Watersprings by Arthur Christopher Benson (read more books txt) 📕

"For in the wilderness shall waters
break out, and streams in the desert"

1913

CONTENTS


I. THE SCENE
II. RESTLESSNESS
III. WINDLOW
IV. THE POOL
V. ON THE DOWN
VI. THE HOME CIRCLE
VII. COUNTRY LIFE
VIII. THE INHERITANCE
IX. THE VICAR
X. WITH MAUD ALONE
XI. JACK
XII. DIPLOMACY
XIII. GIVING AWAY
XIV. BACK TO CAMBRIDGE
XV. JACK'S ESCAPADE
XVI. THE VISIT
XVII. SELF-SUPPRESSION
XVIII. THE PICNIC
XIX. DESPONDENCY
XX. HIGHMINDEDNESS
XXI. THE AWAKENING
XXII. LOVE AND CERTAINTY
XXIII. THE WEDDING
XXIV. DISCOVERIES
XXV. THE NEW KNOWLEDGE
XXVI. LOVE IS ENOUGH
XXVII. THE NEW LIFE
XXVIII. THE VICAR'S VIEW
XXIX. THE CHILD
XXX. CAMBRIDGE AGAIN
XXXI. MAKING THE BEST OF IT
XXXII. HOWARD'S PROFESSION
XXXIII. ANXIETY
XXXIV. THE DREAM-CHILD
XXXV. THE POWER OF LOVE
XXXVI. THE TRUTH



I


THE SCENE

The bright pale February sunlight lay on the little court of Beaufort College, Cambridge, on the old dull-red smoke-stained brick, the stone mullions and mouldings, the Hall oriel, the ivied buttresses and battlements, the turrets, the tiled roofs, the quaint chimneys, and the lead-topped cupola over all. Half the court was in shadow. It was incredibly picturesque, but it had somehow the look of a fortress rather than of a house. It did not exist only to be beautiful, but had a well-worn beauty of age and use. There was no domestic adornment of flower-bed or garden-border, merely four squares of grass, looking like faded carpets laid on the rather uncompromising pebbles which floored the pathways. The golden hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten, and the chimes uttered their sharp, peremptory voices. Two or three young men stood talking at the vaulted gateway, and one or two figures in dilapidated gowns and caps, holding books, fled out of the court.

A firm footstep came down one of the stairways; a man of about forty passed out into the court--Howard Kennedy, Fellow and Classical Lecturer of the College. His thick curly brown hair showed a trace of grey, his short pointed beard was grizzled, his complexion sanguine, his eyebrows thick. There were little vague lines on his forehead, and his eyes were large and clear; an interesting, expressive face, not technically handsome, but both clever and good-natured. He was carelessly dressed in rather old but well-cut clothes, and had an air of business-like decisiveness which became him well, and made him seem comfortably at home in the place; he nodded and smiled to the undergraduates at the gate, who smiled back and saluted. He met a young man rushing down the court, and said to him, "That's right, hurry up! You'll just be in time," a remark which was answered by a gesture of despair from the young man. Then he went up the court towards the Hall, entered the flagged passage, looked for a moment at the notices on the screen, and went through into the back court, which was surrounded by a tiny cloister.

Here he met an elderly man, clean-shaven, fresh-coloured, acute-looking, who wore a little round bowler hat perched on a thick shock of white hair. He was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, with a black tie, and wore rather light grey trousers. One would have taken him for an old-fashioned country solicitor. He was, as a matter of fact, the Vice-Master and Senior Fellow of the College--Mr. Redmayne, who had spent his whole life there. He greeted the younger man with a kindly, brisk, ironical manner, saying, "You look very virtuous, Kennedy! What are you up to?"

"I am going for a turn in the garden," said Howard; "will you come with me?"

"You are very good," said Mr. Redmayne; "it will be quite like a dialogue of Plato!"

They went down the cloister to a low door in the corner, which Howard unlocked, and turned into a small old-fashioned garden, surrounded on three sides by high walls, and overlooking the river on the fourth side; a gravel path ran all round; there were a few trees, bare and leafless, and a big bed of shrubs in the centre of the little lawn, just faintly pricked with points of green. A few aconites showed their yellow heads above the soil.

"What are those wretched little flowers?" said Mr. Redmayne, pointing at them contemptuously.

"Oh, don't say that," said Howard; "they are always the first to struggle up, and they are the earliest signs of spring. Those are aconites."

"Aconites? Deadly poison!" said Mr. Redmayne, in a tone of horror. "Well, I don't object to them,--though I must say that I prefer the works of man to the works of God at all times and in all places. I don't like the spring--it's a languid and treacherous time; it always makes me feel that I wish I were doing something else."

They paced for some minutes round the garden gossiping, Redmayne making very trenchant criticisms, but evidently enjoying the younger man's company. At something which he said, Howard uttered a low laugh, which was pleasant to hear from the sense of contented familiarity which it gave.

"Ah, you may laugh, my young friend," said Redmayne, "but when you have reached my time of life and see everything going to pieces round you, you have occasionally to protest against the general want of backbone, and the sentimentality of the age."

"Yes, but you don't REALLY object," said Howard; "you know you enjoy your grievances!"

"Well, I am a philosopher," said Mr. Redmayne, "but you are overdoing your philanthropics. Luncheon in Hall for the boys, dinner at seven-thirty for the boys, a new cricket-ground for the boys; you pamper them! Now in my time, when the undergraduates complained about the veal in Hall, old Grant sent for us third-year men, and said that he understood there were complaints about the veal, of which he fully recognised the justice, and so they would go back to mutton and beef and stick to them, and then he bowed us out. Now the Bursar would send for the cook, and they would mingle their tears together."

Howard laughed again, but made no comment, and presently said he must go back to work. As they went in, Mr. Redmayne put his hand in Howard's arm, and said, "Don't mind me, my young friend! I like to have my growl, but I am proud of the old place, and you do a great deal for it."

Howard smiled, and tucked the old man's hand closer to his side with a movement of his arm. "I shall come and fetch you out again some morning," he said.

He got back to his rooms at ten o'clock, and a moment afterwards a young man appeared in a gown. Howard sat down at his table, pulled a chair up to his side, produced a corrected piece of Latin prose, made some criticisms and suggestions, and ended up by saying, "That's a good piece! You have improved a good deal lately, and that would get you a solid mark." Then he sat for a minute or two talking about the books his pupil was reading, and indicating the points he was to look out for, till at half-past ten another youth appeared to go through the same process. This went on until twelve o'clock. Howard's manner was kindly and business-like, and the undergraduates were very much at their ease. One of them objected to one of his criticisms. Howard turned to a dictionary and showed him a paragraph. "You will see I am right," he said, "but don't hesitate to object to anything I say--these usages are tricky things!" The undergraduate smiled and nodded.

Just before twelve o'clock he was left alone for five minutes, and a servant brought in a note. Howard opened it, and taking a sheet of paper, began to write. At the hour a youth appeared, of very boyish aspect, curly-haired, fresh-looking, ingenuous. Howard greeted him with a smile. "Half a minute, Jack!" he said. "There's the paper--not the Sportsman, I'm afraid, but you can console yourself while I just finish this note." The boy sat down by the fire, but instead of taking the paper, drew a solemn-looking cat, which was sitting regarding the hearth, on to his knee, and began playing with it. Presently Howard threw his pen down. "Come along," he said. The boy, still carrying the cat, came and sat down beside him. The lesson proceeded as before, but there was a slight difference in Howard's manner of speech, as of an uncle with a favourite nephew. At the end, he pushed the paper into the boy's hand, and said, "No, that isn't good enough, you know; it's all too casual--it isn't a bit like Latin: you don't do me credit!" He spoke incisively enough, but shook his head with a smile. The boy said nothing, but got up, vaguely smiling, and holding the cat tucked under his arm--a charming picture of healthy and indifferent youth. Then he said in a rich infantile voice, "Oh, it's all right. I didn't do myself justice this time. You shall see!"

At this moment the old servant came in and asked Howard if he would take lunch.

"Yes; I won't go into Hall," said Howard. "Lunch for two--you can stay and lunch with me, Jack; and I will give you a lecture about your sins."

The boy said, "Yes, thanks very much; I'd love to."

Jack Sandys was a pupil of Howard's in whom he had a special interest. He was the son of Frank Sandys, the Vicar of the Somersetshire parish where Mrs. Graves, Howard's aunt, lived at the Manor-house. Frank Sandys was a cousin of Mrs. Graves' deceased husband. She had advised the Vicar to send Jack to Beaufort, and had written specially commending him to Howard's care. But the boy had needed little commendation. From the first moment that Jack Sandys had appeared, smiling and unembarrassed, in Howard's room, a relation that was almost filial and paternal had sprung up between them. He had treated Howard from the outset with an innocent familiarity, and asked him the most direct questions. He was not a particularly intellectual youth, though he had some vague literary interests; but he was entirely healthy, good, and quite irresistibly charming in his naivete and simplicity. Howard had a dislike of all sentimentality, but the suppressed paternal instinct which was strong in him had been awakened; and though he made no emotional advances, he found himself strangely drawn to the boy, with a feeling for which he could not wholly account. He did not care for Jack's athletic interests; his tastes and mental processes were obscure to him. Howard's own nature was at once intellectual and imaginative, but he felt an extreme delight in the fearless and direct confidence which the boy showed in him. He criticised his work unsparingly, he rallied him on his tastes, he snubbed him, but all with a sense of real and instinctive sympathy which made everything easy. The boy never resented anything that he said, asked his advice, looked to him to get him out of any small difficulties that arose. They were not very much together, and mostly met only on official occasions. Howard was a busy man, and had little time, or indeed taste, for vague conversation. Jack was a boy of natural tact, and he treated all the