Not thinking it necessary to tell Bostock to wait in the hall, she didn’t, so he followed her with doglike fidelity and was actually inside the parlor when Mrs. Harris said irritably:
“For goodness’ sake, tell him to go away!”
Bostock panicked, not because of what Mrs. Harris had said—which she always said, anyway—but because of the huge number of people assembled in the parlor waiting for him.
There were hundreds of them! They were all shining like anything, in curls, ribbons, bangles, and necklaces, and they were all staring at him!
He was terrified. Everything was looking at him. The very jam tarts on the table seemed to be regarding him with a united, bloodshot glare, as if to say, “It’s Bostock! Ha-ha-ha! Did you ever see such a sight!”
At once a morbid conviction was borne upon him that there was something peculiar about his appearance. Perhaps he’d forgotten to put on his breeches? Surreptitiously, and under cover of his father’s hat, he felt for them.
“Why, Bosty, old friend!” said Harris, waving to him.
Good old Harris! Thank God for Harris!
“What an agreeable surprise!” said Harris. “Lucky you called, ha-ha! We were just going to have tea!”
What on earth did Harris mean? Bostock’s misery increased. Had he made a mistake and come on the wrong day? Otherwise, why was he a surprise? He stared at Harris, appalled. Harris nodded reassuringly, Dear old Harris!
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Bostock said.
“Late?” said Harris, looking at him oddly. “Why should you think you’re late, Bosty, when we weren’t expecting you at all? I can’t imagine why you should say such a thing! Ha-ha!”
What a strange laugh!
“But you said half past three,” said Bostock, making a desperate attempt to refresh his friend’s memory. “For tea. Don’t you remember, Harris? It was only this morning.”
Now why had Harris gone so white? And why was his ma looking at him like that and reaching for the teapot as if she meant to throw it?
“If,” said Harris, watching the teapot carefully, “I mentioned half past three, Bosty, it was with reference to my pa coming back with two distinguished colleagues. I think,” he went on, chopping off his words as if they’d been Bostock’s fingers, “that—you—have—got—hold—of—the—wrong—end—of—the—stick. Ha—ha!”
That laugh again.
Mrs. Harris put down the teapot and said evenly, “But I expect your father will get hold of the right end of the stick when he comes home.”
What did she mean? What had Harris meant? Bostock felt he was in deep waters. He had the strangest sensation that, somehow, he’d betrayed his friend. He felt more frightened than ever.
“I’ll come back later, Harris,” he said hoarsely.
“Sit down!” said Harris shrilly, and then, mastering himself, added, “Now you’re here, old friend.”
Hurriedly he pointed to one of the empty chairs, as the terrified Bostock showed every sign of sitting down right where he was.
Harris blamed himself. He ought to have warned Bostock to keep his mouth shut. It was just that Harris, like God, preferred to move in mysterious ways. He’d wanted to amaze Bostock with what he, Harris, could accomplish when he really set his mind to it.
He watched as Bostock crossed the room with the general air of one who expects at any moment to fall down in a fit.
“Here, Bosty. Next to me.”
Bostock sat, and Harris, dismissing any future unpleasantness from his mind, waited for the learned article on Courtship to take effect.
Courtship in nature, it had explained, was to be observed in the performance, by the male of the species, of those interesting actions that were ingeniously arranged to arouse in the female a willingness to accept him as a mate. Among such actions perhaps the most striking was the display of bright plumage and the discharge of perfume or scent.
Well, it was done. There was Bosty, got up like a dog’s dinner and whiffing like one o’clock. And there was Mary, sitting opposite and at point-blank range. Harris didn’t see how Bostock could fail to strike.
“Pooh!” said Mary, waving her hand in front of her nose, as a powerful discharge of perfume from Bostock’s hair oil reached her. “What a stink!”
Harris, satisfied that Bostock had struck, punched him violently in the ribs to indicate that he should take advantage of the impression he’d made by engaging Mary in animated conversation. Otherwise, whatever it was he’d aroused would subside again.
Bostock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Harris kicked him under the table. Bostock moaned. Harris trod on his foot, and Bostock smiled feebly. It was hopeless.
If only Harris had brought a raging lion into the parlor, Bostock would have snatched Mary from its jaws. If only Harris had set fire to the house, Bostock would have saved Mary from the flames. But animated conversation was utterly beyond him.
He was just too modest. In his heart of hearts he couldn’t believe that he was worthy of anyone’s interest, or that he was anything other than dull, clumsy, and unattractive to behold. And, to be honest, nothing had ever happened to him to make him change his mind.
He sat, paralyzed by the presence of his beloved, who was almost within touching distance, in her best white dress with green ribbons in her hair. From time to time, when nobody was looking, she put out her tongue at him with the rapidity of an angry serpent. Apart from this, she took no notice of him at all.
Harris began to get angry. He’d gone to considerable trouble to put Mary in the way of Bostock, and, what was more, his family had gone to considerable trouble, too. Now it was all being thrown away. A glance at his mother confirmed that she felt the same . . . perhaps even more strongly than he did himself. Fortunately, however, the music teacher had stayed to tea so Harris was safe, as his ma never blew up in company.
Harris stuck a fork into Bostock to draw his attention to the music teacher, who was setting an example Bostock might well have followed, in the way of animated conversation.
Philip Top-Morlion hadn’t stopped talking once, and Dorothy, who was sitting next to him, was hanging on to his every word.
More than ever she was convinced he was her unknown admirer, and she wished with all her heart he’d stop talking about music for long enough to ask her to go with him to Devil’s Dyke on Saturday night.
In vain she plied him with jam tarts and pudding pies and asked him slyly if he cared about comets or stars. He only smiled his sideways smile and went on about Bach, Handel, and Bononcini until she could have screamed.
Everybody was eating now, as it was plain Dr. Harris wasn’t coming, and all the good things dwindled away. Presently nothing remained of the feast but a plate of tarts next to Bostock—who hadn’t opened his mouth either to let anything out or to put anything in—and the great wine jelly in its silver dish.
It was an exceptionally fine and costly jelly, full of claret and brandy and all manner of outrageous things. It had been prepared for the outing to Devil’s Dyke and would have done Mrs. Harris great credit if only it had been spared.
But it was going to be spared. Mrs. Harris had made up her mind. She would have taken it off the table at once if Monsieur Top-Morlion’s son hadn’t been present; as it was, she sat and watched the jelly with an attention beside which the stare of a hawk was but a casual glance.
At the smallest motion in its direction, she frowned menacingly and shook her head. It was not going to be touched.
All right! she thought: he (she could not bring herself to mention her son’s name) had turned the household upside down. He had caused her to drag herself and her daughters into their uncomfortable best gowns. In addition, he was responsible for her having spent a fortune on cakes and then had had the impudence to invite his idiot friend who was sitting there, stinking the house out with his horrible hair oil.
But that was enough. There had to be a limit. And that limit was the wine jelly. IT WAS NOT GOING TO BE TOUCHED.
Bostock was feeling a little easier. He was sorry that he’d let Harris down, but there it was: you might bring a Bostock to the tea table, but you couldn’t make him talk; any more than a horse. It was a pity there hadn’t been a lion or a fire. Then Harris would have been proud of him!
He gazed achingly at Mary. She wasn’t looking at him. Maybe she was thinking about him?
She wasn’t. She was thinking about the last plate of jam tarts. She reached toward them.
I’ll help her! thought Bostock gallantly. Harris will be pleased!
He also reached toward the dish. Mary, not wanting to be forestalled, hissed warningly. With bewildering rapidity she snatched the tarts away, so that Bostock, taken by surprise, continued after the dish for a short distance. Then he uttered a faint cry and withdrew his arm to its former position. After which he made no further movement and seemed to have stopped breathing.
He was dying. His sleeve was full of blood. He did not know what had happened. He felt no pain and wondered if his heart had burst.
He wanted to die quietly, sitting at the table next to Harris, and with Mary looking on. His dearest friends. He did not want any fuss. He wondered if he ought to apologize to Mrs. Harris. She was certainly looking very angry. Why was she looking so angry? What was she staring at?
Oh! The jelly. Now that was strange. There was the dish, but where was the jelly? It had been there a moment ago. What had become of it?
Bostock thought, which is to say, he knitted his brows and hoped the rest would follow. It did. He was not dying. His sleeve was not full of blood; it was full of jelly. He had scooped it up in his father’s enormous cuff à la marinière.
One problem solved, another presented itself. Why wasn’t he dying? He wanted to die. If possible, yesterday. He could see no other satisfactory conclusion to the afternoon.
He sat in abject misery, a prey to thoughts of self-destruction, and attempting, by a series of fitful jerks, to persuade the huge, clammy jelly to slide out of his father’s cuff and into his father’s hat.
At the other end of the table Mrs. Harris stared at him with incredulous loathing, while beside her, as if nothing had happened, Philip Top-Morlion still talked of Bach, Handel, and Bononcini, and Dorothy tried to put in a good word for the stars.
Then Dr. Harris himself came in, and Dorothy couldn’t help being mildly disappointed that Philip’s father wasn’t by his side.
The doctor, seeing Philip, greeted him affably.
“I’ve just seen your father,” he said.
Dorothy’s heart began to dance. She could hardly wait for the next words. Would they be, “He has given you his blessing, my boy,” as she’d so often read in books? Involuntarily she reached for Philip’s hand under the table and squeezed it. Philip looked surprised but squeezed back.
“It was the shellfish all right,” said Dr. Harris.
Dorothy let go of Philip’s hand.
“I’ve given him some medicine,” went on the doctor pitilessly. “But I’m afraid you’ll be troubled with his pupils for a day or two longer yet.”
Dorothy stood up. Her face was crimson with shame and embarrassment.
“Your lesson,” said Philip. “Will you have it now?”
“I’ve had it!” sobbed Dorothy. “I’ve learned my lesson once and for all!”
She fled from the room and rushed upstairs, wishing with all her heart that she was dead, while Bostock and Harris, taking advantage of the confused situation, vanished like ghosts.
Chapter Eight
HARRIS comforted Bostock. He walked the streets with him, trudged along the beach with him, and went back home with him, where he stayed until Bostock was almost asleep.
Having departed at high speed from the tea table, Harris was in no hurry to return, being anxious to give Time, the Great Healer, every opportunity of acting on his behalf.
Also he was really worried about Bostock, who looked so miserable that Harris feared he’d give up all hopes of Mary and want the telescope back.
“Bosty, old friend,” he said gently, as Bostock sat on his bed and mournfully contemplated the ruin of his father’s best coat and hat, “trust me.”
Bostock looked up. “It’s no good, Harris. She doesn’t like me.”
Harris smiled. “How little you understand these things, Bosty.”
“I know when somebody can’t stand me!” said Bostock with a flicker of irritation.
Harris dismissed this and explained that the ingenious process of Courtship pursued its course regardless of personal feelings. He, Harris, had studied the matter and knew what he was talking about.
Bostock had really done rather well. Having displayed himself in bright plumage and discharged scent, he had made a definite impression on Mary.
Bostock agreed but felt it hadn’t been a very good one. Harris laughed triumphantly. That was exactly as it should have been!
Did Bostock not know that the female always responded to the beginning of Courtship with a display of hostility? Had Bostock not seen the peahen dart out her beak like a dagger, the bitch bare her teeth, the vixen snarl, the mare kick, and even the docile cow heave and moo?
So it had been with Mary. It was the female’s way of displaying her independence before subduing herself to the male of her choice. Which, in this case, was Bostock.
If Mary had smiled at him, then he, Harris, would have been doubtful. If she had held his hand, then Harris would have feared that all was lost. But to have her respond with the venomous dislike they had both witnessed filled Harris with confidence.
“Tell me this, Bosty,” said Harris, pressing home point after point as if he were pinning down a butterfly. “Was she worse than usual?”
“I think so, Harris. Yes. Now you come to mention it, I think she was.”
“Then that proves it, old friend! Don’t you see, Bosty? The ritual of Courtship has begun! There’s no stopping it now, Bosty, no stopping it at all!”
They shook hands and Harris went home. Bostock was happy again, and so was Harris. He was glad to have restored the admiration of his friend.
Curiously enough, this admiration was as important to Harris as the telescope itself. Although the telescope might have revealed the wonders of the heavens, Bostock revealed the wonders of Harris. Without Bostock, Harris dwelt in darkness, a dead star, a lonely, unconsidered thing.
The house was quiet. Time, the Great Healer, had acted on Harris’s behalf, and everyone was asleep. He climbed in through the scullery window and went upstairs.
He heard, in passing, his sister Dorothy sobbing in her sleep. Time had healed nothing for her, and over and over again she relived in her dreams her humiliating mistake about the music teacher’s son.
“Oh, no—no—no!” she moaned.
Harris frowned. There was always a female crying somewhere in the house.
He mounted the last flight of stairs and entered his room, which, like himself, was somewhat removed from the rest of the world.
It was a remote, squeezed-under-the-roof Pythagoras of a room, containing one right angle and a great many wrong ones. Wherever you looked, it was impossible not to propose a theorem, and equally impossible to solve it. Even in the darkness there was a sense of immense problems and immense solutions.
Harris sat on his bed and considered the whole question of Courtship. In addition to the display of bright plumage and the discharge of scent, the learned article had described the clashing of beaks and pursuit, music, both vocal and instrumental, and the performing of dances or other antics. There was the presentation of prey or of inedible but otherwise stimulating objects, and, as a footnote, there was noted the curious behavior of the snipe, which plummeted down at a great speed while uttering hoarse cries.
Harris shivered, not at the thought of Bostock plummeting, but because there was a draft. It was blowing through a hole in the window that had been brought about by Harris’s having accidentally poked the end of Captain Bostock’s telescope through the glass.
&n
bsp; The instrument itself lay on the windowsill, gleaming faintly, as if with a mysterious light of its own. Harris gazed at it thoughtfully.
Might not the telescope, which brought the heavens nearer, bring other things nearer, too? Might it not reveal the secrets of human courtship?
He went to the window and opened it, and looked out into the night. It was dark, very dark. Somewhere aloft, under a blanket of cloud, Pigott’s comet pursued its frantic course; otherwise there were dark houses, dark trees, and a long dark shoulder of the downs, making a landscape of ink. To the north, on top of Dyke Hill, rose St. Nicholas’s Church. Both were as black as sin.
Harris set the telescope to his eye. Instantly chimneys, roofs, and the tops of trees swept past in a dark hurry, as if anxious not to be seen.
He thought he saw an owl, with something in its beak, winging its way back to its nest, but he could not be sure. He studied windows, doorways, and the quiet corners of streets. Nothing. Human beings, it seemed, were more secret than the night itself.
Then suddenly a light flickered. It was no more than a tiny yellow pinprick, but in the wide darkness it was an explosion of interest, like a gold tooth in a pirate’s beard.
He lost it, then he found it again. It was by the church. It was moving so that every now and then it vanished behind bushes, emitting no more than a fragile sprinkling of yellow, like the pricking of buds.
He put down the telescope rather quickly, as if the distant object of his scrutiny might have turned and seen Harris’s eye, suspended in the night.
It was a courting couple all right, performing their mysterious antics in St. Nicholas’s churchyard, far from prying eyes.
Harris left his room in great excitement, intending to observe, as closely as he could, an actual human courtship, so that he might put his knowledge at the service of his friend.
He hastened down the stairs, left the house, and sped through the night. He was desperately anxious not to be too late and miss the whole thing.
Not until he was three quarters of the way up Dyke Hill and approaching the churchyard itself did the possibility of his having been mistaken occur to him.
The Complete Bostock and Harris Page 20