“It can’t be very profitable.”
“I daresay it won’t allow her to take holidays abroad, but that’s not to say it won’t give her a decent living.”
“Of course,” said Speed, mildly, “I really don’t know anything about her private affairs. You may be right in everything you say…It’s nearly eleven. Shall we go to bed?”
“Soon,” she said, broodingly, gazing into the fire. She was silent for a moment, and then said, slowly and deliberately: “Kenneth.”
“Yes, Helen?”
“Do you know—I—I—I don’t think I—I quite like Clare—as much as I used to.”
“You don’t, Helen? Why not?”
“I don’t know why not. But it’s true…She—she makes me feel frightened—somehow. I hope she doesn’t come here often. I—I don’t think I shall ask her to. Do you—do you mind?”
“Mind, Helen? Why should I mind? If she frightens you she certainly shan’t come again.” He added, with a fierceness which, somehow, did not strike him as absurd: “I won’t let her. Helen—dear Helen, you’re unhappy about something—tell me all about it?”
She cried vehemently: “Nothing—nothing—nothing!—Kenneth, I want to learn things—will you teach me?—I’m a ridiculously ignorant person, Kenneth, and some day I shall make you feel ashamed of me if I don’t learn a few things more. Will you teach me?”
“My darling, I’ll teach you everything in the world. What shall we begin with?”
“Geography. I was looking through some of the exercise-books you had to mark. Do you know, I don’t know anything about exports and imports?”
“Neither did I until I had them to teach.”
“And you’ll teach me?”
“Yes. I’ll teach you anything you want to learn. But I don’t think we’ll have our first lesson until to-morrow. Bedtime now, Helen.”
She flung her arms round his neck passionately, offered her lips to his almost with abandonment, and cried, in the low, thrilling voice that seemed so full of unspoken dreads and secrecies: “Oh, Kenneth—Kenneth—you do love me, don’t you? You aren’t tired of me? You aren’t even a little bit dlssatisfied, are you?”
He took her in his arms and kissed her more passionately than he had ever done before. It seemed to him then that he did love her, more deeply than anybody had loved anybody else since the world began, and that, so far from his being the least bit dissatisfied with her, she was still guiding him into fresh avenues of unexplored delight. She was the loveliest and most delicate thing in the world.
V
The great event of the winter term was the concert in aid of the local hospitals. It had taken place so many years in succession that it had become institutional and thoroughly enmeshed in Millstead tradition. It was held during the last week of the term in the Big Hall; the boys paid half-a-crown each for admission (the sum was included in their terminal bills), and outsiders, for whom there was a limited amount of accommodation, five shillings. The sum was artfully designed to exclude shop assistants and such-like from a function which was intended to be, in the strictest sense, exclusive. Millstead, on this solemn annual occasion, arrayed itself for its own pleasure and satisfaction; took a look at itself, so to say, in order to reassure itself that another year of social perturbation had mercifully left it entire. And by Millstead is meant, in the first instance, the School. The Masters, for once, discarded their gowns and mortarboards and appeared in resplendent evening-suits which, in some cases, were not used at all during the rest of the year. Masters, retired and of immense age, rumbled up to the main gateway in funereal four-wheelers and tottered to their seats beneath the curious eyes of an age that knew them not. The wives of non-resident Masters, like deep-sea fishes that rarely come to the surface, blinked their pleased astonishment at finding everything, apparently, different from what they had been led to expect. And certain half-mythical inhabitants of the neighbourhood, doctors and colonels and captains and landed gentry, parked themselves in the few front rows like curious social specimens on exhibition. In every way the winter term concert at Millstead was a great affair, rivalling in splendour even, the concentrated festivities of Speech Day.
Speed, in virtue of his position as music-master, found himself involved in the scurry and turmoil of preparation. This concert, he decided, with his customary enthusiasm, should be the best one that Millstead had had for many a year. He would have introduced into it all sorts of innovations had he not found, very soon after he began to try, that mysteriously rigid traditions stood in the way. He was compelled, for instance, to open with the Millstead School Song. Now the Millstead School Song had been likened by a witty though irreverent Master to the funeral-march of a smoked haddock. It began with a ferocious yell of “Haec olim revocare” and continued through yards of uneuphonious Latin into a remorseless clump-clump of a chorus. Speed believed that, even supposing the words were sacrosanct, that ought to be no reason for the tune to be so, and suggested to the Head that some reputable modern composer should be commissioned to write one. The Head, of course, would not agree. “The tune, Mr. Speed, has-um, yes—associations. As a newcomer you cannot be expected to feel them, but believe me, they do—um, yes—they do most certainly exist. An old foundation, Mr. Speed, and if you take away from us our—um—traditions, then you—um—take away that which not enriches you and makes us, um, yes—poor indeed.” And, with a glint of satisfaction at having made use of a quotation rather aptly, the Head indicated that Speed must not depart from the recognised routine.
Even without innovations, however, the concert demanded a great deal of practising and rehearsal, and in this Speed had the rather hazy co-operation of Raggs, the visiting organist. He it was who told Speed exactly what items must, on no account, be omitted; and, who further informed him of items which must on no account be included; these latter consisted chiefly of things which Speed suggested himself. It was finally arranged, however, and the programme submitted to and passed by the Head: there was to be a pianoforte solo, a trio for piano, violin and ‘cello, a good, resounding song by the choir, a quartet singing Christmas carols, and one or two “suitable” songs from operas. The performers, where possible, were to be boys of the school, but there were precedents for drawing on the services of outsiders when necessary. Thus when it was found that the school orchestra lacked first violins, Raggs gave Speed the names of several ladies and gentlemen in the town who had on former occasions lent their services in this capacity. And among these names was that of Miss Clare Harrington.
Speed, making his preparations about the middle of November, was in a dilemma with this list of names. He knew that, for some reason or other, Helen did not care for Clare’s company, and that if Clare were to take part, not only in the concert itself, but in all the preceding rehearsals, she would be brought almost inevitably into frequent contact with Helen. He thought also that if he canvassed all the other people first, Clare might, if she came to hear of it, think that he had treated her spitefully. In the end he solved the difficulty by throwing the burden of selection on to Raggs and undertaking in exchange some vastly more onerous task that Raggs was anxious to get rid of. A few days later Raggs accosted Speed in the cloisters and said: “I’ve got you a few first violins. Here’s their names and addresses on this card. They’ll turn up to the next rehearsal if you’ll send them word.”
When Raggs had shambled away, Speed looked curiously at the card which he had pushed into his hand. Scanning down the list, scribbled in Raggs’s most illegible pencilled script, he found himself suddenly conscious of pleasure, slight yet strangely distinct; something that made him go on his way whistling a tune. Clare’s name was on the list.
VI
Those crowded winter nights of rehearsals for the concert were full of incident for Speed. As soon as the school had finished preparation in the Big Hall, the piano was uncovered and pushed into the middle of the platform; the violinists and ‘cellists began to tune up; the choir assembled with much noise and a dispo
sition to regard rehearsals as a boisterous form of entertainment; lastly, the visitors from the town appeared, adapting themselves condescendingly to the rollicking atmosphere.
Speed discovered Clare to be a rather good violinist. She played quietly and accurately, with an absence (rare in good violinists) of superfluous emotion. Once she said to Speed, referring to one of the other imported violinists: “Listen! This Mozart’s only a decorative frieze, and that man’s playing it as if it were the whole gateway to the temple of Eros.” Speed, who liked architectural similes himself, nodded appreciatively. Clare went on: “I always want to laugh at emotion in the wrong place. Violinists who are too fond of the mute, for instance.” Speed said, laughing: “Yes, and organists who are too fond of the vox humana.” To which Clare added: “And don’t forget to mention the audiences that are too fond of both. It’s their fault principally.”
At ten o’clock, when rehearsals were over, Speed accompanied Clare home to the shop in High Street. There was something in those walks which crept over him like a slow fascination, so that after the first few occasions he found himself sitting at the piano during the rehearsal with everything in his mind subordinate to the tingling anticipation of the stroll afterwards. When they left the Big Hall and descended the steps into the cool dusk of the cloisters, his spirits rose as with wine; and when from the cloisters they turned into the crisp-cold night, crunching softly over the frosted quadrangle and shivering joyously in the first keen lash of the wind, he could have scampered for sheer happiness like a schoolboy granted an unexpected holiday. Sometimes the moon was white on roofs and roadways; sometimes the sky was densely black; sometimes it was raining and Millstead High Street was no more than a vista of pavements with the yellow lamplight shining on the pools in them; once, at least, it was snowing soft, dancing flakes that covered the ground inches deep as they walked. But whatever the world was like on those evenings on which Speed accompanied Clare, one thing was common to them all: an atmosphere of robust companionship, impervious to all things else. The gales that romped and frolicked over the fenlands were no more vigorous and coldly sweet than something that romped and frolicked in Speed’s inmost soul.
Once they were discussing the things that they hated most of all. “I hate myself more than anything else—sometimes,” said Speed.
Clare said: “And I hate people who think that a thing’s bound to be sordid because it’s real: people who think a thing’s beautiful merely because it’s hazy and doesn’t mean anything. I’m afraid I hate Mendelssohn.”
Speed said: “Mendelssohn? Why, that was what Helen used to be keen on, wasn’t it?—last term, don’t you remember?”
A curious silence supervened.
Clare said, after a pause: “Yes, I believe it was.”
VII
Helen’s attitude towards Clare at this time was strangely at variance with her former one. As soon as she learned that Clare was playing in the concert she wrote to her and told her always to come into Lavery’s before the rehearsal began. “It will be nice seeing you so often, Clare,” she wrote, “and you needn’t worry about getting back in the evenings because Kenneth will always see you home.”
Speed said, when he heard of Helen’s invitation: “But I thought you didn’t like Clare, Helen?”
“Oh, I was silly,” she answered. “I do like her, really. And besides, we must be hospitable. You’ll see her back in the evenings, won’t you?”
“I daresay I can do,” he said.
Then, suddenly laughing aloud, he caught her into his arms and kissed her. “I’m so glad it’s all right again, Helen. I don’t like my little Helen to throw away her old friends. It isn’t like her. You see how happy we shall all be, now that we’re friendly again with Clare.”
“I know,” she said.
“I believe you are the most lovable and loving little girl in the world except “-he frowned at her playfully—“when the devil persuades you that you don’t like people. Some day he’ll persuade you that you don’t like me.”
“He won’t,” she said.
“I hope he won’t.”
She seemed to him then more than ever a child, a child whose winsomeness was alloyed with quaint and baffling caprice. He loved her, too, very gladly and affectionately; and he knew then, quite clearly because the phase was past that, her announced dislike of Clare had made him love her not quite so much. But now all was happy and unruffled again, so what did it matter?
* * *
CHAPTER III
I
Smallwood was one of a type more commonly found at a university than at a public school; in fact it was due to his decision not to go to the former that he had stayed so, long at Millstead. He was nineteen years old, and when he left he would enter his father’s office in the City. The disciplinary problems of dealing with him and others of his type bristled with awkwardness, especially for a Master so young as Speed; the difficulty was enhanced by the fact that Smallwood, having stayed at Millstead long enough to achieve all athletic distinctions merely by inevitability, was a power in the school of considerable magnitude. Personally, he was popular; he was in no sense a bully; he was a kindly and certainly not too strict prefect; his disposition was friendly and easy-going. But for the unfortunate clash at the beginning of the term Speed might have found in him a powerful ally instead of a sinister enemy. One quality Smallwood possessed above all others—vanity; and Speed, having affronted that vanity, could count on a more virulent enmity than Smallwood’s lackadaisical temperament was ordinarily capable of.
The error lay, of course, in the system which allowed Smallwood to stay at Millstead so long. Smallwood at nineteen was distinctly and quite naturally a man, not a boy; and whatever in him seemed unnatural was forced on him by the Millstead atmosphere. There was nothing at all surprising in his study-walls being covered with photographs of women and amorous prints obtained from French magazines. Nor was it surprising that he was that very usual combination—the athlete and the dandy, that his bathroom was a boudoir of pastes and oils and cosmetics, and that, with his natural good looks, he should have the reputation of being a lady-killer. Compelled by the restraints of Millstead life to a resignation of this branch of his activities during term-time, he found partial solace in winking at the less unattractive of the school-servants (who, it was reported, were chosen by the matron on the score of ugliness), and in relating to his friends lurid stories of his adventures in London during the vacations. He had had, for a nineteen-year-old, the most amazing experiences, and sometimes the more innocuous of these percolated, by heaven knows what devious channels, to the amused ears of the Masters’ Common-Room. The Masters as a whole, it should be noted, liked Smallwood, because, with a little flattery and smoothing-down, they could always cajole him into agreement with them. Titivate his vanity and he was Samson shorn of his locks.
Now the masters, for various reasons, did not like Speed so much in his second term as they had done in his first. Like all bodies of averagely tolerant men they tended to be kindly to newcomers, and Speed, young, quiet, modest, and rather attractively nervous, had won more of their hearts than some of them afterwards cared to remember. The fact that his father was a titled man and that Speed never talked about it, was bound to impress a group of men who, by the unalterable circumstances of their lives, were compelled to spend a large portion of their time in cultivating an attitude of snobbery. But in his second term Speed found them not so friendly. That was to be expected in any case, for while much may be forgiven a man during his first probationary term, his second is one in which he must prepare to be judged by stricter standards. Besides the normal hardening of judgment, Speed was affected by another even more serious circumstance. He had committed the unpardonable offence of being too successful. Secretly, more than half the staff were acutely jealous of him. Even those who were entirely ineligible for the post at Lavery’s, and would not have accepted it if it had been offered them, were yet conscious of some subtle personal chagrin in seeing Spe
ed, after his first term, step into a place of such power and dignity. They had the feeling that the whole business had been done discreditably behind their backs, although, of course, the Masters had no right, either virtual or technical, to be consulted in the matter of appointments. Yet when they arrived at Millstead at the beginning of the term and learned that Speed, their junior by ever so many years, had married the Head’s daughter during the vacation and had been forthwith appointed to the mastership of Lavery’s, they could not forbear an instant sensation of ruefulness which developed later into more or less open antagonism. Not all the talk about the desirability of young married housemasters could dispel that curious feeling of having been slighted.
Secretly, no doubt, they hoped that Lavery’s would be too much for Speed. And on the occasion of the row between Speed and Smallwood they sympathised with the latter, regarding him as the victim of Speed’s monstrous and aggressive self-assertion. The circumstance that Speed took few meals now in the Masters’ Common-Room prevented the legend of his self-assertiveness from being effectively smashed; as term progressed and as Speed’s eager and pertinacious enthusiasm about the concert became apparent, the legend rather grew than diminished. Clanwell, alone, perhaps, of all the staff, still thought of Speed without feelings of jealousy, and that was rather because he regarded him as one of his elder boys, to be looked after and advised when necessary. He formed the habit of inviting Speed into his room to coffee once or twice a week, and on these occasions he gave the young man many hints drawn from his full-blooded, though rather facile, philosophy.
At the conclusion of one of these evening confabulations he caught hold of Speed’s arm as the latter was going out by the door and said: “I say, Speed—just before you go—there’s a little matter I’ve been wondering all night whether I’d mention to you or not. I hope you won’t be offended. I’m the last man to go round making trouble or telling tales, and I’m aware that I’m risking your friendship if I say what I have in mind.”