by Hugh Walpole
Mrs. Craven scarcely spoke at all. She sat with her eyes gravely fixed in front of her, save when she raised them to flash them for an instant at Olva. He found this sudden gaze extraordinarily disconcerting; it was as though she were reasserting her claim to some common understanding that existed between them, to some secret that belonged to them alone.
They avoided, for the most part, Carfax’s death. Once Margaret Craven said: “One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind seems to me the bravery of the murderer — the bravery I mean that is demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest. To be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it were, with the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary life — that demands courage.”
“One may accustom oneself to anything,” Mrs. Craven said. Her voice was deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in the air.
Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might, under certain circumstances, become fanaticism. But he knew that whereas Mrs. Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret Craven quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as though she knew that he was in trouble.
He said: “I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any imagination at all, must be his loneliness. I can conceive that the burden of the secret, even though there be no chance whatever of discovery, must make that loneliness intolerable.”
Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away from the subject.
“You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune. I never saw anything like that last try of yours. Whymper was on the touch-line — I saw him. The ‘Varsity’s certain to try you again on Saturday.”
“I’ve been slack too long,” Olva said, laughing. “I never enjoyed anything more than this afternoon.”
“I played the most miserable game I’ve ever played — couldn’t get this beastly thing out of my head.”
Olva felt as though he were almost at the end of his endurance. At that moment he thought that he would have preferred them to burst the doors and arrest him. He had never known such fatigue. If he could sleep he did not care what happened to him.
The rest of the evening seemed a dream. The dark, crowded drawing-room flickered in the light from the crackling fire. Mrs. Craven, in her stiff chair, never moving her eyes, flung shadows on the walls. Some curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert Craven sat moodily in a dark corner.
At Olva’s request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First she gave him some modern things — some Debussy, Les Miroires of Ravel, some of the Russian ballet music of Cleopatre. These she flung at him, fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of protest from the very notes.
“There,” she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was almost indignant at him. “There is your modern stuff — I can give you more of it.”
“I would like something better now,” he said gravely.
Without a word that mood left her. In the dim candle-light her eyes were tender again. Very softly she played the first two movements of the “Moonlight” sonata.
“I am not in the mood for the last movement,” she said, and closed the piano. Still about the old silver, the dark walls, the log fire, the old gilt mirror, the sweet, delicate notes lingered.
Soon afterwards he left them. As he passed down the chill, deserted street, abandoning the dark laurelled garden, he saw behind him the stern shadow of Mrs. Craven black upon the wall.
But the loneliness, the unrest, walked behind him. Silence was beginning to be terrible. God — this God — this Unknown God — pursued him. Only a little comfort out of the very heart of that great pursuing shadow came to him — Margaret Craven’s grave and tender eyes.
CHAPTER V
STONE ALTARS
1
Carfax was buried. There had been an inquest; certain tramps and wanderers had been arrested, examined and dismissed. No discovery had been made, and a verdict of Wilful “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown” had been returned. It was generally felt that Carfax’s life had not been of the most savoury and that there were, in all probability, amongst the back streets of Cambridge several persons who had owed him a grudge. He appeared, indeed, in the discoveries that were now made on every side, to be something better dead than alive. A stout and somnolent gentleman, with red cheeks and eyes half closed, was the only mourner from the outside world at the funeral. This, it appeared, was an uncle. Father dead, mother divorced and leading a pleasant existence amongst the capitals of Europe. The uncle, although maintaining a decent appearance of grief, was obviously, at heart, relieved to be rid of his nephew so easily. Poor Carfax! For so rubicund and noisy a person he left strangely little mark upon the world. Within a fortnight the college had nearly lost account of his existence. He lent to Sannet Wood a sinister air that caused numberless undergraduates to cycle out in that direction. Now and again, when conversation flagged, some one revived the subject. But it was a horse that needed much whipping to make it go. It had kicked with its violent hoof upon the soft walls of Cambridge life. For a moment it had seemed that it would force its way, but the impression had been of the slightest.
Even within the gates and courts of Saul’s itself the impression that Carfax had left faded with surprising swiftness into a melodramatic memory. But nothing could have been more remarkable than the resolute determination of these young men to push grim facts away. They were not made — one could hear it so eloquently explained — for that kind of tragedy. The autumn air, the furious exercise, the hissing kettles, the decent and amiable discussions on Life reduced to the importance of a Greek Accent — these things rejected violently the absurdity of Tragic Crudity.
They were quite right, these young men. They paid their shining pounds for the capture — conscious or not as it might be — of an atmosphere, a delicate and gentle setting to the crudity of their later life. Carfax, when alive, had blundered into coarse disaster but had blundered in back streets. Now the manner of his death painted him in shrieking colours. The harmony was disturbed, therefore he must go.
Of more importance to this world of Saul’s was the strange revival — as though from the dead — of Olva Dune. They had been prepared, many of them, for some odd development, but this perfectly normal, healthy interest in the affairs of the College was the last thing that his grave, romantic air could ever have led any one to expect. His football in the first place opened wide avenues of speculation. First there had been the College game, then there had been the University match against the Harlequins, and it was, admittedly, a very long time since any one had seen anything like it. He had seemed, in that game against the Harlequins, to possess every virtue that should belong to the ideal three-quarter — pace, swerve, tackle, and through them all the steady working of the brain. Nevertheless those earlier games were yet remembered against him, and it was confidently said that this brilliance, with a man of Dune’s temperament, could not possibly last. But, nevertheless, the expectation of his success brought him up, with precipitation, against the personality of Cardillac, and it was this implied rivalry that agitated the College. It is only in one’s second year that a matter of this kind can assume world-shaking importance. The First-year Undergraduate is too near the child, the Third-year Undergraduate too near the man. For the First-year man School, for the Third-year man the World looms too heavily. So it is from the men of the Second year that the leaders are to be selected, and at this time in Saul’s Cardillac seemed to have no rival. He combined, to an admirable degree, the man of the world and the sportsman; he had an air that was beyond rubies. He was elegant without being effeminate, arrogant without being conceited, indifferent without being blase. He had learnt, at Eton, and at the
knee of a rich and charming mother, that to be crude was the unforgivable sin. He worshipped the god of good manners and would have made an admirable son of the great Lord Chesterfield. Finally he was the only man in Saul’s who had any “air” at all, and he had already travelled round the world and been introduced by his mother to Royalty at Marienbad.
The only man who could ever have claimed any possible rivalry was Dune, and Dune had seemed determined, until now, to avoid any-thing of the kind. Suddenly the situation leapt upon the startled eyes of the attentive world. Possibility of excitement. . . .
2
Olva, himself, was entirely unconcerned by this threatened rivalry. He was being driven, by impulses that he understood only too well, into the noisiest life that he could manage to find about him. The more noise the better; he had only a cold fear at his heart that, after all, it would penetrate his dreaded loneliness too little, let it be as loud a noise as he could possibly summon.
He had not now — and this was the more terrible — any consciousness of Carfax at all; there was waiting for him, lurking, beast-like, until its inevitable moment, something far more terrible.
Meanwhile he made encounters. . . . There was Bunning. The Historical Society in Saul’s was held together by the Senior Tutor. This gentleman, a Mr. Gregg, was thin, cadaverous, blue-chinned, mildly insincere. It was his view of University life that undergraduates were born yesterday and would believe anything that you told them. In spite, however, of their tender years there was a lurking ferocity that must be checked by an indulgent heartiness of manner, as one might offer a nut to a monkey. His invariable manner of salutation— “Come along, Simter — the very man I wanted to see” — lost its attraction through much repetition, and the hearty assumption on the amiable gentleman’s part that “we are all boys together” froze many undergraduates into a chill and indifferent silence. He had not taken Holy Orders, but he gave, nevertheless, the effect of adopting the language of the World, the Flesh and the Devil in order that he might the better spy out the land. He attracted, finally, to himself certain timid souls who preferred insincere comfort to none at all, but he was hotly rejected by more able-bodied persons.
Nevertheless the Historical Society prospered, and Olva one evening, driven he knew not by what impulse, attended its meeting. When he entered Mr. Gregg’s room some dozen men were already seated there. The walls were hung with groups in which a younger and even thinner Mr. Gregg was displayed, a curious figure in “shorts.” On one side of the room two oars were hung and over the mantelpiece (littered with pipes) there were photographs of the “Mona Lisa” and Da Vinci’s “Last Supper.” The men in the room were embarrassed and silent. Under a strong light a minute undergraduate with enormous spectacles sat, white and trembling; it was obviously he who was to read the paper.
Mr. Gregg came forward heartily. “Why, Dune, this is quite splendid! The very man! Why, it is long since you’ve honoured our humble gathering. Baccy? That’s right. Help yourself. Erdington’s going to read to us about the Huns and stand a fire of questions afterwards, aren’t you, Erdington?”
The youth in spectacles gulped.
“That’s right. That’s right. Comfortable now, Dune? Got all you want? That’s right. Now we can begin, I think. Minutes of the last meeting, Stevens.”
Olva placed himself in a corner and looked round the room. He found that most of the men were freshmen whose faces he did not know, but there, moving his fat body uneasily on a chair, was Bunning, and there, to his intense surprise, was Lawrence. That football hero was lounging with half-closed eyes in a large armchair. His broad back looked as though it would burst the wooden arms, and his plain, good-natured face beamed, through a cloud of smoke, upon the company. Below his short, light grey flannel trousers were bright purple socks. He had the body of a bullock — short, thick, broad, strong, thoroughly well calculated to withstand the rushes of oncoming three-quarters. Various freshmen flung timid glances at the hero every now and again; it was to them an event that they might have, for a whole hour, closely under their observation, this king among men.
Olva wondered at his presence. He remembered that Lawrence was taking a “pass” degree in History. He knew also that Lawrence somewhere in the depths of his slow brain had a thirst for knowledge and at the same time a certain assurance that he would never acquire any. His slow voice, his slow smile, the great, heavy back, the short thick legs attracted Olva; there was something simple and primeval here that appealed to the Dune blood. Moreover, since the afternoon when Olva had played against the Harlequins and covered himself with glory, Lawrence had shown a disposition to make friends. Old Lawrence might be stupid, but, as a background, he was the most important man in the College. His slow, lumbering body as it rolled along the Court was followed by the eyes of countless freshmen. His appearance on the occasion of a College concert was the signal for an orgy of applause. Cardillac might lead the College, but he was, nevertheless, of common clay. Lawrence was of the gods!
Swift contrast the fat and shapeless Bunning! As the tremulous and almost tearful voice of little Erdington continued the solemn and dreary exposition of the Huns, Olva felt increasingly that Bunning’s eye was upon him. Olva had not seen the creature since the night of the revival, and he was irritated with himself for the persistence of his interest. The man’s pluck had, in the first place, struck him, but now it seemed to him that they were, in some undefinable measure, linked together. As Olva watched him, half contemptuously, half sarcastically, he tried to pin his brain down to the actual, definite connection. It seemed ultimately to hang round that dreadful evening when they had been together; it was almost — although this was absurd — as though Bunning knew; but, in spite of the certain assurance of his ignorance Olva felt as he moved uneasily under Bunning’s gaze that the man himself was making some claim upon him. It was evident that Bunning was unhappy; he looked as though he had not slept; his face was white and puffy, his eyes dark and heavy. He was paying no attention to the “Huns,” but was trying, obviously, to catch Olva’s eye. As the reading progressed Olva became more and more uneasy. It showed the things that must be happening to his nerves. He had now that sensation that had often come to him lately that some one was waiting for him outside the door. He imagined that the man next to him, a spotty, thin and restless freshman, would suddenly turn to him and say quite casually— “By the way, you killed Carfax, didn’t you?” Above all he imagined himself suddenly rising in his place and saying— “Yes, gentlemen, this is all very well, very interesting I’m sure, but I killed Carfax.”
His tortured brain was being driven, compelled to these utterances. Behind him still he felt that pursuing cloud; one day it would catch him and, out of the heart of it, there would leap . . .
And all this because Bunning looked at him. It was becoming now a habit — so general that it was instinctive — that, almost unconsciously, he should, at a point like this, pull at his nerves. “They are watching you; they are watching you. Don’t let them see you like this; pull yourself together. . . .”
He did. Little Erdington’s voice ceased. Mr. Gregg was heard saying: “It has always occurred to me that the Huns . . . “ and then, after many speeches: “How does this point of view strike you, Erdington?”
It didn’t strike Erdington very strongly, and there was no other person present who seemed to be struck in any very especial direction. The discussion, therefore, quickly flagged. Olva escaped Bunning’s pleading eyes, found his gown amongst a heap in the corner, and avoiding Mr. Gregg’s pressing invitation to stay, plunged down the stairs. Behind him, then, making his heart leap into his mouth, was a slow, thick voice.
“I say, Dune, what do you say to a little drink in my room after all that muck?” Above him, in the dark shadow of the stair, loomed Lawrence’s thick body.
“I shall be delighted,” Olva said.
Lawrence came lumbering down. He always spoke as though words were a difficulty to him. He left out any word that was not of vita
l necessity.
“Muck that-awful muck. What do they want gettin’ a piffler like that kid in the glasses to read his ideas? Ain’t got any — not one — no more ‘an I have.”
They reached the Court — it swam softly in the moonlight — stars burnt, here and there, in a trembling sky.
Lawrence put his great arm through Olva’s. “Rippin’ game that o’ yours yesterday. Rippin’.” He seemed to lick his lips over it as a gourmet over a delicate dish.
Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts.
“I say, you know, you — re one of these clever ones — thinkin’ an’ writin’ an’ all that — an’ yet you play footer like an archangel — a blarsted archangel. Lucky devil!” He sighed heavily. “Every time I put on my footer boots,” he pursued, “I say to myself, ‘What you’d be givin’, Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you’d give! But it ain’t likely — my spellin’s somethin’ shockin’.”
Here there was interruption. Several men came rattling; laughing and shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva.
“Oh, damn!” said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them. Cardillac was there, also Bobby Galleon, Rupert Craven, and one or two more.
Cardillac shouted. “Hullo, Lawrence, old man. Is it true, as they say, that you’ve been sitting at the feet of our dearly beloved Gregg? How splendid for you!”
“I’ve been at our Historical Society hearin’ about the Huns, and therefore there’s compellin’ necessity for a drink,” Lawrence said, moving in the direction of his room.
“Oh! rot, don’t go in yet. We’re thinking of going round and paying Bunning a visit in another ten minutes. He’s going to have a whole lot of men in for a prayer-meeting. Thompson’s just brought word.”