by Unknown
I thought this, as I saw him at last walking in the lamplight, whistling, swinging his stick, his bowler hat (which he punctiliously wore when on professional business) pushed on to the back of his head.
I shouted down. George met us on the stairs: it did not take long to explain the news. He swore.
We went back to Morcom's flat to let him think it out. For minutes he sat, silent and preoccupied. Then he declared, with his extraordinary, combative optimism: "I expect Martineau will get me to stay behind after we've finished the social flummeries. It will give me a perfect opportunity to provide him with the whole truth. They've probably presented us with the best possible way of getting it home to the Canon."
But George was nervous as we entered Martineau's drawing-room--though perhaps no more nervous than he always felt when forced to go through the "social flummeries," even the mild parties of Martineau's Friday nights. He only faced this one to-night because of Olive's bullying; while the rest of us went regularly, enjoyed them, and prized Martineau's traditional form of invitation to "drop in for coffee, or whatever's going"--though after a few visits, we learned that coffee was going by itself.
"Glad to see you all," cried Martineau. "It's not a full night tonight." There were, in fact, only a handful of people in the room: he never knew what numbers to expect, and on the table by the fireplace stood files of shining empty cups and saucers; while in front of the fire two canisters with long handles were keeping warm, still nearly full of coffee and milk, more than we should ever want tonight.
Morcom and I sat down. George walked awkwardly to wards the cups and saucers; he felt there was something he should do; he felt there was some mysterious etiquette he had never been taught. He stood by the table and changed his weight from foot to foot: his cheeks were pink.
Then Martineau said: "It's a long time since you dropped in, George, isn't it? Don't you think it's a bit hard if I only catch sight of my friends in the office? You know it's good to have you here." George smiled. In Martineau's company he could not remain uncomfortable for long. Even when Martineau went on: "Talking of my friends in the office, I think Harry Eden is going to give us a look in to-night."
George's expression was only clouded until Martineau baited him in his friendly manner. The remark about Eden had revived our warning: more, it made George think of a man with whom he was ill-at-ease; but no one responded to affection more quickly, and, as Martineau talked, George could put away unpleasant thoughts, and be happy with someone he liked.
We all enjoyed listening to Martineau. His conversation was gay, unpredictable and eccentric; he had a passion, an almost mischievous passion, for religious controversies, and he loved to tell us on Friday nights that he had been accused of yet another heresy. It did not matter to him in the slightest that none of us was religious, even in any of his senses; he was a spontaneous person, and his "scrapes," as he called them, had to be told to someone. So he described his latest letter in an obscure theological journal, and the irritated replies. "They say I'm getting dangerously near Manichaeism now," he announced cheerfully tonight.
George chuckled. He had accepted all Martineau's oddities: and it seemed in order that Martineau should stand in front of his fire, in his morning coat with the carnation in the buttonhole, and tell us of some plan for puzzling the orthodox. It did not occur to any of us that he was fifty and going through the climacteric which makes some men restless at that age. His wife had died two years before; we did not notice that, in the last twelve months, he had been giving his eccentricities a fuller rein. Like George, we expected that he would stay as he was this Friday night, standing on his hearth-rug, pulling his black tic into place over his wing collar. I persuaded him to read a letter from a choleric country parson; Martineau smiled over the abusive references to himself, and read them in a lilting voice with his head on one side and his long nose tip-tilted into the air.
Then George teased him affectionately about his religious observances; which seemed, indeed, as eccentric as his beliefs. He had long ago left the Church of England, and still carried on a running controversy with his brother, the Canon; he now acted as steward in the town's most respectable Methodist congregation. There he went with regularity, with enjoyment, twice each Sunday; but he confessed, with laughter and almost with pride, that he reckoned to "get off" to sleep before any sermon was under weigh.
"Did you manage to get off last Sunday, Mr. Martineau?" said George.
"I did in the morning, George. But at night we had a stranger preaching--and there was something disturbing about the tone of his voice."
George beamed with laughter; he sank back into his armchair, and surveyed the room; it was a pleasant room, lofty, painted cream, with a print of Ingres's "Source" on the wall opposite the fireplace. For once, he did not want his evening in respectable society to end.
And Jack, who came in for half an hour, guessed that all was well. He had been warned by Olive that pressure might be used upon George; but George was so surprisingly at home that Jack's own spirits became high. He left early: soon afterwards the room thinned out, and only George, Morcom and I stayed with Martineau.
Then Eden came in. He walked across the room to the fireplace.
George had half-risen from his chair as soon as he saw Eden: and now stayed in suspense, his hands on the arms of his chair, uncertain whether to offer it. But Eden, who was apologizing to Martineau, did not notice him.
"I'm sorry I'm so late, Howard." Eden said affably to Marti neau. "My wife has some people in, and I couldn't escape a hand of cards."
The dome of his head was bald; his face was broad and open, and his lips easily flew up at the corners into an amiable smile. He was a few years older than his partner, and looked more their profession by all signs but one: he dressed in a more modern, informal mode. Tonight he was wearing a comfortable grey lounge suit which rode easily on his substantial figure. Talking to Martineau, he warmed a substantial seat before the fire.
George made a false start, and then said: "Wouldn't you like to sit down, Mr. Eden?"
At last Eden attended.
"I don't see why I should turn you out, Passant," he said. "To tell you the truth, I don't really want to leave the fire."
But George was still half-standing, and Eden went on: "Still if you insist on making yourself uncomfortable--"
Eden settled into George's chair. Martineau said: "Will you be kind, George, and give Harry Eden a cup of coffee?"
Busily George set about the task. He lifted the big canister and filled a cup. The cup in hand, he turned to Eden: "Will that be all right, Mr. Eden?"
"Well, do you know, I think I'd like it white."
George was in a hurry to apologize. He went to put the cup down on the table: Eden, thinking George was giving him the cup, held out a hand: George could not miss the inside of Eden's forearm, and the coffee flew over Eden's coat and the thigh of his trousers.
For an instant George stood immobile. He blushed from forehead to neck.
When he managed to say that he was sorry, Eden replied in an annoyed tone: "It was entirely my fault." He was vigorously rubbing himself with his handkerchief. Breaking out of his stupor, George tried to help, but Eden said: "I can look after it, Passant, I can look after it perfectly well."
George went on his knees, and attempted to mop up the pool of coffee on the carpet: then Martineau made him sit down, and gave him a cigarette.
Actually, if it was anyone's fault, it was Eden's. But I knew that George could not believe it. Martineau set us in conversation again. Eden joined in. After a few minutes, however, I noticed a glance pass between them: and it was Martineau who said to George: "I was very glad to see your friend Cotery to-night. How is he getting on, by the way, George?"
George had not spoken since he tried to dry Eden down. He hesitated, and said: "In many ways, he's going remarkably well. He's just having to get over a certain amount of trouble in his firm. But--"
Eden looked at Martineau, and said: "Wh
y, do you know, Passant, I meant to have a word with Howard about that very thing tonight. I didn't expect to see you here, of course, but perhaps I might mention it now. We're all friends within these four walls, aren't we? As a matter of fact, Howard and I happened to be told that you were trying to steer this young man through some difficulties."
Eden was trying to sound casual and friendly: he had taken the chance of speaking in front of Morcom and myself, who had originally been asked to Friday nights as friends of George's. But George's reply was edged with suspicion: I felt sure that he was more suspicious, more ready to be angry, because of the spilt cup.
"I should like to know who happened to tell you, Mr. Eden."
"I scarcely think we're free to disclose that," said Eden.
"If that is the case," said George, "at least I should like to be certain that you were given the correct version."
"Tell us, George, tell us," Martineau put in. Eden nodded his head. Hotly, succinctly, George told the story that I had heard several times by now: the story of the gift, the victimization of Jack.
Martineau looked upset at the account of the boy's infatuation, but Eden leant back in his chair with an acquiescent smile.
"These things will happen," he said. "These things will happen."
George finished by describing the penalties to Jack. "They are too serious for no one to raise a finger," said George. "So you are thinking of protesting on his behalf, are you?"
"I am," said George. "As a matter of fact, we heard that you intended to take up the matter--through a committee at the School, is that right?"
"Quite right."
"I don't want to interfere, Passant." Eden gave a short smile, and brought his finger-tips together. "But do you think that this the most judicious way of going about it? You know, it might still be possible to patch up something behind the scenes."
"I'm afraid there's no chance of that. It's important to realize, Mr. Eden," George said, "that Cotery has no influence whatever. I don't mean that he hasn't much influence: I mean that he has no single person to speak for him in the world."
"That is absolutely true," Morcom said quietly to Eden in a level, reasonable tone. "And Passant won't like to bring this out himself, but it puts him in a difficult position: if he didn't try to act, no one would."
"It's very unfortunate for Cotery, of course," said Eden. "I quite see that. But you can't consider, Morcom, can you, that Passant is going the right way about it? It only raises opposition when you try to rush people off their feet."
"I rather agree," said Morcom. "In fact, I told Passant my opinion a couple of nights ago. It was the same as yours."
"I'm glad of that," said Eden. "Because I know that Passant thinks that when we get older we like to take the course of least resistance. There's something in it, I'm afraid, there's something in it. But he can't hold that against you. You see, Passant," he went on, "we're all agreed that it's very unfortunate for Cotery. That doesn't mean, though, that we want to see you do something hasty. After all, there's plenty of time. This is a bit of a set-back for him, but he's a bright young chap. With patience, he's bound to make good in the end."
"He's twenty," said George. "He's just the age when a man is desperate without something ahead. You can't tell a man to wait years at that age."
"That's all very well," said Eden.
"I can't bring myself to recommend patience," said George, "when it's someone else who has to exercise it."
George was straining to keep his temper down, and Eden's smile had become perfunctory.
"So you intend to make a gesture," said Eden. "I've always found that most gestures do more harm than good."
"I'm afraid that I don't regard this as a gesture," said George.
Eden frowned, paused, and went on: "There is another point, Passant. I didn't particularly want to make it. And I don't want to lay too much emphasis on it. But if you go ahead, it might conceivably raise some personal difficulties for Howard and myself--since we are, in a way, connected with you."
"They suggested this morning that you were responsible, I suppose?" George cried.
"I shouldn't say that was actually suggested, should you, Howard?" said Eden.
"In any case," said George, "I consider they were using an intolerably unfair weapon in approaching you."
"I think perhaps they were," said Eden. "I think perhaps they were. But that doesn't affect the fact."
"If we were all strictly fair, George," said Martineau, "not much information would get round, would it?"
George asked Eden: "Did you make these people realize that I was acting as a private person?"
"My dear Passant, you ought to know that one can't draw these distinctions. If you--not to put too fine a point on it -choose to make a fool of yourself among some influential people, then Howard and I will come in for a share of the blame."
"I can draw these distinctions," said George, "and, if you will authorize me, I can make them extremely clear to these -to your sources of infomation."
"That would only add to the mischief," said Eden.
There was quiet for a moment. Then. George said: "I shall have to ask you a definite question. You are not implying, Mr. Eden, that this action of mine cuts across my obligations to the firm?"
"I don't intend to discuss it in those terms," said Eden.
"I've been talking in a purely friendly manner among friends. In my opinion you'd do us all a service by sleeping on it, Passant. That's all I'm prepared to say. And now, if you'll forgive me, Howard, I'm afraid that I must go and get some sleep myself."
We heard his footsteps down the path and the click of the latch. George stared at the carpet. Without looking up he said to Martineau: "I'm sorry that I've spoiled your evening."
"Don't be silly, George. Harry Eden always was clumsy with the china." Martineau had followed George's eyes to the stain on the carpet, and spoke as though he knew that, in George's mind, the spill was rankling more even than the quarrel. Martineau went on: "As for your little disagreement, of course you know that Harry was trying to smooth the matter down."
George did not respond, but in a moment burst out: "I should like to explain it to you, Mr. Martineau. I know you believe that I should be careful about doing harm to the firm. I thought it over as thoroughly as I could: I'm capable of deceiving myself occasionally, but I don't think I did this time. I decided that it would cause a whiff of gossip -I admit that, naturally--but it wouldn't lose us a single case. You'd have made the same decision: except that you wouldn't have deliberated quite so long." George was speaking fervently, naturally, with complete trust. I wished that he could have spoken in that way to Eden--if only for a few words.
"I'm a cautious old creature, George," said Martineau.
"Cautious! Why, you'd bring the whole town down on our heads if you felt that some clerk, whom you'd never seen, wasn't free to attend the rites of a schismatic branch of the Greek Orthodox Church--in which you yourself, of course, passionately disbelieved." George gave a friendly roar of laughter. "Or have you been tempted by some new branch of the Orthodox lately?"
"Not yet," Martineau chuckled. "Not yet."
Then George said: "I expect you understood my position right from the start, Mr. Martineau. After Mr. Eden's remarks, though, I should like to hear that you approve."
Martineau hesitated. Then he smiled, choosing his words: "I don't consider you a man who needs approval, George. And it's my duty to dissuade you, as Harry did. You mustn't take it that I'm not dissuading you." He hesitated again. "But I think I understand what you feel."
George listened to the evasive reply: he may have heard within it another appeal to stop, subtler than Eden's, because of the liking between himself and Martineau. He replied, seriously and simply: "You know that I'm not going into this for my own amusement. I'm not searching out an injustice just for the pleasure of trampling on it. I might have done once, but I shouldn't now. You've understood, of course: something needs to be done for Cotery, and I
'm the only man who can do it."
FIVE
George'S ATTACK
The meeting of the School committee was summoned for the following Wednesday. I knew before George, since the notice passed through my hands in the education office. And, by asking a parting favour from an acquaintance, I got myself the job of taking the minutes.
On Tuesday night, I thought that I might be wasting the effort: for a strong rumour came from Olive that Jack himself had pleaded with George to go no further. But when I saw George later that night, and asked, "What about tomorrow?" he replied: "I'm ready for it. And ready to celebrate afterwards."
I arrived at the Principal's room at ten minutes to six the next evening. The gas fire was burning; the Principal was writing at his desk under a shaded light; the room seemed solid and official, though the shelves and chairs were carved in pine, in a firm plain style which the School was now teaching.
The Principal looked up as I laid the minute book on a small table; he was called Cameron, and had reddish hair and jutting eyebrows.
"Good evening. I am sorry that we have to trespass on your time," he said. He always showed a deliberate consideration to subordinates; but from duty, not from instinct. At this time he probably did not know that I attended lectures at the School.
Then Miss Geary, the vice-principal, entered. "It was for six o'clock?" she said. They exchanged a few remarks abotit School business: it was easy to hear that there was no friendliness between them. But the temperature of friendliness in the room mounted rapidly when, by the side of Canon Martineau, Beddow came in. He was a Labour councillor, a brisk, cordial, youngish man, very much on the rise; he had a word for everyone, including an aside for me--"Minuting a committee means they think well of you up at the office. I know it does."