by Hugh Walpole
Perrin flushed and half rose from his chair. “No, please, Mr. Perrin, I beg of you — please be seated — hum — I really am most anxious to prove to you that I am nothing but friendly in this matter.” Moy-Thompson paused and tapped his nails, with sharp little rattling noises, one against the other. “Now, Mr. Perrin, I’m sure you must agree with me that a disturbance like that of this afternoon is exceedingly unusual and I may say with very considerable truth that no one who was present was more completely and remarkably surprised than myself. I do not pretend,” he went on with a smile and lifting a deprecating hand towards the fire, “that I am so pleasantly self-assured as to believe that there is no unsound plank in this good ship of ours; there are many things, I am sure, that would be the better for a newer and a younger hand, but I had supposed — and naturally supposed, I think — that any complaints that there were would be brought to the committee or myself privately. From time to time complaints have been brought to me and I may say that I have always dealt with them to the best of my ability, but—” here Moy-Thompson paused, looked at Perrin, and then smiled very gently— “do you know that you are the very last man whom I should have expected to have come to me with any complaint of any kind?”
Perrin had made no reply, had attempted to make no reply to this long speech. He sat in his chair without any other movement than the regular and rapid turning of the mortarboard between his hands. His head was bent towards the floor. At this last word he looked up as though he would reply and half started from his chair.
Moy-Thompson held forward his large white hand.
“No — please, a moment — may I not explain myself? although it needs surely no explanations. I mean the admirable relationship that has always, I believe, existed between us. I must confess that if I had yesterday been questioned as to which of my staff I could most securely trust and honor I should have named yourself.” He paused and then slowly added, “I need scarcely remind you that it is only a fortnight since there passed between us, in this very room, an interview of the most friendly and confidential description.”
There was no word from the chair.
“You must remember that, during the many years that have passed since you have been with me here you have made no kind of complaint. You have had many, very many opportunities, for voicing things freely to me. I have always been frank with you — you’ve seized none of them. All the more amazing, the more compelling my surprise then, at what occurred to-day.”
At last there was a pause that demanded a reply. The room was filled with silence and neither man moved. Perrin was striving to clear his brain. What was he to say? What had he come to say? Where were all the things that he had thought out so carefully in his study? Moreover, it was true; it was all amazingly true. They had been friends, he and Moy-Thompson, all these years, great friends. Other members of the staff may have rebelled and quarreled and disputed, but he had always supported authority. He remembered now with a kind of dazed surprise the pleasure that he had taken in those little quarter-of-an-hour interviews in that very room. This momentous and horrible fact rose now before him and froze any reply that he might make. He had been Moy-Thompson’s devoted henchman for twenty years — was he the right man to head a rebellion now?
In spite of the long silence he made no reply.
“Well,” said Mr. Moy-Thompson, rubbing one hand against another, “I see that you admit, Mr. Perrin, that there is justice in some of my remarks. These things are facts — that you have been twenty years without a complaint, and that until this afternoon you and I (here more rubbing of the hands) were working shoulder to shoulder at a hard task that demanded our friendly cooperation. Then suddenly there is this outbreak; an outbreak unprecedented in the annals of our school; an outbreak for which there is no obvious reason; an outbreak that is in its nature, I should imagine, extremely foreign to your own character and habits—” Mr. Moy-Thompson paused an instant and then suddenly, “Well, what is the only explanation? What can be the only explanation?”
Still no word from Mr. Perrin.
“Well,” continued Mr. Moy-Thompson genially, “overwork, of course. Overwork. We have perhaps all noticed that, during these last weeks, things were being a little too much for you — hum — yes — natural enough, natural enough. We’re all tired at times and it’s a long time since you were out of harness — yes, indeed.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Ah, well, perhaps the onlookers, in some cases, see the most of the game. But you must admit that it affords an admirable and sufficient excuse for to-day’s little episode — the only excuse indeed (this a little more sharply) — but an excuse that we all of us — I speak for others as well as myself — are only too ready to seize. A holiday, my friend, a holiday — there we have our doctor’s medicine.”
Out of the waters of misery that were closing about him the man raised his head. Of all the many things that had come upon him this was the worst. He faced it with despair — he knew as he heard the other man’s words pour along like a river that he had nothing to say. How could he make a fine rebel when the day before yesterday he had been assisting and abetting? How could he make a fine rebel when they all thought that he was merely overdone? How could he make a fine rebel when instead of the terror that he thought that he had brought he found only a gentle contempt and the opinion that he was tired and needed a holiday?
Somewhere, in the back attics of his brain, something was telling him that this was not quite so simple as it appeared — that this old man in his dark room was playing as elaborate a game as did ever Philip II in the dark recesses of his palace at Madrid. And he saw, although his head was buzzing, that there was, in that plan, good wisdom of a kind. To have Perrin back again, in the chains of the old familiar authority, was to have Perrin silenced, humbled — finally quieted. But how was he to battle with these things? They were too clever for him; he knew that the accumulated years of tradition behind him, the heaping together of those many, many times when he had knocked on that study door, the solemn consciousness of the obsequious attentions that he had so often paid to that white beard, these things rose and defeated him — defeated him on the last occasion that the chances of battle were to be offered him.
Yet he tried to say something.
He spoke in a tired, passionless voice.
“I had reason,” he said slowly, “for what I did. I meant what I said and I mean it now. You have made this place hateful to all of us and I want to hand in my resignation now. I had hoped that what I did this afternoon might have brought matters to a head, might have helped us all to act together as a body. But they’re jealous of me — if anyone else had done it—”
His head dropped — his voice ceased. Then he repeated, drearily, “I want to hand in my resignation.”
The clock ticked on solemnly. At last Moy-Thompson spoke, very gently and a little sadly:
“I am sorry, extremely sorry, if, after all these years you feel that I have acted unjustly towards you, but I hope that you will not think me unfriendly — my last wish is to appear in any way unfriendly — if I say that this opinion of yours — a little hurriedly assumed, perhaps — owes something to the mental fatigue to which I have already alluded. All I beg of you is to wait before you hand in your resignation, to wait until you are stronger both in mind and body. I think I may say that the governors will only too readily allow you a holiday during next term — when the summertime is with us you will return alert and fresh in body and mind.”
Tick — tick — tick went the clock— “Here’s a good offer — Here’s a good offer.”
“I wish to hand in my resignation,” said Mr. Perrin.
“Of course if you will, you will. I can only say that we shall all be genuinely sorry. Let me, at any rate, implore you to wait before making your decision. In a few weeks’ time perhaps—”
“I meant every word that I said this afternoon. This place is scandalous — scandalous—”
“I regret that you feel t
hat. I’m extremely sorry that you feel about it as you do. But at least let me beg you to wait for a few weeks. Write to me. Write to the governors — write to anyone you please. But wait — let me urge you to wait.”
Mr. Moy-Thompson’s hand was laid upon Perrin’s knee. Again there was silence. Then at last:
“Very well. What does it matter? I will wait. I haven’t the strength to break with anything. I’m no use — no good.” He got to his feet and then suddenly broke out:
“But I tell you, I’m right. You’re too clever for me, but I’m right. What I’ve said is true, it’s all true. You’re a devil. You’ve had us all at your mercy for years and years. You’ve worked us against one another until you’ve rubbed all our courage and finer pieces off us and you’re pleased — you’re pleased. You’ve had a fine life of it — you, a God’s parson — and you’ve made money and you’ve broken hearts and you’ve eaten and drunk — and you’re too clever for us, but there’s hell for you somewhere. I see it and I know it.”
He broke away and burst stumbling from the room.
It may be that for once the man whom he left heard the sound of some judgment in his ears, for he stood, long after every stir in the world about him had passed away, staring, without movement and afraid.
III.
But Perrin had no exultation in him; it was not of Moy-Thompson he was thinking. The last stones of his fortress had been removed from his defenses and he stood utterly naked to the world.
He did not attempt now to gather his resources about him. He cared no more for any face that he might present to the world. He had reached the heart of his kingdom and he saw that he was no good — no good at all — an utterly useless man.
He had not even the pluck to defy Moy-Thompson, to fling his resignation in his face. He was no good.
He was very cold when he reached his room, and as he pushed back the door he saw Traill. Traill was standing in the middle of the room, looking very shy.
Perrin was not glad or sorry to see him. He had no feeling about him at all.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
“No, thank you. I only came in for a moment.”
“Oh, all right. What is it?”
“Oh! Only I wanted to tell you — that — well — oh, that I thought you were awfully plucky this afternoon.”
“Oh! Thank you. It wasn’t plucky really — it was a very foolish thing to do.”
“No — really — the other fellows didn’t understand—”
“Oh, yes! They understood very well.”
Traill paused. He obviously hated the whole affair but was determined to go through with it.
“Well, I say, I’m leaving to-morrow, you know — not coming back — and I thought that it would be a pity if we parted — well, sick with each other. What do you say? We’ve had one or two turn-ups, but we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course.”
“Shake hands, will you?”
They shook hands.
“Right you are. Look Isabel and me up in town one day, won’t you? Always awfully pleased. Well, I must be going.”
And, with a sigh of relief, Traill moved away.
But what did the boy know, what could the boy know, of the man’s utter despair as he sat there through the night? Traill went out to his life. “He had made it up with the chap,” but Perrin, in the dark, was looking, with staring eyes, at Himself. At last, that gray figure that had haunted him so closely during these weeks was with him face to face.
And, with the coming dawn, he knew what it was that he would do.
CHAPTER XV — THE GOLDEN VIEW
I.
WITH the coming dawn he knew what it was that he would do. He waited, sitting in his chair without moving and watching, with unseeing eyes, the gray cold pane of his window and the last faint glow of the sinking coals that lingered in the grate. He did not know what he could have said to Moy-Thompson, what he ought to have said. He thought that he might have faced it out better had the interview been in some other place. There were so many things that hung about that room and made it impossible for him to speak. He had not known that it would be so hard.
But he did not care, he really did not care. He saw vaguely that all these many years the growing suspicion that he was really no good had been coming upon him but he had never confessed it — now it stared him in the face. If he had been any good he would have defied Moy-Thompson. He knew that he had not the courage, at his time in life, to go out and face the world again and get some other work to do. Also he had not the courage to come back another term and go on with the work here. He had not even had the pluck to hate Traill properly, as any other man would do.
And yet he did not feel that it was all his fault. He was a pleasant enough man if only someone had tried to like him — and then these headaches — and then those days when his brain was so strangely confused — no, it was not entirely his fault. And, last of all, if Isabel Desart. — Well, why think about it? They all mocked him — even Moy-Thompson did not think him important enough to be angry with. He was very sick and tired of life.
II.
The dawn came late in those winter mornings but the house was very silent as the heavy black behind the window lifted to a lighter gray. Some clock downstairs chimed and Perrin raised his eyes from the black cold grate and saw that soon it would be sunrise.
The things in his room were ghostly shapes, but he knew where everything was and he moved about, himself the greatest ghost of all, making everything tidy. He put the books back into their places, he tore up the pile of papers on the table, he laid a note that he had written on the middle of the cloth where it could easily be seen.
At last he stood for a moment and looked at it all in silence, then with a little sigh he took his greatcoat from the back of the door where it was hanging, put it on and went out. He passed very softly through the solemnly-dark corridors, down the cold stone stairs, and along the dark hall that presented such odd shapes and figures to him in the half-light.
He swung back the bolts and bars of the hall-door and stepped out into the mysterious garden. He drew a deep breath at the sweetness of it; its beauty crowded upon him as though with eager fingers, taking hold of him, almost as though it were pleading with him to stay and take pause before he made any decision. It was an ordinary enough garden in the daytime, but now was the most strangely moving moment in all the cycle of the hours when the sun had sent word of his gorgeous coming and when the brown earth and the seeds and roots held by it stirred to share in the pageant. The breeze in Perrin’s face was pure with all the freshness of the first moments of the day and all about him he seemed to hear the movement and stirring of countless things. Afterwards in the cold winter day bare branches would rattle against the hard light of the frozen sun — now everything was wrapt in curtains of silver mist.
He left the garden and went down the Brown Hill towards the sea. In front of him a great sheet of sky was slowly catching light into the threads and fibers of it. From its foundations where the dark band of the land hid it great fountains of color were held behind the cloud and the suggestion of their richness was passing already into the thickly-curtained gray.
Mr. Perrin turned aside towards the bottom of the hill and struck off across a frozen field into a bare and leafless wood. The light was growing with every moment, the bare outlines of the country stood out sharp and black against the surrounding gray and the great bank of cloud was slowly filling with golden light. The wood was very still; through the heart of it a little avenue of trees ran — now they were gaunt and stiff in two lines with the road cold and gray between. At the end of the little avenue there is suddenly a break, a sharp cliff running sharply to the white road beneath, and then below the road again there is the sea. It is a wonderful view from here, for the sea curves like a silver bowl into infinite distance. Through the country-side it is known as “The Golden View,” not golden now, h
owever, but mysteriously moving and heaving beneath its gray veil with the faintest threads of color beginning to interlace the fabric of it.
Mr. Perrin stood, a curiously tiny figure, at the end of the avenue and looked at the gray cliff at his feet. Behind him was the dark wood; in front of him a vast and swiftly-changing world. Very soon, as the sun rose above the sea, the world would be, once again, undisturbed. “To fling oneself down on to that cold white road” was a very easy death to die, but even now as he faced it he wondered whether he had the courage. He shivered in the cold and drew his coat closer about him.
He thought that he would walk about a little. He turned round and saw coming towards him, through the leafless trees, Isabel Desart.
III.
He did not know what to do or say; at the first sight of her he thought that his eyes had deceived him and, because at this supreme moment of his life he was thinking of her, he had imagined that he saw her. She was dressed also in gray, with a gray cloak and a little round gray hat.
And then in the hearty ring of her voice he knew that it was no ghost. “Oh!” he said faintly, taking a step towards her, and his voice was full of pain.
“Good morning, Mr. Perrin,” she said very easily; “I could not sleep and I had thought that I would come down here to see the sun rise — and then I saw you pass through the school gates and I was impertinent enough to follow you. I want to talk to you.”
“To talk to me?”
He noticed suddenly that he was cold and that his teeth were chattering.
“Yes. Let us walk on to Rayner’s Point. We ought to get there just as the sun rises.”
He followed her as she turned down the path. His mind had been so full of what he had intended to do that he felt that she must have known. He glanced at her almost guiltily as he followed her. How beautiful she was! He pulled his coat closer about his ears.