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_ Meanwhile he was a husband. Perhaps his union should have been
emphasized before. The crown of life had been attained, the vague
yearnings, the misread impulses, had found accomplishment at
last. Never again must he feel lonely, or as one who stands out
of the broad highway of the world and fears, like poor Shelley,
to undertake the longest journey. So he reasoned, and at first
took the accomplishment for granted. But as the term passed he
knew that behind the yearning there remained a yearning, behind
the drawn veil a veil that he could not draw. His wedding had
been no mighty landmark: he would often wonder whether such and
such a speech or incident came after it or before. Since that
meeting in the Soho restaurant there had been so much to do--
clothes to buy, presents to thank for, a brief visit to a
Training College, a honeymoon as brief. In such a bustle, what
spiritual union could take place? Surely the dust would settle
soon: in Italy, at Easter, he might perceive the infinities of
love. But love had shown him its infinities already. Neither by
marriage nor by any other device can men insure themselves a
vision; and Rickie's had been granted him three years before,
when he had seen his wife and a dead man clasped in each other's
arms. She was never to be so real to him again.
She ran about the house looking handsomer than ever. Her cheerful
voice gave orders to the servants. As he sat in the study
correcting compositions, she would dart in and give him a kiss.
"Dear girl--" he would murmur, with a glance at the rings on her
hand. The tone of their marriage life was soon set. It was to be
a frank good-fellowship, and before long he found it difficult to
speak in a deeper key.
One evening he made the effort. There had been more beauty than
was usual at Sawston. The air was pure and quiet. Tomorrow the
fog might be here, but today one said, "It is like the country."
Arm in arm they strolled in the side-garden, stopping at times to
notice the crocuses, or to wonder when the daffodils would
flower. Suddenly he tightened his pressure, and said, "Darling,
why don't you still wear ear-rings?"
"Ear-rings?" She laughed. "My taste has improved, perhaps."
So after all they never mentioned Gerald's name. But he hoped it
was still dear to her. He did not want her to forget the greatest
moment in her life. His love desired not ownership but
confidence, and to a love so pure it does not seem terrible to
come second.
He valued emotion--not for itself, but because it is the only
final path to intimacy. She, ever robust and practical, always
discouraged him. She was not cold; she would willingly embrace
him. But she hated being upset, and would laugh or thrust him off
when his voice grew serious. In this she reminded him of his
mother. But his mother--he had never concealed it from himself--
had glories to which his wife would never attain: glories that
had unfolded against a life of horror--a life even more horrible
than he had guessed. He thought of her often during these earlier
months. Did she bless his union, so different to her own? Did she
love his wife? He tried to speak of her to Agnes, but again she
was reluctant. And perhaps it was this aversion to acknowledge
the dead, whose images alone have immortality, that made her own
image somewhat transient, so that when he left her no mystic
influence remained, and only by an effort could he realize that
God had united them forever.
They conversed and differed healthily upon other topics. A rifle
corps was to be formed: she hoped that the boys would have proper
uniforms, instead of shooting in their old clothes, as Mr.
Jackson had suggested. There was Tewson; could nothing be done
about him? He would slink away from the other prefects and go
with boys of his own age. There was Lloyd: he would not learn the
school anthem, saying that it hurt his throat. And above all
there was Varden, who, to Rickie's bewilderment, was now a member
of Dunwood House.
"He had to go somewhere," said Agnes. "Lucky for his mother that
we had a vacancy."
"Yes--but when I meet Mrs. Orr--I can't help feeling ashamed."
"Oh, Mrs. Orr! Who cares for her? Her teeth are drawn. If she
chooses to insinuate that we planned it, let her. Hers was rank
dishonesty. She attempted to set up a boarding-house."
Mrs. Orr, who was quite rich, had attempted no such thing. She
had taken the boy out of charity, and without a thought of being
unconstitutional. But in had come this officious "Limpet" and
upset the headmaster, and she was scolded, and Mrs. Varden was
scolded, and Mr. Jackson was scolded, and the boy was scolded and
placed with Mr. Pembroke, whom she revered less than any man in
the world. Naturally enough, she considered it a further attempt
of the authorities to snub the day-boys, for whose advantage the
school had been founded. She and Mrs. Jackson discussed the
subject at their tea-parties, and the latter lady was sure that
no good, no good of any kind, would come to Dunwood House from
such ill-gotten plunder.
"We say, 'Let them talk,'" persisted Rickie, "but I never did
like letting people talk. We are right and they are wrong, but I
wish the thing could have been done more quietly. The headmaster
does get so excited. He has given a gang of foolish people their
opportunity. I don't like being branded as the day-boy's foe,
when I think how much I would have given to be a day-boy myself.
My father found me a nuisance, and put me through the mill, and I
can never forget it particularly the evenings."
"There's very little bullying here," said Agnes.
"There was very little bullying at my school. There
was simply the atmosphere of unkindness, which no discipline can
dispel. It's not what people do to you, but what they mean, that
hurts."
"I don't understand."
"Physical pain doesn't hurt--at least not what I call hurt--if a
man hits you by accident or play. But just a little tap, when you
know it comes from hatred, is too terrible. Boys do hate each
other: I remember it, and see it again. They can make strong
isolated friendships, but of general good-fellowship they haven't
a notion."
"All I know is there's very little bullying here."
"You see, the notion of good-fellowship develops late: you can
just see its beginning here among the prefects: up at Cambridge
it flourishes amazingly. That's why I pity people who don't go up
to Cambridge: not because a University is smart, but because
those are the magic years, and--with luck--you see up there what
you couldn't see before and mayn't ever see again.
"Aren't these the magic years?" the lady demanded.
He laughed and hit at her. "I'm getting somewhat involved. But
hear me, O Agnes, for I am practical. I approve of our public
schools. Long may they, flourish. But I do not approve of the
boarding-house system. It isn't an inevitable adjunct--"
"Good gracious me!" she shrieked. "Have you gone mad?"
"Silence, madam. Don't betray me to Herbert, or I'll give us the
sack. But seriously, what is the good of, throwing boys so much
together? Isn't it building their lives on a wrong basis? They
don't understand each other. I wish they did, but they don't.
They don't realize that human beings are simply marvellous.
When they do, the whole of life changes, and you get the true
thing. But don't pretend you've got it before you have.
Patriotism and esprit de corps are all very well, but masters a
little forget that they must grow from sentiment. They cannot
create one. Cannot-cannot--cannot. I never cared a straw for
England until I cared for Englishmen, and boys can't love the
school when they hate each other. Ladies and gentlemen, I will
now conclude my address. And most of it is copied out of Mr.
Ansell."
The truth is, he was suddenly ashamed. He had been carried away
on the flood of his old emotions. Cambridge and all that it meant
had stood before him passionately clear, and beside it stood his
mother and the sweet family life which nurses up a boy until he
can salute his equals. He was ashamed, for he remembered his new
resolution--to work without criticizing, to throw himself
vigorously into the machine, not to mind if he was pinched now
and then by the elaborate wheels.
"Mr. Ansell!" cried his wife, laughing somewhat shrilly. "Aha!
Now I understand. It's just the kind of thing poor Mr. Ansell
would say. Well, I'm brutal. I believe it does Varden good to
have his ears pulled now and then, and I don't care whether they
pull them in play or not. Boys ought to rough it, or they never
grow up into men, and your mother would have agreed with me. Oh
yes; and you're all wrong about patriotism. It can, can, create a
sentiment."
She was unusually precise, and had followed his thoughts with an
attention that was also unusual. He wondered whether she was not
right, and regretted that she proceeded to say, "My dear boy, you
mustn't talk these heresies inside Dunwood House! You sound just
like one of that reactionary Jackson set, who want to fling the
school back a hundred years and have nothing but day-boys all
dressed anyhow."
"The Jackson set have their points."
"You'd better join it."
"The Dunwood House set has its points." For Rickie suffered from
the Primal Curse, which is not--as the Authorized Version
suggests--the knowledge of good and evil, but the knowledge of
good-and-evil.
"Then stick to the Dunwood House set."
"I do, and shall." Again he was ashamed. Why would he see the
other side of things? He rebuked his soul, not unsuccessfully,
and then they returned to the subject of Varden.
"I'm certain he suffers," said he, for she would do nothing but
laugh. "Each boy who passes pulls his ears--very funny, no doubt;
but every day they stick out more and get redder, and this
afternoon, when he didn't know he was being watched, he was
holding his head and moaning. I hate the look about his eyes."
"I hate the whole boy. Nasty weedy thing."
"Well, I'm a nasty weedy thing, if it comes to that."
"No, you aren't," she cried, kissing him. But he led her back to
the subject. Could nothing be suggested? He drew up some new
rules--alterations in the times of going to bed, and so on--the
effect of which would be to provide fewer opportunities for the
pulling of Varden's ears. The rules were submitted to Herbert,
who sympathized with weakliness more than did his sister, and
gave them his careful consideration. But unfortunately they
collided with other rules, and on a closer examination he found
that they also ran contrary to the fundamentals on which the
government of Dunwood House was based. So nothing was done. Agnes
was rather pleased, and took to teasing her husband about Varden.
At last he asked her to stop. He felt uneasy about the boy--
almost superstitious. His first morning's work had brought sixty
pounds a year to their hotel. _
Read next: PART 2 - SAWSTON: CHAPTER 19
Read previous: PART 2 - SAWSTON: CHAPTER 17
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