as though he were Robespierre condemning Louis XVI to execution.
“Yes, I know. I’m dreadfully sorry. I broke my key.”
Still Perrin did not move. “What are you doing out so late?” he said at last, slowly.
What the devil had it to do with Perrin!
“I didn’t know that this was a girls’ school,” Traill said at last, sarcastically. His head was aching, his knee hurt, he was tired, and in a very bad temper.
Perrin moved from the door. “It’s struck one — coming in like this!”
The candle flung a most ridiculous shadow of him on the wall — a huge, gigantic head with hair sticking out of it like spears.
Because he was tired and rather hysterical, this suddenly amused Traill enormously. He burst into a peal of laughter.
“I can’t help it,” he said, shaking; “you look so funny, so frightfully odd!”
Perrin said nothing. He looked at him for a moment. He had been disturbed in his sleep; he had every reason to be very angry. But he said nothing at all. He moved slowly down the passage.
Traill followed him in silence; he was suddenly frightened.
CHAPTER VI — SAEVA INDIGNATIO
I.
TO Perrin, in his sleep that night there came, accompanied with roaring wind and crashing sea, a dream of the little man in red and black china that lived on the mantelpiece. He came tip-tap across the floor to him and bent over the bed and whispered in his ear. He had grown in his transit and was large in the leg and trailed behind him a long black gown, and he troubled Mr. Perrin by buzzing like a wasp.
He was urging Perrin to do something, but it was hard to distinguish the words because of the booming of the sea. The cold light of early morning and, an hour later, the harsh clang of the bell down the stone passages, restored the china gentleman once more to the mantelpiece; but the discovery that there had been a storm in the night only seemed to confirm the gentleman’s appearance. Besides, he was no new thing — he had climbed down from his perch on other occasions.
Perrin and Traill exchanged no word during breakfast.
II.
Garden Minimus played his small part in the whole affair by being sulky and obstinate during the whole of first hour. It was a game that he was perfectly accustomed to playing, and he knew every move from the opening gambit of “saying things under your breath that looked bad, but couldn’t possibly be heard,” to the triumphant checkmate of a studied, sarcastic politeness that was most unusual and hinted at danger.
Perrin had slept, as we have seen, exceedingly badly, and the old hallucination that twenty boys were in reality five hundred crept over him. They sat in stupid, irritated rows at hard wooden desks soiled with ink. Beyond the drab windows the wind howled, and the dry leaves blew against the panes.
His temper rose as the hour advanced. The fifth proposition of the first book of Euclid was scarcely calculated to show dull boys at their brightest and best, and Perrin found that, by changing the letters of the figure on the board, the form knew nothing about it at all.
He proceeded, as was his way, to secure the dullest, fattest, and heaviest boy (a youngster with spectacles and a protruding chin, called Somerset-Walpole) and to make merry at his expense. Somerset-Walpole — his fingers exuded ink, his coat whitewash, and his hair dust — stood with his mouth open and his brow wrinkled, and a vague wonder as to why, when he ought to be thinking about Euclid, his mind would invariably wander to the bristly hairs at the back of Mr. Perrin’s neck and the silly leaves dancing about outside.
Mr. Perrin played heavily with him for about quarter of an hour (the form laughing nervously at his ironical sallies), and then sent the youngster back, crying, to his seat; the boy spent the rest of the hour in drawing hideous people with noses like pens and tiny legs, and then smudging them out with his fingers.
Then Perrin had Garden Minimus in his hands. The boy’s sulking, frowning face drove him to fury. He suddenly felt (as though it had leapt wildly from some dark corner on to his shoulder) the Cat of Cruelty purring at his ear. It was an animal whose whispers he heard, as a rule, only when the
term was well advanced; now it was upon him. He knew, suddenly, that he would like to take Garden Minimus’s ears in his hands and twist them back further and further until they cracked. He would like to take his little fat arms and close his fingers about them and pinch them until they were blue. He would like to take the sharp, white knuckles and beat them with a ruler. Garden had chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes. Perrin began to pull, very gently, his hair. Garden wriggled a little.
“Take the triangle A B C,” he began, and stopped. Perrin began to pinch the back of his neck.
“You have said that six times now, Garden. Say it again, because I am sure the rest of the form are immensely interested. Really, I grieve to think of the amount of time that you must have spent over your preparation last night. You’ll be overdoing it if you go on like this, you know — you will, really. You mustn’t work so hard. Meanwhile write it out thirty times, and say it to me to-night after tea.”
But he did not let him go. He passed his hand down the boy’s arm.... He saw the form watching him with white faces; his own was white; he was shaking with rage.
“Go back to your seat,” he said in a whisper, and he gave him a push. He sent the form back to learn the work again, and he sat for the rest of the hour with his head between his hands. Then, when the bell had rung and most of the form had filed out, he called Garden to him. “I think fifteen times will be enough,” and he touched the boy’s sleeve with his hand. But Garden went out of the room in silence, infinite contempt in his eyes.
Then, the boys gone, Mr. Perrin’s mind went back to the incident of the preceding night. It was his custom to go and talk for a little to Moy-Thompson once a week. They disliked each other, of course; but they could be of mutual advantage, and they both found that hints dropped and accepted during these little talks were of great value during the days that followed. Perrin had never any deliberate intention of harming anyone in these little conversations. But, every man’s hand being against him, it seemed to him only fair that he should use such opportunities of retaliation as were given him. At the same time these little confidential talks flattered his sense of power. Dormer was the senior master at the Lower School, but Perrin knew that Dormer did not have these little talks; it did not occur to him that the reason might be that Dormer was too honorable to care about them. Moreover, as far as Traill was concerned, Perrin really felt that it did not do to have masters leaping through windows at any hour of the night. The accidental fact that he disliked Traill intensely had, he persuaded himself, nothing whatever to do with it; he would have felt it just as strongly his duty to speak about it had the offender been his dearest friend.
The accumulative irritations of the morning, succeeding a disturbed and broken night, only stirred him to further zeal for the school’s good. The only consoling fact in a dark world was that Miss Desart had, in chapel, last evening, looked at him with eyes that seemed to him on fire with devotion. He intended, in a day or two, to ask her to come for a walk with him... and then another walk... and then another... and then....
And so he went to see Moy-Thompson. You can, if the simile is not too terribly old, imagine Moy-Thompson as a spider and his study as his web; it was certainly dusty enough, with faded busts of Romans and Greeks on the top shelves of the book-cases, and gloomy photographs of gloomy places on the walls. The two men seemed to suit the place well enough, and its depression really brightened Mr. Perrin up. But it must be remarked once more that it was not from any anticipation of doing Traill damage that he embraced and cuddled his little piece of news so eagerly, but only because it helped his sense of importance. He was already wishing that he had told Garden Minimus to write his Euclid thirty times instead of fifteen, so cheered and inspired did he feel.
The two men understood one another perfectly, and had a mutual respect for each other’s strong qualities. No time was wasted in preliminaries, and it was a curious coincidence that Moy-Thompson’s first question should be: “What do you think of Traill? How’s he doing?”
Moy-Thompson is not a pleasant person to contemplate, alone, amongst the people of that place, there is nothing whatever to be said for him, and it is my intention to pass over him as quickly as may be. Perrin knew from the sound of his voice that he had some reason for disliking Traill.
“Oh, I think, well enough,” he answered, looking out of the window. “The boys like him.”
“Oh, they like him; do they?”
“Yes. I think he indulges them rather. I’m not quite sure that he sticks to his work as he should do.”
“Why! What does he do?”
“I found him jumping through the Lower School dining-room window at one o’clock this morning.”
“Oh, did you!” Moy-Thompson smiled. “Where had he been?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Perrin pulled his gown about him. A sudden distaste for the whole business had seized him; after another word or two he went away, back to his own rooms.
III.
Meanwhile Traill was tired and cross and out of temper with the world. He found that there was more to be said for the stay-at-home tastes of the rest of the staff than he had suspected. You couldn’t, if you went gaily dancing the evening before, embrace early morning preparations with the eagerness and even the attention that it properly demanded. His mind was heavy, drowsy; he had forgotten his anger with Perrin and was only rather amused by the whole affair of the night before; but, instead of correcting Latin exercises, he sat, with his eyes gazing dreamily out of the window, his thoughts on Isabel.
He found first hour tiresome and irritating. He lost his temper for the first time that term, and went, at the end of the second hour, into the Upper School common room with a cloudy brow and dragging feet.
Anything drearier than this place it would be impossible to conceive. There was a long, red-clothed table, a black, yawning grate, a dozen stiff wooden chairs and, scattered about the room, the whole of the staff waiting for the bell to ring for third hour. This was the most irritating quarter of an hour of the day.
Several men, Comber, Clinton, Dormer, and another, were bending over the table, supervising the selection of the team for the afternoon’s match. As Traill came in he heard Comber’s voice: “Toggett at three-quarter is perfectly absurd. That’s obviously Traill’s choice. Traill may be able to play, but his knowledge of the theory of the game is absolutely nil.” Comber has resented Traill’s entrance into the school football from the very first. He, although many years past his game, had hitherto led the Rugby enthusiasts of the school — he had been supreme on the Committee and had had the last word about the teams. Traill’s football, however, was so obviously superior to anything that the school had had for a great many years that he was received with open arms. He had not perhaps been as judiciously submissive to Comber as he might have been, but he had always deferred his opinion and had never been goaded by Comber’s caustic contradictions into ill-temper.
He did not now show any ill-temper, but only, with a laugh as he came up to the table, said, “Thanks, Comber.”
Dormer hurried to make peace, but Comber continued to mutter: “What the devil you want to put the man there for, I can’t think....” By the window Birkland and Monsieur Pons were arguing about the latter’s discipline.
“I should get them to stamp and rush about a bit more, Pons, if I were you,” Birkland was saying. “It’s so delightful for me, being just under you. It is so easy for me to do my work, so nice to think that they really are enjoying themselves.”
Monsieur Pons was waving his arms, excitedly. “I keep them perfectly still this morning, as still as one mouse. No one stirs. You can hear a pin drop.”
“You must have dropped a cartload of them,” said Birkland, frowning. “Try and drop less next time.”
Suddenly in the middle of the room there appeared the school sergeant. That could only mean one thing, and conversation instantly ceased.
“Mr. Moy-Thompson wishes to see Mr. Traill at twelve,” he said.<
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Comber gave a grunt of satisfaction. Traill laughed. “I thought things were a little too pleasant to last,” he said. His mind flew back to the incidents of last night. Surely Perrin couldn’t have said anything. Probably Moy-Thompson had heard of it in some other way. He shrugged his shoulders and thought, as he looked round the dreary room, that schoolmastering wasn’t always pleasant. He wondered, too, a little unhappily, why, when one wanted things to go well everything should go wrong, through no fault of one’s own.
Here were Perrin and Comber, for instance; they both obviously disliked him, and yet he had done nothing to either of them. As he went out, he caught White looking at him timidly, but sympathetically, and he smiled at him. And indeed at twelve, when he knocked on the door at the end of the dark passage, it was chiefly his memory of the last occasion that he had been there, of White’s pale face, that remained with him.
Pathos has, too, often its intense, pathetic moment coming, for no definite reason, out of a mysterious distance and choosing to fill, as water fills a pool, rooms and places and companies of people. Now, suddenly, this study; with Moy-Thompson in it was a place, to Traill, of the intensest pathos, so that it seemed strange that, with such brilliant things as the world contained, it should be allowed to continue. His own position was lost in the perpetual vision of White standing, as he had seen him, with bent head.
“Ah, Traill,” said Moy-Thompson. “Sit down. I have been wanting to have a talk with you. I hope that this time is quite convenient?”
“Perfectly,” said Traill.
“I’ve been intending to come down and look at your form, but I have had no opportunity. I must try and manage next week.”
Traill said nothing. Moy-Thompson smiled at him. “I hope that you have had no trouble with discipline.”
“None. The boys are excellent.”