Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Now he had come back to that. Craven would give him away, perhaps . . . he would, at any rate, drive him away from Margaret. But he would almost certainly feel it his duty to expose him. He would feel that that would end the complication with his sister once and for all — the easiest way. He would feel it his duty — these people and their duty!

  Well, at least he would have his game of football first — no one could take his afternoon away from him. Margaret would be there to watch him and he would play! Oh! he would play as he had never played in his life before!

  Bunning’s voice came to him from a great distance —

  “What are you going to do? What are you going to say to Craven?”

  “Say to him? Why, I shall tell him, of course — tell him everything.”

  Bunning leapt from his chair. In his urgency he put his hands on Olva’s arm: “No, no, no. You mustn’t do that. Why it will be as though I’d murdered you. Tell him I did it. Make him believe it. You can — you’re clever enough. Make him feel that I did it. You mustn’t, mustn’t — let him know. Oh, please, please. I’ll kill myself if you do. I will really.”

  Olva gravely, quietly, put his hands on Bunning’s shoulders.

  “It’s all right — it had to come out. I’ve been avoiding it all this time, escaping it, but it had to come. Don’t you be afraid of it. I daresay Craven won’t do anything. After all he loves his sister and she cares for him. That will influence him. But, anyhow, all that’s done with. There are bigger things in question than Craven knowing about Carfax, and you were meant to tell him — you were really. You’ve just forced me to see what’s the right thing to do — that’s all.”

  Bunning was, surely, in the light of it, a romantic figure.

  Miss Annett came in with the lunch.

  3

  As Olva was changing into his football things, Cardillac appeared.

  “Come up to the field with me, will you? I’ve got a hansom.”

  Olva finished tying his boots and stood up. Cardillac looked at him.

  “My word, you seem fit.”

  “Yes, I’m splendid, thanks.”

  He felt splendid. Never before had he been so conscious of the right to be alive. His football clothes smelt of the earth and the air. He moved his arms and legs with wonderful freedom. His blood was pumping through his body as though death, disease, infirmity such things — were of another planet.

  For such a man as he there should only be air, love, motion, the begetting of children, the surprising splendour of a sudden death. Now already Craven was waiting for him.

  He had sent a note round to Craven’s rooms; he had said, “Come in to see me after the match — five o’clock. I have something to tell you.”

  At five o’clock then. . . .

  Meanwhile it was nice of Cardillac to come. They exchanged no words about it, but they understood one another entirely. It was as though Cardillac had said— “I expect that you’re going to knock me out of this Rugger Blue as you knocked me out of the Wolves, and I want to show you that we’re pals all the way through.”

  What Cardillac really said was— “Have a cigarette? These are Turkish.

  Feel like playing a game to-day?”

  “Never felt better in my life.”

  “Well, these Dublin fellows haven’t had their line crossed yet this season. May one of us have the luck to do it.”

  “Pretty hefty lot of forwards.”

  “Yes, O’Brien’s their spot Three I believe.”

  Olva and Cardillac attracted much attention as they walked through the College. Miss Annett, watching them from a little window where she washed plates, gulped in her thin throat with pride for “that Mr. Dune. There’s a gentleman!” The sun above the high grey buildings broke slowly through yellow clouds. The roads were covered with a thin fine mud and, from the earth, faint clouds of mist rose and vanished into a sky that was slowly crumbling from thick grey into light watery blue.

  The cold air beat upon their faces as the hansom rattled past Dunstan’s, over the bridge, and up the hill towards the field.

  Cardillac talked. “There goes Braff. He doesn’t often come up to a game nowadays — must be getting on for seventy — the greatest half the ‘Varsity’s ever had, I suppose.”

  “It’s a good thing this mud isn’t thicker. It won’t make the ball bad.

  That game against Monkstown the other day! My word. . . .”

  But Olva was not listening. It seemed to him now that two separate personalities were divided in him so sharply that it was impossible to reconcile them.

  There was Olva Dune concentrating all his will, his mentality, upon the game that he was about to play. This was his afternoon. After it there would be darkness, death, what you will — parting from Margaret — all purely physical emotions.

  The other Olva felt nothing physical. The game, confession to Rupert, trial, imprisonment, even separation from Margaret, all these things were nothing in comparison with some great business that was in progress behind it all, as real life may go on behind the painted back cloth of a stage. Here were amazing happenings, although at present he was confused and bewildered by them. It was not that Olva was, actually, at the instant conscious of actual impressions, but rather that great emotions, great surprising happiness, seemed to shine on some horizon. It was as though something had said to his soul, “Presently you will feel a joy, a splendour, that you had never in your wildest thoughts imagined.”

  The pursuit was almost at an end. He was now enveloped, enfolded. Already everything to him — even his love for Margaret — was trivial in comparison with the effect of some atmosphere that was beginning to hem him in on every side.

  But against all this was the other Olva — the Olva who desired physical strength, love, freedom, health.

  Well, let it all be as confusing as it might, he would play his game. But as he walked into the Pavilion he knew that the prelude to his real life had only a few more hours to run. . . .

  4

  As he passed, with the rest of the team, up the field, he observed two things only; one thing was Margaret, standing on the left side of the field just below the covered stand — he could see her white face and her little black hard hat.

  The other thing was that on the horizon where the wall at the further end of the field cut the sky there were piled, as though resting on the top of the wall, high white clouds. For a moment these clouds, piled in mountain shape of an intense whiteness with round curving edges, held his eyes because they exactly resembled those clouds that had hung above him on the day of his walk to Sannet Wood — the day when he had been caught by the snowstorm. These clouds brooded, waiting above him; their dazzling white had the effect of a steady, unswerving gaze.

  They lined out. He took his place as centre three-quarter with Cardillac outside left and Tester and Buchan on the other wing. Old Lawrence was standing, a solid rock of a figure, back. There was a great crowd present. The tops of the hansom cabs in the road beyond rose above the wall, and he could hear, muffled with distance, shots from the ‘Varsity firing range.

  All these things focussed themselves upon his brain in the moment before the whistle went; the whistle blew, the Dublin men had kicked off, Tester had fielded the ball, sent it back into touch, and the game had begun.

  This was to be the game of his life and yet he could not centre his attention upon it. He was conscious that Whymper — the great Whymper — was acting as linesman and watching every movement. He knew that for most of that great crowd his was the figure that was of real concern, he knew that he was as surely battling for his lady as though he had been fighting, tournament-wise, six hundred years ago.

  But it all seemed of supreme unimportance. To-night he was to face Rupert, to state, once and for all, that he had killed Carfax, to submit Margaret to a terrible test . . . even that of no importance. All life was insignificant beside something that was about to happen; before the gaze of that white dazzling cloud be felt that he stood, a li
ttle pigmy, alone on a brown spreading field.

  The game was up at the University end. The Dublin men were pressing and the Cambridge forwards seemed to have lost their heads. It was a case now of “scrum,” lining out, and “scrum” again. The Cambridge men got the ball, kept it between their heels and tried, desperately to wheel with it and carry it along with them. It escaped them, dribbled out of the scrimmage, the Cambridge half leapt upon it, but the Dublin man was upon him before he could get it away. It was on the ground again, the Dublin forwards dribbled it a little and then some one, sweeping it into his arms, fell forward with it, over the line, the Cambridge men on top of him.

  Dublin had scored a try, and a goal from an easy angle followed — Dublin five points.

  They all moved back to the centre of the field and now the Cambridge men, rushing the ball from a line-out in their favour, pressed hard. At last the ball came to the three-quarters. Tester caught it, it passed to Buchan, who as he fell flung it right out to Cardillac; Cardillac draw his man, swerved, and sent it back to Olva. As Olva felt the neat hard surface of it, as he knew that the way was almost clear before him, his feet seemed clogged with heavy weights. Something was about to happen to him — something, but not this. The crowd behind the ropes were shouting, he knew that he was himself running, but it seemed that only his body was moving, his real self was standing back, gazing at those white clouds — waiting.

  He knew that he made no attempt to escape the man in front of him; he seemed to run straight into his arms; he heard a little sigh go up from behind the ropes, as he tumbled to the ground, letting the ball trickle feebly from his fingers. A try missed if ever one was!

  No one said anything, but he felt the disappointment in the air. He knew what they were saying— “One of Dune’s off days! I always said you couldn’t depend upon the man. He’s just too sidey to care what happens. . . .”

  Well they might say it if they would; his eyes were on the horizon.

  But his failure had had its effect. Let there be an individualist in the line and Tester and Buchan would play their well-ordered game to perfection. They relied as a rule upon Whymper — to-day they had depended upon Dune. Well Dune had failed them, the forwards were heeling so slowly, the scrum-half was never getting the ball away — it was a miserable affair.

  The Dublin forwards pressed again. For a long time the two bodies of men swayed backwards and forwards; in the University twenty-five Lawrence was performing wonders. He seemed to be everywhere at once, bringing men down, seizing, in a lightning flash of time, his opportunity for relieving by kicking into touch.

  Twice the ball went to the Dublin three-quarters and they seemed certainly in, but on the first occasion a man slipped and on the second Olva caught his three-quarter and brought him sharply to the ground. It was the only piece of work that he had done.

  More struggling — then away on the right some Dublin man had caught it and was running. Some one dashed at him to hurl him into touch, but he slipped past and was in.

  Another try — the kick was again successful — Dublin ten points.

  The half-time whistle blew. As the met gathered into groups in the middle of the field, sucking lemons and gathering additional melancholy there from, Olva stood a little away from them. Whymper came out into the field to exhort and advise. As he passed Olva he said —

  “Rather missed that try of yours. Ought to have gone a bit faster.”

  He did not answer, it seemed to be no concern of his at all. He was now trembling it every limb, but his excitement had nothing to do with the game. It seemed to him that the earth and the sky were sharing his emotion am he could feel in the air a great exaltation. I was becoming literally true for him that earth air, sky were praising at this moment, in wonderful unison, some great presence.

  “All things betray Thee who betrayest Me. . . .” Now he understood what that line had intended him to feel — the very sods crushed by his boots were leading him to submission.

  The whistle sounded. His back now was turned to the white clouds; he was facing the high stone wall and the tops of the hansom cabs.

  The game began again. The Dublin men were determined to drive their advantage to victory. Another goal and their lead might settle, once and for all, the issue.

  Olva was standing back, listening. The earth was humming like a top. A voice seemed to be borne on the wind— “Coming, Coming, Coming.”

  He felt that the clouds were spreading behind him and a little wind seemed to be whispering in the grass— “Coming, Coming, Coming.” His very existence now was strung to a pitch of expectation.

  As in a dream he saw that a Dublin man with the ball had got clear away from the clump of Cambridge forwards, and was coming towards him. Behind him only was Lawrence. He flung himself at the man’s knees, caught them, falling himself desperately forward. They both came crashing to the ground. It was a magnificent collar, and Olva, as he fell, heard, as though it were miles away, a rising shout, saw the sky bend down to him, saw the ball as it was jerked up rise for a moment into the air — was conscious that some one was running.

  5

  He was on his knees, alone, on the vast field that sloped a little towards the horizon.

  Before him the mountain clouds were now lit with a clear silver light so dazzling that his eyes were lowered.

  About him was a great silence. He was himself minute in size, a tiny, tiny bending figure.

  Many years passed.

  A great glory caught the colour from the sky and earth and held it like a veil before the cloud.

  In a voice of the most radiant happiness Olva cried —

  “I have fled — I am caught — I am held . . . Lord, I submit.”

  And for the second time he heard God’s voice —

  “My Son . . . My Son.”

  He felt a touch — very gentle and tender — on his shoulder.

  6

  Many years had passed. He opened his eyes and saw the ball that had been rising, many years ago, now falling.

  The man whom he had collared was climbing to his feet; behind them men were bending down for a “scrum.” The shout that he had heard when he had fallen was still lingering in the air.

  And yet many years had passed.

  “Hope you’re not hurt,” the Dublin man said. “Came down hard.”

  “No, thanks, it’s all right.”

  Olva got on to his feet. Some one cried, “Well collared, Dune.”

  He ran back to his place. Now there was no hesitation or confusion. A vigour like wine filled his body. The Cambridge men now were pressing; the ball was flung back to Cardillac, who threw to Olva. The Dublin line was only a few yards away and Olva was over. Lawrence kicked a goal and Cambridge had now five points to the Dublin ten.

  Cambridge now awoke to its responsibilities. The Dublin men seemed to be flagging a little, and Tester and Buchan, having apparently decided that Olva was himself again, played their accustomed game.

  But what had happened to Dune? There he had been his old casual superior self during the first half of the game. Now he was that inspired player that the Harlequin match had once revealed him. Whymper had spoken to him at half-time. That was what it was — Whymper had roused him.

  For he was amazing. He was everywhere. Even when he had been collared, he was suddenly up, had raced after the three-quarter line, caught them up and was in the movement again. Five times the Cambridge Threes were going, were half-way down the field, and were checked by the wonderful Dublin defence. Again and again Cambridge pressed. There were only ten minutes left for play and Cambridge were still five points behind.

  Somebody standing in the crowd said, “By Jove, Dune seems to be enjoying it. I never saw any one look as happy.”

  Some one else said, “Dune’s possessed by a devil or something. I never saw anything like that pace. He doesn’t seem to be watching the game at all, though.”

  Some one said, “There’s going to be a tremendous snowstorm in a minute.

/>   Look at those white clouds.”

  Then, when there were five minutes more to play, there was a forward rush over the Dublin line — a Cambridge man, struggling at the bottom of a heap of legs and arms, touched down. A Dublin appeal was made for “Carried over,” but — no— “Try for Cambridge.”

  A deafening shout from behind the ropes, then a breathless pause whilst Lawrence stepped back to take the kick, then a shattering roar as the ball sailed between the posts.

  Ten points all and three minutes left to play.

  They were back to the centre, the Dublin men had kicked, Tester had gathered and returned to touch. There was a line-out, a Cambridge man had the ball and fell, Cambridge dribbled past the ball to the half, the ball was in Cardillac’s hands.

  Let this be ever to Cardillac’s honour! Fame of a lifetime might have been his, the way was almost clear before him — he passed back to Olva. The moment had come. The crowd fell first into a breathless silence, then screamed with excitement —

  “Dune’s got it. He’s off!”

  He had a crowd of men upon him. Handing off, bending, doubling, almost down, slipping and then up again — he was through them.

  The great clouds were gathering the grey sky into their white arms. Mr. Gregg, at the back of the stand, forgetting for once decorum, white and trembling, was hoarse with shouting.

  Olva’s body seemed so tiny on that vast field — two Dublin three-quarters came for him. He appeared to run straight into the arms of both of them and then was through them. They started after him — one man was running across field to catch him. It was a race. Now there fell silence as the three men tore after the flying figure. Surely never, in the annals of Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now the Dublin back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched desperately at Olva’s back, caught the buckle of his “shorts” and stood with the thing torn off in his hand.