The Passionate Year (16 page)

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.

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 disposition 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.”

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?

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
Speed, 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.”

“You won’t do that,” said Speed. “Say what you want to say.” He stared at
Clanwell nervously, for at a call such as this a cloud of vague,
apprehensions would swarm round and over him, filling the future with dark
dreads.

“It’s about your wife,” said Clanwell. “I’m not going to say much. It
isn’t anything to worry about, I daresay. Perhaps it doesn’t justify my
mentioning it to you. Your wife…”

“Well?”

“I should—keep an eye on her, if I were you. She’s young, Speed,
remember. She’s—”

“What do you mean-keep an eye on her? What should I keep an eye on her
for?”

“I told you, Speed, I wasn’t going to say much. You mustn’t imagine
yourself on the verge of a scandal—I don’t suppose there’s anything
really the matter at all. Only, as I was saying, she’s young, and
she—she’s apt to do unwise things. Once or twice lately, while you’ve
been out, she’s had Smallwood in to tea.”

“Smallwood!—Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

Speed blushed furiously and was silent. A sudden new feeling, which he
diagnosed as jealousy, swept across him; followed by a further series of
feelings which were no more than various forms of annoyance and exacerbation.
He clenched his fists and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“How do you know all this?” he queried, in the staccato bark that was so
accurate a register of his temper.

“Smallwood isn’t the fellow to keep such an affair secret,” replied
Clanwell. “But don’t, Speed, go and do anything rash. If I were you I should
go back and—”

“I shan’t do anything rash,” interrupted Speed, curtly. “You needn’t
worry. Good night…I suppose I ought to thank you for your kindness in
telling me what you have.”

When he had gone he regretted that final remark. It was, he decided,
uselessly and pointlessly cynical.

It was a pity, perhaps, that in his present mood he went
straight back to Lavery’s and to Helen. He found her sitting, as usual, by
the fire when he entered; he made no remark, but came and sat opposite to
her. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. That was not unusual for them,
for Helen had frequent fits of taciturnity, and Speed, becoming familiar with
them, found himself adopting similar habits. After, however, a short space of
silence, he broke it by saying: “Helen, do you mind if we have a serious talk
for a little while?”

She looked up and said, quietly: “Where have you been?”

“Clanwell’s,” he replied, and as soon as he had done so he realised that
she would easily guess who had informed him. A pity that he had answered her
so readily.

“What do you want to ask me?”

He said, rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: “Helen, I’m going
to be quite straightforward. No beating about the bush, you
understand?—You’ve had Smallwood in here to tea lately, while I’ve been
out.”