BREAKFAST that morning at the Combers’ was a very cheerful meal. It was half-past eight, the day was brilliantly fine, and nearly all the boys had gone. The earlier their departure the better they were pleased, and most of them had caught the eight o’clock tram.
Now there was a strange, wonderful peace — suddenly the tension was relaxed, and for a time, for a short time, Moffatt’s was not a school but a home.
The Marmadukery that had reigned so triumphantly on the preceding day had disappeared as quickly as it had come. Sir Marmaduke had been hustled back into his grave again, and only in the scattered flower-pots that had decorated the school hall, and in the chairs that were piled on top of one another in the passages outside, could any signs of him be seen.
But in the Comber dining-room all thoughts of him were very far away. The sun streamed through the windows and fell on the sausages and the coffee and the marmalade and all the things that the sun ought to fall on at an English breakfast-table in the morning. It also fell on Mrs. Comber, who was trying to give orders to Jane, the housemaid, attend to Freddie, and smile at Isabel, all at the same time; it also fell on Mr. Comber, who had put on a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers as a sign that term was really over, and on Isabel.
“No, Jane, I did not say, ‘Get the quilts out of the store-cupboard,’ because you know perfectly well that most of the quilts are out already, and — Have another sausage, Freddie; there are plenty here, and they are so good this morning. I have never eaten better anywhere, and it is all because I went to Harrison this time, instead of Quern’s, although he is just a tiny bit more expensive; but it’s really worth it, if you know what you’re getting, and aren’t afraid of being put off with all sorts of shams, and of course you never know with a sausage — No, Jane, I really can’t attend to you now: come to me afterwards, and I’ll tell you what I mean. Isabel, my dear, you haven’t got any coffee — you must have some more — I insist.”
Mrs. Comber was outrageously happy. Mr. Comber had only the evening before received the offer of a post at the Kensington Museum which would suit exactly, and the salary attached to it, although nothing very tremendous, made the acceptance of the post comfortable. For years Mrs. Comber had expected such a letter. At one time it had seemed that it must come, that it was merely a question of waiting. Then gradually hope had died. Freddie was too old — men did not get posts at his age — and then suddenly, through the urgency of an old friend, this piece of work had been found for him.
Escape at last, and just when she had given up all hope! “My dear,” she said, when she was telling Isabel about it, “you could have done anything you liked to me when I heard about it, and I shouldn’t have known. I cried, and then I kissed Freddie, and then I cried again. Oh, my dear, such a mess, and it isn’t right we should all be so happy!”
But they were all just as happy as they could be, and Freddie himself seemed to change, to brighten, to broaden, under the influence of his approaching escape.
When breakfast was over, Mrs. Comber and Isabel stood at the window, their arms linked, looking out on to the grass that shone and glittered beneath the sun.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Comber, “that, although I’ve hated the place so much and so long, and wanted, God knows, with all my heart and soul to get away from it, I have never, until now, realised the wickedness of it. When I think of what this term has been, of the way we all felt, of the things we might have done—”
“Yes,” said Isabel, very gravely, “it was having a dreadful effect on Archie. I have never seen any one change so quickly. His nerves seemed to be going all to bits. I am most tremendously glad we are going. I wish with all my heart that every one else was going too. Places like this oughtn’t to be allowed to continue another week.”
“Where is your Archie?” said Mrs. Comber.
“Oh, he will be over here in a minute. I expect that he will sleep late this morning after so many mornings of getting up at half-past six. By the way, what’s poor little Garden Minimus doing wandering round in that disconsolate way?”
“Oh, he doesn’t leave until to-night; his brothers are going to London, but he is crossing over to Ireland. Yes, he looks rather disconsolate. Yes, dear, now that we are going to London too, I am tremendously glad that you are both leaving here. It would never have done for Archie, although of course he had a bad start, fighting Mr. Perrin like that.”
“Poor Mr. Perrin!” Isabel sighed. She still saw him as he had been on that day when he congratulated her on her engagement. She felt in some secret, undefined way that she was responsible, a little, for his unhappiness. “Poor Mr. Perrin!”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Comber, “now that we’re going, I suppose it is fair enough to say that I never liked Mr. Perrin — in fact, I disliked him very much. I am sure I don’t know what those kind of people are for, with all their stiff, awkward manners, and their selfishness, and their difficulties. People say, ‘Oh, it’s nerves,’ and then think they have excused a man, but I think it’s downright selfishness. Now, you never can imagine Mr. Perrin doing anything for anybody, or thinking about anything in the world except his own silly squabbles. He’s a nasty, selfish, ill-tempered man, and I’m glad I’m not going to see any more of him.”
“That’s unlike you,” Isabel said; “you aren’t generally unkind about people.”
“Well, his making such a fuss about his silly umbrella annoyed me. He’s a selfish, horrid creature.”
“But we all made a fuss,” said Isabel.
“We wouldn’t have if he hadn’t,” said Mrs. Comber triumphantly. But in any case Isabel was bound to feel that Mr. Perrin didn’t matter very much, and that, in a way, was tragedy sufficient. He was a part of Moffatt’s, as the ink-stained benches and the long stone corridors were part of it. Now they were leaving Moffatt’s and all that belonged to it, and they would never think of it or of Mr. Perrin again. As she moved back from the window, humming a little tune, she dismissed Mr. Perrin for ever.
As she turned her back and moved down the room, she was conscious suddenly of steps, many steps, on the gravel outside; but there were no voices, only the tread of feet.
She turned back to the window; but before she reached it, the door was opened sharply, and Mrs. Comber stood there, her face very white, her hands outstretched. Behind her, as in a mist, there were other faces.
Isabel knew. Her lips moved, and she gasped, “Archie.” Then, with a supreme effort, she pulled herself together, and stood very straight and still, whilst Mrs. Comber came forward.
Then she said, very quietly, “Tell me — is he dead?”
“No, dear.” Mrs. Comber eagerly took her hands. “He has had a bad fall from the cliff; he is unconscious, concussion, and his leg is broken. The doctor is there, there is no — —”
Isabel went, very straight, with her head up, out of the room, upstairs, to the little white-boarded chamber where they had laid him.
The doctor was there; the window was open, and the sun streamed in across the blue carpet, and with its light came the scent of the trees and the cold, sharp air of the winter morning. She was on her knees by his bedside and had taken his white hand in hers.
In the afternoon he came to himself, and knew her and held her hand very tight. But in that long vigil that she had by the side of his bed, she had, suddenly, become a woman. In the stress of the instant, in the summoning of all her forces to her aid, she had flung aside once and for all the inexperience, the hesitations, of growing up. Life had become a battle — it had before been a game — but now the prize was greater....
II
Garden Minimus had to wait for the evening train. He cursed his fate, but no amount of cursing altered the fact that he had to put in a day with nothing very especial to do and no one very especial to talk to. There were one or two other unfortunates in the same case as himself, but they were none of them people with whom he had anything in common: Thompson Major was too lofty, being in the Sixth, and having his colours for cricket; Crebbett Minor was too lowly, being in the First, and having nothing at all except a stammer and a spotty complexion.
Moreover, there was something that Garden wanted to do — he wanted to speak to Mr. Perrin. He had wanted to speak to him for a great many days, but he had put it off from hour to hour because “a chap felt such an awful fool saying he was sorry and all that kind of rot.” But he was sorry, tremendously sorry. Perrin had been most awfully kind to him for terms and terms, but this time Garden’s back had been up: he’d behaved like a most awful rotter, and he would have liked to put Perrin’s mind all right about things before the holidays came. He had intended to speak to him last night at the concert, but Perrin had not been at the concert. He got up very early to share in the jubilations of his departing friends, and then, after they had gone, he wandered about, and nearly plucked up courage to knock on Perrin’s bedroom door.
He could not find Perrin — he asked people, but they were all very busy “Mr. Perrin had not got up yet.”
Garden felt very unhappy Everything was so empty now that every one had gone; the spirit of desolation was abroad. Life was a thing of littering paper, of gaping forms, of dusty floors He went down to the cliffs, and here the splendour of the day cheered him. It was amazingly warm for December. The sea in the cove sparkled and glittered, and even the black rock seemed to smile He stood above the cove and looked out to sea.
Perrin, although he was a bit of an ass, was really a good sort.... He would behave more decently next term. He would make up a bit... He was a queer beggar, Perrin, but he meant to be decent to him... next term His tiny figure made a black dot against the surface of the long, white road.
THE END