Chapter 11
Considering the various handicaps under which he laboured notablya cold in the head, a fear of the Little Nugget, and a reverencefor the aristocracy--Mr Abney's handling of the situation, whenthe runaways returned to school, bordered on the masterly. Any sortof physical punishment being out of the question--especially in thecase of the Nugget, who would certainly have retaliated with a boutof window-breaking--he had to fall back on oratory, and he did thisto such effect that, when he had finished, Augustus wept openly andwas so subdued that he did not ask a single question for nearly threedays.
One result of the adventure was that Ogden's bed was moved to asort of cubby-hole adjoining my room. In the house, as originallyplanned, this had evidently been a dressing-room. Under Mr Abney'srule it had come to be used as a general repository for lumber. Myboxes were there, and a portmanteau of Glossop's. It was anexcellent place in which to bestow a boy in quest of whomkidnappers might break in by night. The window was too small toallow a man to pass through, and the only means of entrance was byway of my room. By night, at any rate, the Nugget's safety seemedto be assured.
The curiosity of the small boy, fortunately, is not lasting. Hisactive mind lives mainly in the present. It was not many days,therefore, before the excitement caused by Buck's raid and theNugget's disappearance began to subside. Within a week bothepisodes had been shelved as subjects of conversation, and theschool had settled down to its normal humdrum life.
To me, however, there had come a period of mental unrest moreacute than I had ever experienced. My life, for the past fiveyears, had run in so smooth a stream that, now that I found myselftossed about in the rapids, I was bewildered. It was a peculiaraggravation of the difficulty of my position that in my world, thelittle world of Sanstead House, there should be but one woman, andshe the very one whom, if I wished to recover my peace of mind, itwas necessary for me to avoid.
My feelings towards Cynthia at this time defied my powers ofanalysis. There were moments when I clung to the memory of her,when she seemed the only thing solid and safe in a world of chaos,and moments, again, when she was a burden crushing me. There weredays when I would give up the struggle and let myself drift, anddays when I would fight myself inch by inch. But every day foundmy position more hopeless than the last.
At night sometimes, as I lay awake, I would tell myself that ifonly I could see her or even hear from her the struggle would beeasier. It was her total disappearance from my life that made itso hard for me. I had nothing to help me to fight.
And then, one morning, as if in answer to my thoughts her lettercame.
The letter startled me. It was as if there had been sometelepathic communion between us.
It was very short, almost formal:
'MY DEAR PETER--I want to ask you a question. I can put it quiteshortly. It is this. Are your feelings towards me still the same?I don't tell you why I ask this. I simply ask it. Whatever youranswer is, it cannot affect our friendship, so be quite candid.CYNTHIA.'
I sat down there and then to write my reply. The letter, comingwhen it did and saying what it said, had affected me profoundly.It was like an unexpected reinforcement in a losing battle. Itfilled me with a glow of self-confidence. I felt strong again,able to fight and win. My mood bore me away, and I poured out mywhole heart to her. I told her that my feelings had not altered,that I loved her and nobody but her. It was a letter, I can see,looking back, born of fretted nerves; but at the time I had nosuch criticism to make. It seemed to me a true expression of myreal feelings.
That the fight was not over because in my moment of exaltation Ihad imagined that I had conquered myself was made uncomfortablyplain to me by the thrill that ran through me when, returning fromposting my letter, I met Audrey. The sight of her reminded me thata reinforcement is only a reinforcement, a help towards victory,not victory itself.
For the first time I found myself feeling resentful towards her.There was no reason in my resentment. It would not have borneexamination. But it was there, and its presence gave me support. Ifound myself combating the thrill the sight of her had caused, andlooking at her with a critical and hostile eye. Who was she thatshe should enslave a man against his will? Fascination exists onlyin the imagination of the fascinated. If he have the strength todeny the fascination and convince himself that it does not exist,he is saved. It is purely a matter of willpower and calmreasonableness. There must have been sturdy, level-headed Egyptiancitizens who could not understand what people saw to admire inCleopatra.
Thus reasoning, I raised my hat, uttered a crisp 'Good morning',and passed on, the very picture of the brisk man of affairs.
'Peter!'
Even the brisk man of affairs must stop when spoken to. Otherwise,apart from any question of politeness, it looks as if he wererunning away.
Her face was still wearing the faint look of surprise which mymanner had called forth.
'You're in a great hurry.'
I had no answer. She did not appear to expect one.
We moved towards the house in silence, to me oppressive silence.The force of her personality was beginning to beat against mydefences, concerning the stability of which, under pressure, acertain uneasiness troubled my mind.
'Are you worried about anything, Peter?' she said at last.
'No,' I said. 'Why?'
'I was afraid you might be.'
I felt angry with myself. I was mismanaging this thing in the mostidiotic way. Instead of this bovine silence, gay small-talk, theeasy eloquence, in fact, of the brisk man of affairs should havebeen my policy. No wonder Smooth Sam Fisher treated me as a child.My whole bearing was that of a sulky school-boy.
The silence became more oppressive.
We reached the house. In the hall we parted, she to upper regions,I to my classroom. She did not look at me. Her face was cold andoffended.
One is curiously inconsistent. Having created what in thecircumstances was a most desirable coldness between Audrey andmyself, I ought to have been satisfied. Reason told me that thiswas the best thing that could have happened. Yet joy was one ofthe few emotions which I did not feel during the days whichfollowed. My brief moment of clear-headedness had passed, and withit the exhilaration that had produced the letter to Cynthia andthe resentment which had helped me to reason calmly with myself onthe intrinsic nature of fascination in woman. Once more Audreybecame the centre of my world. But our friendship, that elusivething which had contrived to exist side by side with my love, hadvanished. There was a breach between us which widened daily. Soonwe hardly spoke.
Nothing, in short, could have been more eminently satisfactory,and the fact that I regretted it is only a proof of the essentialweakness of my character.