The Longest Journey Part 12

"Oh--that!" But he was not cynical--or cynical in a very tender way.

He was thinking of the irony of friends.h.i.+p--so strong it is, and so fragile. We fly together, like straws in an eddy, to part in the open stream. Nature has no use for us: she has cut her stuff differently.

Dutiful sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers these are what she wants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. Abram and Sarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as sand of the sea, and distracts the politics of Europe at this moment. But a few verses of poetry is all that survives of David and Jonathan.

"I wish we were labelled," said Rickie. He wished that all the confidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such a place as Cambridge could be organized. People went down into the world saying, "We know and like each other; we shan't forget." But they did forget, for man is so made that he cannot remember long without a symbol; he wished there was a society, a kind of friends.h.i.+p office, where the marriage of true minds could be registered.

"Why labels?"

"To know each other again."

"I have taught you pessimism splendidly." He looked at his watch.

"What time?"

"Not twelve."

Rickie got up.

"Why go?" He stretched out his hand and caught hold of Rickie's ankle.

"I've got that Miss Pembroke to lunch--that girl whom you say never's there."

"Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss Pembroke awaited you. Wednesday--Miss Pembroke to lunch. Thursday--Miss Pembroke to tea.

Now again--and you didn't even invite her."

"To Cambridge, no. But the Hall man they're stopping with has so many engagements that she and her friend can often come to me, I'm glad to say. I don't think I ever told you much, but over two years ago the man she was going to marry was killed at football. She nearly died of grief.

This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amus.e.m.e.nt she has felt up to taking. Oh, they go back tomorrow! Give me breakfast tomorrow."

"All right."

"But I shall see you this evening. I shall be round at your paper on Schopenhauer. Lemme go."

"Don't go," he said idly. "It's much better for you to talk to me."

"Lemme go, Stewart."

"It's amusing that you're so feeble. You--simply--can't--get--away. I wish I wanted to bully you."

Rickie laughed, and suddenly over balanced into the gra.s.s. Ansell, with unusual playfulness, held him prisoner. They lay there for few minutes, talking and ragging aimlessly. Then Rickie seized his opportunity and jerked away.

"Go, go!" yawned the other. But he was a little vexed, for he was a young man with great capacity for pleasure, and it pleased him that morning to be with his friend. The thought of two ladies waiting lunch did not deter him; stupid women, why shouldn't they wait? Why should they interfere with their betters? With his ear on the ground he listened to Rickie's departing steps, and thought, "He wastes a lot of time keeping engagements. Why will he be pleasant to fools?" And then he thought, "Why has he turned so unhappy? It isn't as it he's a philosopher, or tries to solve the riddle of existence. And he's got money of his own." Thus thinking, he fell asleep.

Meanwhile Rickie hurried away from him, and slackened and stopped, and hurried again. He was due at the Union in ten minutes, but he could not bring himself there. He dared not meet Miss Pembroke: he loved her.

The devil must have planned it. They had started so gloriously; she had been a G.o.ddess both in joy and sorrow. She was a G.o.ddess still. But he had dethroned the G.o.d whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly, slowly, the image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Rickie had thought, "No matter. He will be bright again. Just now all the radiance chances to be in her." And on her he had fixed his eyes. He thought of her awake. He entertained her willingly in dreams. He found her in poetry and music and in the sunset. She made him kind and strong.

She made him clever. Through her he kept Cambridge in its proper place, and lived as a citizen of the great world. But one night he dreamt that she lay in his arms. This displeased him. He determined to think a little about Gerald instead. Then the fabric collapsed.

It was hard on Rickie thus to meet the devil. He did not deserve it, for he was comparatively civilized, and knew that there was nothing shameful in love. But to love this woman! If only it had been any one else! Love in return--that he could expect from no one, being too ugly and too unattractive. But the love he offered would not then have been vile.

The insult to Miss Pembroke, who was consecrated, and whom he had consecrated, who could still see Gerald, and always would see him, s.h.i.+ning on his everlasting throne this was the crime from the devil, the crime that no penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. She never would know. But the crime was registered in heaven.

He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what purpose? He would say, "I love Miss Pembroke." and Stewart would reply, "You a.s.s." And then. "I'm never going to tell her." "You a.s.s," again. After all, it was not a practical question; Agnes would never hear of his fall. If his friend had been, as he expressed it, "labelled"; if he had been a father, or still better a brother, one might tell him of the discreditable pa.s.sion. But why irritate him for no reason? Thinking "I am always angling for sympathy; I must stop myself," he hurried onward to the Union.

He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the advertis.e.m.e.nts of coaches for the Long Vacation. He heard Mrs. Lewin say, "I wonder what he'll end by doing." A little overacting his part, he apologized nonchalantly for his lateness.

"It's always the same," cried Agnes. "Last time he forgot I was coming altogether." She wore a flowered muslin--something indescribably liquid and cool. It reminded him a little of those swift piercing streams, neither blue nor green, that gush out of the dolomites. Her face was clear and brown, like the face of a mountaineer; her hair was so plentiful that it seemed banked up above it; and her little toque, though it answered the note of the dress, was almost ludicrous, poised on so much natural glory. When she moved, the sunlight flashed on her ear-rings.

He led them up to the luncheon-room. By now he was conscious of his limitations as a host, and never attempted to entertain ladies in his lodgings. Moreover, the Union seemed less intimate. It had a faint flavour of a London club; it marked the undergraduate's nearest approach to the great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes one felt impersonal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Rickie felt that if Miss Pembroke knew one thing about him, she knew everything. During this visit he took her to no place that he greatly loved.

"Sit down, ladies. Fall to. I'm sorry. I was out towards Coton with a dreadful friend."

Mrs. Lewin pushed up her veil. She was a typical May-term chaperon, always pleasant, always hungry, and always tired. Year after year she came up to Cambridge in a tight silk dress, and year after year she nearly died of it. Her feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe, black spots danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. But still she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as an aunt as a friend. Still she ascended the roof of King's, still she counted the b.a.l.l.s of Clare, still she was on the point of grasping the organization of the May races. "And who is your friend?" she asked.

"His name is Ansell."

"Well, now, did I see him two years ago--as a bedmaker in something they did at the Foot Lights? Oh, how I roared."

"You didn't see Mr. Ansell at the Foot Lights," said Agnes, smiling.

"How do you know?" asked Rickie.

"He'd scarcely be so frivolous."

"Do you remember seeing him?"

"For a moment."

What a memory she had! And how splendidly during that moment she had behaved!

"Isn't he marvellously clever?"

"I believe so."

"Oh, give me clever people!" cried Mrs. Lewin. "They are kindness itself at the Hall, but I a.s.sure you I am depressed at times. One cannot talk b.u.mp-rowing for ever."

"I never hear about him, Rickie; but isn't he really your greatest friend?"

"I don't go in for greatest friends."

"Do you mean you like us all equally?"

"All differently, those of you I like."

"Ah, you've caught it!" cried Mrs. Lewin. "Mr. Elliot gave it you there well."

Agnes laughed, and, her elbows on the table, regarded them both through her fingers--a habit of hers. Then she said, "Can't we see the great Mr.

Ansell?"

"Oh, let's. Or would he frighten me?"

"He would frighten you," said Rickie. "He's a trifle weird."