He was ecstatically happy. His first term had been a triumph. And, fittingly enough, it had ended with the greatest triumph of all. Ever since Helen had told him of her confession to her father, Speed had been making up his mind to visit the Head and formally put the matter before him. That night, the last night of the summer term, after the service in chapel, when the term, so far as the Head was concerned with it, was finished, Speed had tapped at the door of the Head’s study.
Once again the sight of that study, yellowly luminous in the incandescent glow, set up in him a sensation of sinister attraction, as if the room were full of melancholy ghosts. The Head was still in his surplice, swirling his arms about the writing-table in an endeavour to find some mislaid paper. The rows upon rows of shining leather-bound volumes, somebody on the Synoptic Gospels, somebody else’s New Testament Commentary, seemed to surround him and enfold him like a protective rampart. The cool air of the summer night floated in through the slit of open window and blew the gas-light fitfully high and low. Speed thought, as he entered the room and saw the Head’s shining bald head bowed over the writing-table: Here you have been for goodness knows how many years and terms, and now has come the end of another one. Don’t you feel any emotion in it at all?—You are getting to be an old man: can you bear to think of the day you first entered this old room and placed those books on the shelves instead of those that belonged to your predecessor?—Can you bear to think of all the generations that have passed by, all the boys, now men, who have stared at you inside this very room, while time, which bore them away in a happy tide, has left you for ever stranded?—Why I, even I, can feel, after the first term, something of that poignant melancholy which, if I were in your place, would overwhelm me. Don’t you—can’t you—feel anything at all?—
The Head looked up, observed Speed, and said: “Um, yes—pleased to see you, Mr. Speed-have you come to say good-bye—catching an early train to-morrow, perhaps—um, yes-eh?”
“No, sir. I wanted to speak to you on a private matter. Can you spare me a few moments?”
“Oh yes, most certainly. Not perhaps the—um—usual time for seeing me, but still—that is no matter. I shall be—um—happy to talk with you, Mr. Speed.”
Speed cleared his throat, shifted from one foot to another, and began, rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: “Miss Ervine, sir, I believe, spoke to you some while ago about—about herself and me, sir.”
The Head placed the tips of his fingers together and leaned back in his chair.
“That is so, Mr. Speed.”
“I—I have been meaning to come and see you about it for some time. I hope—I hope you didn’t think there was anything underhand in my not seeing you?”
The Head temporised suavely: “Well-um, yes—perhaps my curiosity did not go so—um—so far as that. When you return to your room, Mr. Speed, you will find there an—um—a note from me, requesting you to see me to-morrow morning. I take it you have not seen that note?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Ah, I see. I supposed when you entered that you were catching an early train in the morning and were—um—purposing to see me to-night instead…No matter. You will understand why I wished to see you, no doubt.”
“Possibly the same reason that I wished to see you.”
“Ah, yes—possibly. Possibly. You have been-um—quite—um—speedy—in—um—pressing forward your suit with my daughter. Um, yes—very speedy, I think…Speedy—Ha—Ha—um, yes—the play upon words was quite accidental, I assure you.”
Speed, with a wan smile, declared: “I daresay I am to blame for not having mentioned it to you before now. I decided—I scarcely know why—to wait until term was over…I—I love your daughter, and I believe she loves me. That’s all there is to say, I think.”
“Indeed, Mr. Speed?—It must be a very—um—simple matter then.”
Speed laughed, recovering his assurance now that he had made his principal statement. “I am aware that there are complexities, sir.”
The Head played an imaginary tune on his desk with his outstretched fingers. “You must—um—listen to me for a little while, Mr. Speed. We like you very much—I will begin, perhaps unwisely, by telling you that. You have been all that we could have desired during this last term-given-um—every satisfaction, indeed. Naturally, I think too of my daughter’s feelings. She is, as you say, extremely-um-fond of you, and on you depends to a quite considerable extent her—um—happiness. We could not therefore, my wife and I, refuse to give the matter our very careful consideration. Now I must—um—cross-examine you a little. You wish to marry my daughter, is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The Head flung out the question with disconcerting suddenness.
Speed, momentarily unbalanced, paused, recovered himself, and said wisely: “When I can afford to, sir. As soon as I can afford to. You know my salary and prospects, sir, and are the best judge of how soon I shall be able to give your daughter the comforts to which she has been accustomed.”
“A clever reply, Mr. Speed. Um, yes—extremely clever. I gather that you are quite convinced that you will be happy with my daughter?”
“I am quite convinced, sir.”
“Then money is the only difficulty. What a troublesome thing money is, Mr. Speed!-May I ask you whether you have yet consulted your own parents on the matter?”
“I have not done so yet. I wanted your reply first.”
“I see. And what—um—do you anticipate will be their reply?”
Speed was silent for a moment and then said: “I cannot pretend that I think they will be enthusiastic. They have never agreed with my actions. But they have the sense to realise that I am old enough to do as I choose, especially in such a matter as marriage. They certainly wouldn’t quarrel With me over it.”
The Head stared fixedly at Speed for some while; then, with a soft, crooning tone, began to speak. “Well, you know, Mr. Speed, you are very young-only twenty-two, I believe.”—(Speed interjected: “Twenty-three next month, sir.”)—The Head proceeded: “Twenty-three, then. It’s—um—it’s rather young for marriage. However, I am—um, yes—inclined to agree with Professor Potts that one of the—um—curses of our modern civilisation is that it pushes the—um—marriageable age too late for the educated man.” (And who the devil, thought Speed, is Professor Potts?)…“Now it so happens, Mr. Speed, that this little problem of ours can be settled in a way which is satisfactory to myself and to the school, and which I think will be equally satisfactory to yourself and my daughter. I don’t know whether you know that Lavery leaves this term?”
“I didn’t know, sir.”
“He has reached the—um—the retiring age. As perhaps you know, Mr. Speed, Lavery belonged to the—um—old school. In many ways, I think, the old methods were best, but, of course, one has to keep up with the times. I am quite certain that the Governors will look favourably on a very much younger man to be—um—Lavery’s successor. It would also be an advantage if he were married.”
“Married!” echoed Speed.
“Yes. Married house masters are always preferred…Then, again, Mr. Speed, we should want a public-school man…Of course, Lavery’s is a large House and the position is not one to be—um—lightly undertaken. And, of course, it is for the Governors to decide, in the last resort. But if you think about it, Mr. Speed, and if you favour the idea, it will probably occur to you that you stand a rather good chance. Of course it requires thinking over a great deal. Urn, yes—decide nothing in a hurry…”
Speed’s mind, hazily receiving the gist of what the Head was saying, began to execute a wild pirouette. He heard the Head’s voice droning on, but he did not properly hear anything more that was said. He heard in snatches: “Of course you would have to take up your new duties in—um, yes—September…And for that purpose, you would get married during the vacation…A great chance for your Mr. Speed…the Governors…very greatly impressed with you at Speech Day…You would like L
avery’s…an excellent House…Plenty of time to think it over, you know…Um, yes—plenty of time…When did you say you were going home?”
Speed recovered himself so far as to answer: “Tuesday, sir.”
“Um, yes—delightful, that is—you will be able to dine with us to-morrow night then, no doubt?—Curious place, Millstead, when everybody has gone away…Um, yes—extremely delightful…Think it over very carefully, Mr. Speed…we dine at seven-thirty during the vacations, remember…Good night, then, Mr. Speed…Um, yes—Good night!”
Speed staggered out as if intoxicated.
VII
That was why, hearing the singing and shouting in the dormitories that night, Speed did not interfere. With happiness surging all around him how could he have the heart to curtail the happiness of others?-About half-past ten he went round distributing journey-money, and to each dormitory in turn he said farewell and wished a pleasant vacation. The juniors were scampering over one another’s beds and pelting one another with pillows. Speed said merely: “If I were you fellows I should get to sleep pretty soon: Hartopp will ring the bells at six, you know.”
Then he went back into his own room, his room that would not be his any more, for next term he would be in Lavery’s. Noisy and insincere as had been his protestations at the House Dinner about the superiority of School House over any other, there was yet a sense in which he felt deeply sorry to leave the place where he had been so happy and successful. He looked back in memory to that first evening of term, and remembered his first impression of the room assigned to him; then it had seemed to him lonely, forlorn, even a little dingy. Hardly a trace of that earliest aspect remained with it now. At eleven o’clock on the last night of term it glowed with the warmth of a friendly heart; it held out loving arms that made Speed, even amidst his joy, piteously sorry to leave it. The empty firegrate, in which he had never seen a fire, lured him with the vision of all the cosy winter nights that he had missed.
Outside it was moonlight again, as when, a month before, he had waited by the pavilion steps on the evening of the Speech Day. From his open lattice-window he could see the silver tide lapping against the walls and trees, the pale sea of the pitch on which there would be no more cricket, the roof and turret of the pavilion gleaming with liquid radiance. I All was soft and silent, glossy beneath the high moon. It was as if everything had endured agelessly, as if the passing of a term were no more than the half-heard tick of a clock in the life of Millstead.
Leaning out of the window he heard a voice, boyish and sudden, in the junior dormitory below.
“I say, Bennett, are you going by the eight-twenty-two?”
An answer came indistinguishably, and then the curt command of the prefect imposing silence, silence which, reigned over by the moon and the sky of stars, lasted through the short summer night until dawn.
* * *
BOOK II. THE WINTER TERM
CHAPTER I
I
He breakfasted with Helen upon the first morning of the winter term, inaptly named because winter does not begin until the term is over. They had returned the evening before from a month’s holiday in Cornwall and now they were making themselves a little self-consciously at home in the first-floor rooms that had been assigned to them in Lavery’s. The room in which they breakfasted overlooked the main quadrangle; the silver coffeepot on the table shimmered in the rays of the late summer sun.
Midway through the meal Burton, the porter at Lavery’s, tapped at the door and brought in the letters and the Daily Telegraph.
Speed said: “Hullo, that’s luck!-I was thinking I should have to run down the town to get my paper this morning.”
Burton replied, with a hint of reproach in his voice: “No, sir. It was sent up from Harrington’s as usual, sir. They always begin on the first day of term, sir.”
Speed nodded, curiously conscious of a thrill at the mention of the name Harrington. Something made him suddenly nervous, so that he said, boisterously, as if determined to show Burton at all costs that he was not afraid of him: “Oh, by the way, Burton, you might shut that window a little, will you?-there’s a draught.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Burton, again with a hint of subdued reproachfulness in his tone. While he was shutting the window, moving about very softly and stealthily himself yet making a tremendous noise with everything that had to be done with his large clumsy hands, it was necessary for Speed and Helen to converse on casual and ordinary subjects.
Speed said: “I should think the ground’s far too hard for rugger, Helen.”
She answered, sombrely: “Yes, I daresay it is. It’s really summer still, isn’t it?—And I’m so glad. I hate the winters.”
“You hate the winters, eh?—Why’s that?”
“It’s so cold, and the pitches are all muddy, and there are horrid locks-up after dark. Oh, I hate Millstead in winter-time.”
He said, musingly: “We must have big fires when the cold weather comes, anyway.”
Then Burton departed, closing the door very delicately after him, and the conversation languished. Speed glanced vaguely through his correspondence. He was ever so slightly nervous. That month’s honeymoon in Cornwall had passed like a rapt and cloudless vision, but ever beyond the horizon of it had been the thought of this return to Millstead for the winter term. How the return to a place where he had been so happy and of which he had such wonderful memories could have taken in his mind the semblance of an ordeal, was a question that baffled him entirely. He felt strangely and unaccountably shy of entering the Masters’ Common-Room again, of meeting Clanwell and Ransome and Pritchard and the rest, of seeing once again all the well-‘known faces of the boys whose summer vacations had been spent so much less eventfully than his. And yet, as he sat at the breakfast-table and saw Helen opposite him, a strange warming happiness surged up within him and made him long for the initial ordeal to be over so that he could pass on to the pure and wonderful life ahead, that life in which Helen and Millstead would reign jointly and magnificently. Surely he could call himself blessed with the most amazing good fortune, to be happily married at the age of twenty-three and installed in just the position which, more than any other in the world, he had always coveted!—Consciousness of his supreme happiness made him quicken with the richest and most rapturous enthusiasm; he would, he decided in a sudden blinding moment, make Lavery’s the finest of all the houses at Millstead; he would develop alike the work and the games and the moral tone until the fame of Lavery’s spread far beyond its local boundaries and actually enhanced the reputation of Millstead itself. Such achievements were not, he knew, beyond the possibilities of an energetic housemaster, and he, young and full of enthusiasms, would be a living fount of energy. All the proud glory of life was before him, and in the fullness of that life there was nothing that he might not do if he chose.
All that day he was at the mercy alternately of his tumultuous dreams of the future and of a presaging nervousness of the imminent ordeals. In the morning he was occupied chiefly with clerical work, but in the afternoon, pleading a few errands in town, he took his bicycle out of the shed and promised Helen that he would not be gone longer than an hour or so. He felt a little sad to leave her, because he knew that with the very least encouragement she would have offered to come with him. Somehow, he would not have been pleased for her to do that; he felt acutely self-conscious, vaguely yet miserably apprehensive of trials, that were in wait for him. In a few days, of course, everything would be all right.
He did not cycle into the town, but along the winding Millstead lane that led, away from the houses and into the uplands around Parminters. The sun, was glorious and warm, and the trees of that deep and heavy green that had not, so far, more than the faintest of autumnal tints in it. Along the lane twisting into the cleft of Par-minters, memories assailed him at every yard. He had been so happy here—and here—and here; here he had laughed loudly at something she had said; here she had made one of her childish yet incomparably wise remarks. Those old
serene days, those splendid flaming afternoons of the summer term, had been so sweet and exquisite and I fragrantly memorable to him that he could not forbear to wonder if anything could ever be so lovely again.
Deep down beneath all the self-consciousness and apprehension and morbid researching of the past, he knew that he was richly and abundantly happy. He knew that she was still a child in his own mind; that life with her was dream-like as had been the rapt anticipation of it; that the dream, so far from marriage dispelling it, was enhanced by all the kindling intimacies that swung them both, as it were, into the same ethereal orbit.
When he thought about it he came to the conclusion that their marriage must be the most wonderful marriage in the world. She was a child, a strange, winsome fairy-child, streaked with the most fitful and sombre passion that he had ever known. Nobody, perhaps, would guess that he and she were man and wife. The thought gratified his sense of the singularity of what had happened. At the Cornish hotel where they had stayed he had fancied that their identity as a honeymoon couple had not been guessed at all; he had thought, with many an inward chuckle, that people were supposing them to be mysteriously and romantically unwedded.
Time passed so slowly on that first day of the winter term. He rode back at the end of the afternoon with the wind behind him, swinging him in through the main gateway where he could see the windows of Lavery’s pink in the rays of the setting sun. Lavery’s!—Lavery’s!—Throughout the day he had found himself repeating the name constantly, until the syllables lost all shred of meaning. Lavery’s!—Lav-er-izz…The sounds boomed in his ears as he entered the tiny drawing-room in which Helen was waiting for him with the tea almost ready. Tea time!—In a few hours the great machine of Millstead would have begun to pound its inexorable way. He felt, listening to the chiming of the quarters, as if he were standing in the engine-room of an ocean liner, watching the mighty shafts, now silent and motionless, that would so soon begin their solemn crashing movement.