UNIVERSITY (continued 3)
Reading edition
Was it Chance again, the Chance that had brought a perfect Easter and put Martin on his game, that now seemed to keep the conversation on Oriental diseases and the rigours of imperial service? Certainly Freda heard more of fever in distant stations than of health and company at Simla. But the Brodricks had not been divorced from patriotism by the hardness of their lot: they still believed in the flag, in the pomp and state of the British Raj, in stately dinners at Government House where the couples went down to the feast in order of social precedence, and they recounted squabbles, petty but bitter antagonisms, of rival ladies who considered themselves insulted by their positions in the troop of diners.
Freda listened silently and learned.
So this was the life for which she had bargained. Eternal fever—so they implied—eternal society of the Brodricks and their kind! For Martin with his work to love and his career to think about such things might be well enough! But for her! How could she blend with this unknown, this unparalleled society?
Then the Berrisfords suggested that they should all go to Oxford for Eights Week. Mr and Mrs Berrisford had to be in town: would Mary Brodrick come? And, naturally, Freda? Both the girls accepted eagerly. It was soon settled and rooms were engaged at the Mitre.
On reading the letter announcing their plans Martin groaned in the spirit. It wasn't, of course it wasn't, that he did not want to see Freda. Did he not write to her as eagerly as ever? Did she not answer? But Eights Week of all times!
Martin was sufficiently a lover of Oxford, summery Oxford of the still water-ways, to loathe and despise Eights Week, that Whitsuntide holiday of the wealthy, when the city is invaded by a host of rich trippers, whose tripping has not even the justification of beer-bottles and hearty bestiality. He did not wish to eat salmon mayonnaise, to drink champagne cup, to propel, in faultless flannels, a punt among a solid mass of punts, to go for picnics where all London was revelling. His choice would have been to launch a vessel on the upper river, to find some tranquil backwater past Eynsham, with a canopy of willow and the scene of flowering meadows; or else to make use of deserted tennis courts and to enjoy things properly. Now they were going to break in upon him: and indeed another idle vacation had left him work enough to do. They had not come when he was a fresher and such things were allowable, and the Berrisfords knew Oxford well. Presumably they desired to show Freda the city and its ways. But why, oh why, in Eights Week? It wasn't like the Berrisfords.
They arrived duly and lived in state at the Mitre: they mingled with the crowds, tramped the colleges, and demanded to have things pointed out to them. Mary Brodrick said all the right things. Martin shuddered as the phrases came out in turn:
"Can we see the kitchens?" (at Christ Church).
"Where are the Prince's rooms?" (at Magdalen).
"Isn't this the clever college?" (at Balliol).
It was a gloomy ceremony.
There was Freda. And she ... well, he had to admit that she didn't harmonise with this world of fine raiment and expensive bean-feasts. The Freda who glittered in the punt, the Freda clothed sumptuously at her uncle's expense was undeniably different from the insignificant wisp of a girl in plain blue coat and skirt who had hurried out of the office at six and come to Martin for rest and comfort. To have explained his feelings accurately would have been an impossible task for Martin, but he could not put aside a vague sensation that Freda was wrongly placed in this world, that she was pre-eminently a martyr and a rebel, not a woman of leisure.
She did not even know what to say. There is a particular kind of speech appropriate to these occasions: it is neither flirtation nor conversation in the proper sense, but a discreet blend, a mixture as insipid as it is inevitable. It does not demand brains or wit, but a certain quality, a training. Mary Brodrick, with all her limitations, knew the game; she was jolly and made things go. Freda hung back or, when she came forward, made mistakes. Odd that Martin should have been angry with Freda for her inability to play a game which he himself despised. Yet it did pain him that she didn't "fit in."
As a strange word whose meaning has recently been discovered seems to the reader to occur on every page he reads, so Freda suddenly revealed to Martin in a hundred ways her incapacity for "fitting in." And it was to the society of countless Brodricks that Martin would have to take her.
On the Wednesday evening, when the river was rendered invisible by the press of vessels and fair women, when the supporters of the victorious college swam across the river and dived from barge and boathouse, when supper-parties began to disappear up the Cherwell and gramophones to tinkle in shady recesses, Mary Brodrick caught her train to town, Mr and Mrs Berrisford went to see the Irish Players, and Martin took Freda on the river.
To avoid the crowd they were going to the Cherwell above the rollers. She kept him waiting in the taxi that was to take them to Tims'.
At Tims' she found the punt dirty, said the cushions were filthy, and would ruin her dress.
"Eights Week," said Martin. "We've got to be thankful to get any kind of a punt."
Still she grumbled. Martin ran into a projecting bush and, before she knew what had occurred, her hat had been pushed over her eyes, her hair disarranged, and her face scratched. She said nothing at all. Worse than any expostulation! It grew cold and a chilly breeze sprang up.
Inevitably they quarrelled. There was no particular cause for the outburst. A long week of strain, of mutual revelation and discovery, of mingled pleasure and annoyance, was bound to tell.
They had at least the satisfaction of making things clear.
"You only cared for me as a martyr," she ended.
"I didn't, you know I didn't," he protested on the spur of the moment.
But both knew that it was more than half the truth.
Their letters of renunciation crossed.
Chance and John Berrisford had been powerful allies.
X
On a still October afternoon Martin lay where the first slopes of Grey Knotts go sweeping up to the great mountain mass of The Gables and the Scawfells. He looked down upon Seatoller, diminutive below him, and on the curving beauty of Borrowdale, burnished with late bracken, aflame with autumnal trees. Behind him he knew, he felt, were the mountains that he loved, stretching crag upon crag to the desolate screes of Wast Water and the glimpse of the shimmering sea. Borrowdale ... there flashed suddenly upon his mind the verse of the Elfreyan poet and he quoted it now to the winds and rocks and a curious stone-finch:
"'The flaming bracken fires the breast Of bosky Borrowdale, Down swoops the sun in a riot of red Behind Scawfell to a watery bed, And the moon hath clomb o'er Skiddaw's head, So perfect and so pale."
With that pathetic verse came other memories, flowing torrentially through the opened flood-gates of his mind. For five years he had forgotten Elfrey and Berney's and all his schoolday toils and triumphs. Only one week-end had he spent there and that in his 'fresher' year. He had forgotten because Oxford had been so generous and had given him so much to think and feel and say. But now his recollections seemed strangely vivid despite their long storage in the lumber-room of his mind. Foskett had made another step on the pathway of prosperity, but Berney was still at work: Vickers had moved to higher things, but Barmy Walters lingered on, for he had reached the dotage in which years add nothing to decay. The same old jokes would be played, the crashing of the instrument-boxes, the passing of fruit-bags and biscuit tins, and the pollution of his water with ink. And somehow, against the promptings of conscience, Martin felt that it was right for these things to go on. Poor Barmy! But with his uncle he believed in Institutions.
Then the amazing disappearance of people broke in upon his mind. Spots, for instance. His career had flickered out at Cambridge, where they had despised his athletics. Drink, perhaps. Cullen and Neave, surely they must be in the motor trade. Gregson had vanished utterly. Everything demanded that he should be writing for the Rationalist Press, but where was he? Anstey was at the Bar, Rayner a subaltern in India. 'Granny' had recently been head of Berney's, Granny whom Martin had loathed and swiped. It seemed unreal and impossible. But now, as he looked back over that gap of five years, he realised that Elfrey with all its troubles and its narrowness had been kind. The avenging of Gideon and the night of pitchers, the bowling of "googlies," the friendship of Finney ... astonishing that things so good should have slipped away. Lazily chewing the long sweet stems of grass, he refought a hundred skirmishes.
More recent memories came floating down upon the stream. Galer and his 'deemagogues,' the Push, Chard and his career: very soon he would be paying a long farewell to all this world of evanescence. For such a world it was, good but transitory. It was not real as life's work would be real. True that Chard had taken his Union career as seriously as death itself, true that the Push had been serious about their discussions, those night-long tussles about God and Woman and the Universe: and anything taken seriously has value of a kind. But had their value been greater than that of an amusing prologue or a curtain-raiser which it would have been unfortunate to miss? It was good that these things should have been: it was not good that they should be for ever.
And Freda? World of evanescence again! She had passed so utterly away that Martin could scarcely believe in the events and emotions of the winter. He had no regrets, and he believed that she had none: of late his plans and prospects had moved at such a pace that wounds could not linger and were easily forgotten. They had rendered each other mutual service and mutual relief. Once he had thought that he loved, but now he knew of his mistake: Freda had spoken the obvious truth when she said: "You aren't really in love with me, you're in love with love." He had wanted sympathy and in his quest had idealised the first woman who gave it him. Only a fortnight ago his uncle had said: "Remember you're still only twenty-three. You haven't found out everything about life—or love." He had said it kindly and he had been right.
Now indeed he had fiercely reacted against his search for sympathy. Surely a man should be able to face his work and go through with it, even if it was agony to do so, without running to a woman's arms for comfort. He was ashamed of his cowardice of the winter. Upon the hillside with the exhilaration of autumn in his blood it seemed so easy to face things and be resolute. This love! It was like religion, just Funk. Then he paused, angry with himself. He was erring as much on the one side as he had lately erred on the other. He could understand passionate desire: he could understand sentimentality, for he had not forgotten Lawrence's defence of The Little Grey Home. But this Love—of which one heard and read—what was it? Perhaps some day... He surrendered to his visions ... and he would come back with her to a good house in Devon, very square and grey, with smooth lawns and paddocks and covert-clad hills behind. There would he become an initiate in the avuncular mystery of Ham and Eggs. That religion at least he had it in him to respect.
Rendell and Lawrence were coming up the hill; they had been together for a week at Seatoller, renewing last year's successful holiday, and to-morrow they were to separate. It was the last reunion, for Martin was to sail next month. The other two had stayed in after lunch to answer letters: Martin was to await them on the hill and then they would walk.
As he watched them plodding up to him his mind wandered to the future. When they reached him they were out of breath and demanded a moment's rest before they moved on. They lay in silence, basking in the strong October sun.
"I've been thinking," exclaimed Martin suddenly.
"Good," said Rendell. "Let's have it."
"It's about this India business. I think I'm glad on the whole."
"Well, I've had a year of the city," muttered Lawrence, "and I don't recommend it."
"After all, it's doing something," Martin went on. "Good or bad, it's action, administration, government of a sort. If I stayed in London, I would find it jolly hard to work: I'd probably do as the rest, just loaf."
"Thank you," said Rendell.
"I wasn't alluding to you. You haven't the talent for loafing, and I think I have, in a mild kind of way. It won't be bad for me to desert the world of conversations and ideas."
The other two remained silent, gazing at the wonderful valley below. Martin wished they would speak. He did not know whether he really believed in what he was saying or whether he was trying to believe in it because there was comfort in such faith. If only one of them would confirm his opinions!
"Don't you ever feel that it's all petty and limited?" Martin continued. "Living in London, I mean, and never seeing the world and how it's run and the different tastes of men and the tendencies and forces? I want to get into the middle of it and, if I've got to do Government work, then I don't mind doing that. It isn't merely negative, like most of a barrister's work."
Eternal honesty and reliability of man with man! A woman would have caught his anxious tones and given him sympathy and confirmation at the expense of belying her convictions. Rendell merely said what he felt and later Martin was glad of it.
"If that is the case," Rendell answered quietly, "you're plainly the man for the job. It isn't often that the Empire gets an intelligent person who cares about his work."
"I believe I'll like it when I'm there," Martin added. "Of course I know there will be gaps and times of despair. But I feel that I have had my seven fat years and it's up to me to face seven lean ones. Then fatness ought to come again."
"Which, being interpreted," said Lawrence, "means seven years or so in the wilderness and then better jobs and a big screw and no end of a career."
"I won't be as detailed as that. But as I've got to eat the pie I shall dig about for the plums. What do you think, Rendell, K.C., M.P.?"
"I agree."
"And you, Lord Mayor?"
"I have every intention of making at least five thousand a year. My god, yes. If I go into that city I'll damned well fetch something out."
"Anyhow," said Martin after a pause, "we have had years of plenty. It was all good, the Push and digs and everything."
Rendell agreed. "It couldn't have been managed much better," he said. "We had some capital times."
Lawrence yawned vastly. "You emotional lads," he said, "will soon be calling the Old School Ithaca and talking about 'stern nurses of men' and 'dreaming spires.' I can't allow it. Let's walk."
They rose and went up silently into the hills like men who understand about walking.
THE END
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Crown 8vo. 6s. WATT, L. M. THE HOUSE OF SANDS. Crown 8vo. 6s. WILLIAMS, ORLO VIE DE BOHÈME. Demy 8vo. 15s. net. GEORGE MEREDITH: A CRITICAL STUDY. 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. THE ESSAY (The Art and Craft of Letters). 8vo. 1s. net. YOUNG, FILSON NEW LEAVES. Wide Crown 8vo. 5s. net. A CHRISTMAS CARD. Demy 16mo. 1s. net. PUNCTUATION (The Art and Craft of Letters). F'cap 8vo. 1s. net. YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT DEEP SEA. Crown 8vo. 6s. YOUNG, F. & E. BRETT UNDERGROWTH. Crown 8vo. 6s. ROBERT BRIDGES: A CRITICAL STUDY. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. PART II INDEX OF TITLES General Literature ARMSTRONG, THOMAS, C.B. A Memoir. Reminiscences of Du Maurier and Whistler. Edited by L. M. Lamont. ART OF BALLET, THE. By Mark Perugini. ART OF SILHOUETTE, THE. By Desmond Coke. AUSTRALASIAN WANDER-YEAR, AN. By H. M. Vaughan. BALLAD, THE. By Frank Sidgwick. BATTLE OF THE BOYNE, THE. By D. C. Boulger. BEHIND THE RANGES. By F. G. Aflalo. BIRDS IN THE CALENDAR. By F. G. Aflalo. BRIDGES: A CRITICAL STUDY. By F. E. Brett Young. BUTLER: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Gilbert Cannan. CAMILLE DESMOULINS. By Violet Methley. CARMINA VARIA. By C. Kennett Burrow. CARRIAGES AND COACHES: THEIR HISTORY AND THEIR EVOLUTION. By Ralph Straus. CHRISTMAS CARD, A. By Filson Young. COMEDY. By John Palmer. CORONAL, A. A New Anthology. By L. M. Lamont. CRITICISM. By P. P. Howe. CUMBERLAND LETTERS, THE. By Clementina Black. D'EON DE BEAUMONT. Translated by Alfred Rieu. DRAMATIC PORTRAITS. By P. P. Howe. DRAMATIC WORKS OF GERHART HAUPTMANN. 6 vols. DRAMATIC WORKS OF ST. JOHN HANKIN. Introduction by John Drinkwater. 3 vols. EGYPTIAN ÆSTHETICS. By René Francis. EPIC, THE. By Lascelles Abercrombie. ESSAY, THE. By Orlo Williams. FEMININE INFLUENCE ON THE POETS. By Edward Thomas. FOUNTAINS IN THE SAND. By Norman Douglas. GISSING: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Frank Swinnerton. GRAHAME OF CLAVERHOUSE. By Michael Barrington. HARDY: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Lascelles Abercrombie. HIEROGLYPHICS. By Arthur Machen. HISTORY. By R. H. Gretton. HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE, THE. By Maurice Sand. IBSEN: A CRITICAL STUDY. By R. Ellis Roberts. IRISH EXILES AT ST. GERMAINS, THE. By D. C. Boulger. JAMES: A CRITICAL STUDY. By F. M. Hueffer. KENSINGTON RHYMES. By Compton Mackenzie. LEADERS OF THE PEOPLE. By Joseph Clayton. LETTERS FROM GREECE. By John Mavrogordato. LINLEYS OF BATH, THE. By Clementina Black. LYRIC, THE. By John Drinkwater. MAETERLINCK: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Una Taylor. MAGIC. By G. K. Chesterton. MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. By G. R. Stirling Taylor. MEREDITH: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Orlo Williams. MORRIS: A CRITICAL STUDY. By John Drinkwater. NEW LEAVES. By Filson Young. NOOKS AND CORNERS OF OLD ENGLAND. By Allan Fea. OLD CALABRIA. By Norman Douglas. OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. By Allan Fea. PARODY. By Christopher Stone. PATER: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Edward Thomas. PEACOCK: A CRITICAL STUDY. By A. Martin Freeman. PEER GYNT. Translated by R. Ellis Roberts. PEOPLE AND QUESTIONS. By G. S. Street. PERFUMES OF ARABY. By Harold Jacob. PERSONALITY IN LITERATURE. By R. A. Scott-James. POEMS. By Compton Mackenzie. PUNCTUATION. By Filson Young. REAL CAPTAIN CLEVELAND, THE. By Allan Fea. REGILDING THE CRESCENT. By F. G. Aflalo. REPERTORY THEATRE, THE. By P. P. Howe. ROBERT KETT AND THE NORFOLK RISING. By Joseph Clayton. ROSSETTI: A CRITICAL STUDY. By John Drinkwater. SATIRE. By Gilbert Cannan. SHAW: A CRITICAL STUDY. By P. P. Howe. SHORT STORY, THE. By Barry Pain. SOCIAL HISTORY OF SMOKING, THE. By G. L. Apperson. SOME ECCENTRICS AND A WOMAN. By Lewis Melville. SPECULATIVE DIALOGUES. By Lascelles Abercrombie. STEVENSON: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Frank Swinnerton. STUPOR MUNDI. By Lionel Allshorn. SWINBURNE: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Edward Thomas. SYNGE: A CRITICAL STUDY. By P. P. Howe. TENTH MUSE, THE. By Edward Thomas. THOSE UNITED STATES. By Arnold Bennett. THOMPSON. By St. John Hankin and G. Calderon. VIE DE BOHÈME. By Orlo Williams. WHITMAN: A CRITICAL STUDY. By Basil de Selincourt. Fiction ABOVE YOUR HEADS. By Frederick Niven. BANKRUPT, THE. By Horace Horsnell. BURNT HOUSE, THE. By Christopher Stone. CARNIVAL. By Compton Mackenzie. COMMON CHORD, THE. By Phyllis Bottome. DEAD MEN'S BELLS. By Frederick Niven. DEBIT ACCOUNT, THE. By Oliver Onions. DEEP SEA. By F. Brett Young. DUCHESS OF WREXE, THE. By Hugh Walpole. FOOL'S TRAGEDY, THE. By A. Scott Craven. FORTITUDE. By Hugh Walpole. GOLIGHTLYS, THE. By Laurence North. HANDS UP! By Frederick Niven. HOUSE OF SANDS, THE. By L. M. Watt. IMPATIENT GRISELDA. By Laurence North. IMPERFECT BRANCH, THE. By Richard Lluellyn. IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE EVIDENCE. By Oliver Onions. LOT BARROW. By Viola Meynell. MARRIAGE OF QUIXOTE, THE. By Donald Armstrong. MODERN LOVERS. By Viola Meynell. OLD MOLE. By Gilbert Cannan. ONE KIND AND ANOTHER. By Barry Pain. OUTWARD APPEARANCE, THE. By Stanley V. Makower. PASSIONATE ELOPEMENT, THE. By Compton Mackenzie. PORCELAIN LADY, THE. By Frederick Niven. QUESTING BEAST, THE. By Ivy Low. RECORD OF A SILENT LIFE, THE. By Anna Preston. ROUND THE CORNER. By Gilbert Cannan. SINISTER STREET. I. By Compton Mackenzie. SINISTER STREET. II. By Compton Mackenzie. STORY OF LOUIE, THE. By Oliver Onions. TELLING THE TRUTH. By William Hewlett. UNCLE'S ADVICE. By William Hewlett. UNDERGROWTH. By F. & E. Brett Young. UNDERMAN, THE. By Joseph Clayton. WHITE WEBS. By Theo Douglas. WIDDERSHINS. By Oliver Onions. WILDERNESS OF MONKEYS, A. By Frederick Niven. MARTIN SECKER'S COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY HIM AT NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI LONDON AUTUMN MCMXIV BALLANTYNE PRESS LONDON