by Hugh Walpole
The masters, she knew, were divided about her. They were, she thought, more occupied with their own quarrels and disputes than with any attitude towards herself. At first she was amused by their divided camps — it all seemed so childish and absurd, and for its very childishness it could not have a serious conclusion; but as the days went on and she saw into it all more deeply, the pathos of it caught her heart and she could have cried to think of what men they might have been, of the things that they might have done. Some of them seemed to seek her out now with a courtliness and deference that they had never shown her before. Birkland, of whom she had always been rather frightened, spoke to her now whenever there was an opportunity, and his sharp, sarcastic eyes softened, and she saw the sadness in their gray depths, and she felt in the pressure of his hands that he wanted now to be friends with her. White, too, was different now. He said very little to her, and he was so quiet that for him to speak at all was a wonderful thing, but there were a few words about his affection for Archie.
With all of this Isabel got a profound sense of its being her duty to do something; as far as her own affairs were concerned she was perfectly able to manage them, and if the matter in dispute had been simply her engagement to Archie, there would be no difficulty — it was a case of waiting, and then escaping; but things were more serious than that — something was in the air, and she knew enough of that life and that atmosphere to be afraid. But it was not until later than this that she began to be afraid definitely of Mr. Perrin.
But this feeling that she had of the necessity of doing something grew when she perceived the inertia of the others — inertia was perhaps scarcely the word: it was rather, as the matter advanced, an increasing impulse to sink their own quarrels and sit back in the chairs and wait for the result.
And, with this before her, Isabel set out on a determined campaign, having for its ultimate issue the hope of possible reconciliation — she could not put it more optimistically than that — before the end of the term came.
It was not at all a desire to do good that drove her — indeed, her flashing disputes with Mrs. Dormer, her skirmishes with the younger Miss Madder, were very far away from any evangelistic principles whatever — but rather some hint of future trouble that was hard to explain. She wished to prevent things happening, was the way that she herself would have put it; but that did not hinder her from feeling a natural anxiety that Miss Madder, Mrs. Dormer, and the rest should have some of their own shots back before the end of the term was reached.
II.
But she began her campaign with her own Archie, and found him difficult. Going down the hill by the village on one of those sharp, tightly drawn days with the horizon set like marble and nothing moving save the brittle leaves blowing like brown ghosts up and down, she tried to get him to see the difficulties as she saw them, She attacked him at first on the question of making peace with Mr. Perrin, and came up at once against a bristling host of obstinacies and traditions that her ignorance of public school and university laws had formerly hidden from her.
Perrin was a bounder, and young Traill’s eyes were cold and hard as he summed it all up in this sentence. He would do anything in the world for Isabel, but she didn’t probably altogether understand what a fellow felt — there were things a man couldn’t do. She found that the laws of the Medes and Persians were nothing at all in comparison with the stone tables of public school custom: “The man was a bounder”— “There were things a fellow couldn’t do.”
She had not expected him to go and beg for peace — she had not probably altogether wished him to; but the way that he looked at it all left her with a curious mixture of feelings: she felt that he was so immensely young, and therefore to be — most delightful of duties — looked after. Also she felt, for the first time, all the purpose and obstinacy of his nature, so that she foresaw that there would in the future between them be a great many tussles and battles.
But she was very much cleverer than he was, and dealt with him very gently, and then suddenly gave him a sharp, little moral rap, and then kissed him afterwards. She found, in fact, that this trouble with Mr. Perrin was worrying him dreadfully. He hid it as well as he could, and hid it on the whole very successfully; but Isabel dragged it all out and saw that he hated quarreling with anybody, and that he now dimly discovered that he was the center of a vulgar dispute and that people were taking sides about him — all this was horrible.
He also felt very strongly the injustice of it. “I never meant to knock the fellow down. I never knew I’d taken his beastly umbrella — all this fuss!” — which was, Isabel thought, so very like a man, because the thing was done and there was no more to be said about it. He thought a great deal about her in the matter and was very anxious to stand up for her; indeed, that was the only aspect of the affair that gave him any satisfaction — that they should be fighting shoulder to shoulder against the “low, bounding” world, and he declared, as he looked at her, that he loved her more and more every day.
But all of this did not touch on his relations with Perrin, and his eyes with regard to that gentleman could only look one way — he would not make advances.
The more Isabel felt his determination, the more, curiously enough, she felt Mr. Perrin’s pathos. She had not yet arrived at the definite watching of him that was to come upon them all soon so curiously; but when she thought of him she thought of Archie’s definition of him, and she realized, as she had not realized before, that that would be a great many other persons’ definition of him also. Whatever he was — cross, irritable, violent, even wicked — he was, at any rate, lonely, and that was enough to make Isabel sorry, and more than sorry.
She could not, of course, make Archie see that. “The fellow’s always wanted to be lonely — thinks himself much too good for other people’s society, that’s the fact, and if a man behaves like a beast, he must expect to be left alone.”
That did not worry Archie. The whole of his annoyance arose from the fact that there should be such a fuss. He had never really quarreled with anyone before — people never did quarrel with him; and now suddenly here were Comber and West and the little French worm Pons, stiff and sulky whenever they met him, and Moy-Thompson bullying him whenever he got the opportunity.
Of course he wasn’t going to stay! he couldn’t stay under these circumstances — but it was all unpleasant and disagreeable. Isabel herself was only too anxious to take him out of it all as soon as possible. He wasn’t wearing well under it. He had been full of light and sunshine at the beginning of the term, pleasant to everyone, equable, comfortable, a splendid creature to be with. Now the boys of his class found that nothing pleased him, little things roused him to a fury, and he snapped at people when they spoke to him. With Isabel he was always gentle, but his eager eyes were tired, and once he wasn’t very far away from tears.
But she did not allow any of these things to worry her. She was proud with Miss Madder, haughty with Moy-Thompson, gentle with Mrs. Comber, always amusing and cheerful with Archie. But when she had gone to bed and was at last alone, she would lie there, trying to puzzle it all out, afraid of what the future might bring, and praying that she might drag Archie out of it all before they had damaged him. He was such a boy, and all this discussion was so new to him; but she felt that she herself was ninety at least, and she would wonder sometimes that all men’s difficult education seemed to leave them just where they began, which was several stages earlier than the place where women commenced. Love and death were very simple things, it seemed to her, beside the tangled daily worries of people getting along together. Her present feeling was something akin to Alice’s sensation at the Croquet party when the hoops (being flamingoes) would walk away and climb up trees, and the balls (being hedge-hogs) would wander off the ground. They were all flamingoes and hedge-hogs at Moffatt’s.
III.
But towards the end of this month, Isabel became suddenly conscious of Mr. Perrin in a very different way. It was now only three weeks before the end of
term, and in another week examinations would begin. That something in the atmosphere that signified the coming of examinations was busy about the place. People were very quiet, and then suddenly in the most singular way would break out; there was continual quarreling in the common room, strange rumors were carried of things that people had said — it was all a question of strain.
There came, it now being the first week in December, the first day of snow, and the light, feathery flakes fell throughout the afternoon, and when the sun set there was a soft, white world with the buildings black and grim and a sky of hurrying gray cloud. Isabel and Mrs. Comber sat in Mrs. Comber’s little drawing-room over a roaring fire, and there was no other light in the room.
Mrs. Comber sat, as she so often sat now, with her chin resting in her hand, silently staring at the fire.
Isabel was unhappy; the silent whiteness of the world outside, the consciousness of Miss Madder’s rudeness to her that afternoon, the trouble that she had seen in Archie’s eyes when she had said good night to him after Chapel, above all, a general sense of strain and nerves stretched to breaking-point — all this overwhelmed her. She had never felt so strongly before that she and Archie, if they were to keep anything at all of their vitality, must escape at once... to-night... to-morrow; it might be too late.
She knew that Archie had lost his temper with West that afternoon, that he had called him a “rotten little counter-jumper,” and that West had made an allusion to “stealing things.” Where were they all? What were they all doing to be fighting like this?
They sat in silence opposite to one another, one on each side of the fire, and the ticking of the clock, and every now and again a tumbling coal, were the only sounds. Then suddenly Isabel broke out.
“Oh! I can’t stand it any longer; I feel as though I should go mad. What is the matter with everybody? Why are we all fighting like this? Oh! I do want to be pleasant to somebody again, just for a change. For the last three weeks, ever since that wretched quarrel, there has been no peace at all.”
“I know,” Mrs. Comber answered without raising her eyes from the fire; “I am very tired, too, and it’s a good thing there are only three weeks more of the term, because I’m sure that somebody would be cutting somebody’s throat if it lasted any longer, and I wouldn’t mind very much if somebody would cut mine.” She gave a little choke in her throat, and then suddenly her head fell forward into her hands, and she burst into passionate sobbing.
Isabel said nothing, but came over to her and knelt down by her chair and took her other hand. They stayed together in silence for a long time, and the burning fire flung great shadows on the walls, and the snow had begun to fall again and rustled very softly and gently against the window.
At last Mrs. Comber looked up and wiped her eyes, and tried to smile.
“Ah! my dear! you are so good to me. I don’t know what I should have done this terrible term if you hadn’t been, and now my eyes are a perfect sight, and Freddie will be coming in; but I couldn’t help it. Things only seem to get worse and worse and worse, and I’ve stood it as long as I can, and I can’t stand it any longer. I think I shall go away and be a nun or a hospital nurse or something where you’re let alone.”
“Dear Mrs. Comber;” said Isabel, still holding her hand, “do tell me about these last few weeks, if it would help you. Of course, I’ve seen that something’s happened between you and Mr. Comber. I can see that he is most dreadfully sorry about something, and I know that he wants to make it up. But this silence is worse than anything, and if you ‘d only have it out, both of you, I’m sure it would get all right.”
“No, dear.” Mrs. Comber shook her head and wiped her eyes. “It’s not that so much. Freddie and I will get all right again, I expect, and even be better together than we were be-for; but all this business has shown me, my dear, that I’m a failure. I’ve known it really all the time, and I used to pretend that if one was nice enough to people one couldn’t be altogether a failure, because they wanted one to like them — and that’s the truth. Nobody wants me to like them, and I’m the loneliest woman in the world. I’m not grumbling about it, because I suppose I’m careless and silly and untidy, but I don’t think anyone’s wanted friends quite so badly as I have, and some people have such a lot. I used to think it was all just accidents, but now I know it’s really me; and now you’re going to be married there’s an end of you, the only person I had.”
“Archie and I,” said Isabel softly, “will care for you to the end of your days, and you will come and stay with us, won’t you? And you know that Freddie loves you. Why, I’ve seen him looking at you during these last weeks as though he could die for you, and then he’s been afraid to say anything. It’s only this horrid place that has got in the way so dreadfully.”
Mrs. Comber caught her hand eagerly. “Do you really think so, my dear? Oh! if I could only think that, because I have fancied he’s been different lately, and he’s such a dear when he likes to be and isn’t worried about his form; but things are always worse at examination time, and I always pray that the two weeks may be got through as quickly as possible; and something dreadful did happen the other day, and I know he was ashamed of himself, the poor dear.... Perhaps things will be all right.”
Mrs. Comber gave a great sigh and looked a little more cheerful. Then, after a pause, she began again, but a little doubtfully: “You know, Isabel dear, there’s something else. I don’t want to frighten you, but Mrs. Dormer noticed it as well, and I know it’s silly of me, but I don’t quite like it—”
“Like what?” said Isabel. “Well, Mr. Perrin; he’s been looking so queer ever since that quarrel with your Archie. I daresay you haven’t noticed anything, and I daresay it may be all my own imaginations, and I’m sure in a place like this one might imagine anything—”
“How does he look queer,” said Isabel quietly.
“Well, it’s his eyes, I suppose, and the things the boys say about him. You know, my dear, I’ve wondered since whether perhaps he didn’t care about you rather a great deal, and whether that isn’t another reason for his disliking Archie—”
“Care about me?” said Isabel laughing; “why, no, of course not. He’s only spoken to me once or twice.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Comber, “I’ve seen him looking at you in the strangest way in chapel. And his face has got so white and thin and drawn, I’m really quite sorry for the poor man. And his eyes are so odd, as though he was trying to see something that wasn’t there. And the boys say that he’s so strange in class sometimes and stops suddenly in the middle of a lesson and forgets where he is; and Mr. Clinton was telling me that he never speaks to Archie, but sometimes when Archie’s there he gets very white and shakes all over and leaves the room. I only want you to warn Archie to be careful, because when a man’s lonely like that and begins to think about things, he might do anything.”
“Why, what could he do?” Isabel said, with a little catch in her breath.
“Well, I don’t know, dear,” Mrs. Comber said rather uncertainly. “Only when examinations come on they do seem to get into the men’s heads so, and it’s only that I thought that Archie might be careful and ready if Mr. Perrin seemed odd at all...”
Mrs. Comber left it all very uncertain, and as they sat silently in the room with the fire turning from a roaring blaze into a golden cavern and the shadows on the wall growing smaller and smaller as the fire fell, Isabel seemed to feel the cold black and white of the world outside gather ominously about her.
She said good night very quietly, and the two women clung to each other a moment longer than usual, as though they did not wish to leave each other.
“At any rate,” said Isabel, “whatever else this place may do, it can’t alter our being together. You’ve always got me, you know.”
But from this moment Isabel was afraid. Perhaps her nerves were strained, perhaps she saw a great deal more than there was to be seen; but she longed for the end of the term with a passionate eagerness, and she could not
sleep at nights.
And then, curiously, on the very next morning Mr. Perrin came and spoke to her.
She always afterwards remembered him as she saw him that day. She was just turning out of the black gate to go down the hill to the village; there was a very pale blue sky; the ground was white with gray and purple shadows, and the houses were brown and sharply edged, as though cut out of paper, in the distance; the hills were a gray-white against the sky. He came towards her very slowly, and she saw that he wanted to speak to her, so she stopped and waited for him. When he came up to her — with his gown hanging loosely about him and his heavy, black mortar-board, with his thin, haggard cheeks, and staring eyes, with his straggly, unkept mustache — she had a moment of ungovernable fear. She could give no reason for it, but she knew that her impulse was to turn and run away, anywhere so that she might escape from him.
Then she controlled herself and turned and faced him, and smiled and held out her hand.
She could see him staring beyond her, over her shoulder, with eyes that didn’t see her at all. She saw that his hand was shaking.
“How do you do, Mr. Perrin? I haven’t seen you for quite a long time. Isn’t this snow delightful? If it will only stay like this.”