as children gathering pebbles on the shore.
first door on the right after passing into new court, trinity college, cambridge, by the river door. it is a small door, leading directly on to a narrow, winding stone staircase. for some reason, known possibly to the architect responsible for new court (may his bones know no rest!), the ground-floor rooms have a door of their own within the archway.
on the first floor arthur agar, to use the affected phraseology of an affected generation, “kept” in the days with which we have to deal. what he kept transpireth not. there were many things which he did not keep, the first among these being his money. in these rooms he dispensed an open-handed, carefully considered hospitality which earned for him a certain bubble popularity.
there are, one finds, always plenty of men (and women too) ready to lick the blacking off one's boots provided always that that doubtful fare be varied by champagne or truffles at appropriate intervals. men came to arthur agar's rooms, and brought their friends. mark well the last item. they brought their friends. there is more in that than meets the eye. there is a subtle difference between the invitation for “mr. jones” and the invitation for “mr. jones and friends”—a difference which he who runs the social race may read. if jones is worth his salt he will discern the difference in a week.
“oh, come to agar's,” one man (save the mark) would say to another. “ripping coffee, topping cigarettes.”
so they went; they drank the ripping coffee, smoked the topping cigarette, and if they happened to be men of stomach ventured on a clinking cigar. moreover, they were made welcome. agar was like a vain woman who loved to see a full saloon. and he paid for his pleasure in more honourable coin than many a vain woman has laid down since daughters of eve commenced drawing fops around them—namely, the adjectived items of hospitality above mentioned.
it did not matter much who the guests were, provided that they filled the diminutive room in those spaces left vacant by bric-a-brac and furniture of the spindle-legged description. so the men came. there were freshmen who fell over the footstools and bumped their heads against the painted sabots on the wall containing ever-fresh flowers, as per florist's bill; who were rather over-powered by the profusion of painted photograph frames, fans, and fal-lals. there was the man who sang a comic song and dined out on it at least twice a week. there was the calculating son of a poor north-country parson, who liked coffee after dinner and knew the value of sixpence. there was the man who came to play his own valse, and he who came to hear his own voice, und so weiter. do we not know them all? have we not run against them in after-life, despite many attempts to pass by on the other side? the habitual acceptors of hospitality have no objection to crossing the road through the thickest mud.
“by their rooms ye shall know them,” might well, if profanely, be written large over any college gate. arthur agar's rooms were worthy of the man. there was, even on the little stone staircase, a faint odour of pastille or scent spray, or something of feminine suggestion. the unwary visitor would as likely as not catch some part of his person against a silk hanging or a lurking portière on crossing the threshold; and the impression which struck (as all rooms do strike) from the threshold was one of oppressive drapery. a man, by the way, should never know anything about drapery or draping. such knowledge undermines his virility. this is an age of undermining knowledge. we all, from the lowest to the highest, learn many things of which we were better ignorant. the school-board infant acquires french; arthur agar and his like bring away from cambridge a pretty knack of draping chair-backs.
there were little screens in the room, with shelves specially constructed to hold little gimcracks, which in their turn were specially shaped to stand upon the little shelves. there was a portentous standing-lamp, six feet high in its bare feet, with a shade like a crinoline. there were settees and poufs and des prie-dieu, and strange things hanging on the wall without rhyme, reason, or beauty. and nowhere a pipe, or a tennis racket, or even a pair of boots—not so much as a single manly indiscretion in the way of a cricket-bat in the corner, or a sporting novel on the table.
in the midst of this the temporary proprietor of the rooms sat disconsolately at an inlaid writing-table with his face buried in his arms—weeping.
the outer door was shut. arthur agar had sported his rare oak, not to work but to weep. it sometimes does happen to men, this shedding of the idle tear, even to englishmen, even to cambridge men. moreover, it was infinitely to the credit of arthur agar that he should bury his face in the sleeve of his perfectly-fitting coat thus and sob, for he was weeping (quietly and to himself) the advent of three thousand pounds per annum.
at his elbow lay a telegram—that flimsy pink paper which, with all our progress, all our knowledge, the bravest of us fear still.
“jem killed in india; come home at once.—agar.”
honour to whom honour. arthur agar's only thought had been one of sudden horror. he had read the telegram over twice before going out to close his outer door. then he came back and sat weakly down at the table where he had written more scented notes than noted themes, deliberately, womanlike, to cry.
to his credit be it noted that he never thought of stagholme, which was now his. he only thought of jem—his no longer—jem the open-handed, elder brother who tolerated much and said little. having had everything that he wanted since childhood, arthur agar had never been in the habit of thinking about money matters. his florist's bills (and cambridge horticulturists seem to water their flowers with chateau lafitte), his confectioner's account, and his tailor's little note had always been paid without a murmur. thus, want of money—the chief incentive to crime and criminal thought—had never come within measurable distance of this gentle undergraduate.
truth to tell, he had never devoted much thought to the future. he had always vaguely concluded that his mother and jem would “do something”; and in the meantime there were important matters requiring his attention. there was the menu to prepare for an approaching little dinner. there was always an approaching dinner, and always a menu in execrable french on a satin-faced card with the college arms in a coat of many colours. there was the florist to be interviewed and the arrangement of the table to be superintended; the finishing touch to be given to the floral decoration thereof by the master-hand.
jem's death seemed to knock away one of the supports of the future, and arthur agar even in his grief was conscious of the impending necessity of having to act for himself some day.
at length he lifted his head, and through the intricate pattern of the very newest design in art muslins the daylight fell on his face. it was a face which in france is called chiffonné; but the term is never applied to the visage masculine. a diminutive and slightly retrousse nose, gentle grey eyes of the drowning-fly description, and a sensitive mouth scarcely hidden by a fair moustache of downward tendency.
here was a man made to be ruled all his life—probably by a woman. with a little more strength it might have been a melancholy face; as it stood, it was suggestive of nothing stronger than fretfulness. there was a vague distress in the eyes and in the whole countenance which mistaken and practical souls would probably put down to a defective digestion or a feeble vitality. more than one enthusiastic disciple of aesculapius studying at caius professed to have discovered the evidence of some internal disease in arthur agar's distressed eyes; but his complaint was not of the body at all.
presently the necessity for action forced itself upon his understanding, and he rose with a jerk. it is worth noting that his first thought was connected with dress. he passed into the inner room and there exchanged his elegant morning suit for a black one, replacing a delicate heliotrope necktie by another of sombre hue. he mentally reviewed his mourning wardrobe while doing so, and gathered much spiritual repose from the diversion.
in the meantime the rector of stagholme, having breakfasted, proceeded to light a cigarette and open the times with the leisurely sense of enjoyment of one who takes an interest in all things without being keenly concerned in any.
“god help us!” he exclaimed suddenly; and mrs. glynde, who alone happened to be present, dropped a handful of housekeeping money on the floor.
“what is it, dear?” she gasped.
“there,” was the answer; “read that. 'disaster in northern india.' not there—higher up!”
in her eagerness mrs. glynde had plunged headlong into the consumption of wesleyan missionaries in the sandwich islands. then she had to find her glasses, and considerable delay was incurred by putting them on upside down. all this while the rector sat glaring at her as if in some occult way she were responsible for the disaster in northern india.
at last she read the short article, and was about to give a sigh of relief when her eyes travelled to a diminutive list of names appended.
“what!” she exclaimed. “what! jem! oh, tom, dear, this can't be true!”
“i have no reason,” answered the rector grimly, “to suppose that it is untrue.”
mrs. glynde was one of those unfortunate persons who seem only to have the power of aggravating at a crisis. in their way they are useful as serving to divert the mind; but they usually come in for more than their need of abuse.
the poor little woman laid the newspaper gently down by her husband's elbow, and looked at him with a certain air of grandeur and strength. the instinct that arouses the mother wren to peck at the schoolboy's hand at her nest was strong in this subdued little old lady.
“something,” she said, “must be done. how are we going to tell dora?”
the rector was a man who never went straight at the fence, before him. he invariably pulled up and rode alongside the obstacle before leaping, and when going for it he braced himself mentally with the reflection that he was an english gentleman, and as such had obligations. but these obligations, like those of many english gentlemen, ceased at his own fireside. he, like many of us, was apt to forget that wife, sister, and daughter are nevertheless ladies to whom deference is due.
“oh—dora,” he answered; “she will have to bear it like the rest of us. but here am i with fresh legal complications laid upon me. i foresee endless trouble with the lawyers and that woman. why the squire made me his executor i can't tell. parsons know nothing of these matters.”
with a patient sigh mrs. glynde turned away and went to the window, where she stood with her back to him. even to the duller masculine mind the wonder sometimes presents itself that our women-folk take us so patiently as we are. if mrs. glynde had turned upon her husband (who was not so selfish as he would appear), presenting him forthwith in the plainest language at her command with a piece of her mind, the treatment would have been surprising at first, and infinitely beneficial afterwards.
the reverend thomas sat staring into the fire—a luxury which he allowed himself all through the year—with troubled eyes. there was a fence in front of him, but he could not bring himself up to it. in his mistaken contempt for women he had never taken his wife fully into his confidence in those things—great or small, according to the capacity of the producing machine—which are essentially a personal property—namely his thoughts.
all else he told her openly and at once, as behoved an english gentleman.
should he tell all that he had hoped and thought and rethought respecting jem agar and dora? should he; should he not? and the loving little woman stood there almost daring to break the great silence herself; but not quite. strong as was her mother's heart, the habit of submission was stronger. she longed, she yearned to hear the deeper, graver tone of voice which had been used once or twice towards her—once or twice in moments of unusual confidence. the reverend thomas glynde was silent, and the voice that they both heard was dora's, singing as she came downstairs towards them. it was only a matter of moments, and when we have no more than that wherein to act we usually take the wrong turning.
mrs. glynde turned and gave one imploring look towards her husband.
at the same instant the door opened and dora entered, singing as she came.
“what is the matter?” she exclaimed. “you both look depressed. stocks down, or something else has gone up? i know! papa has been made a bishop!”
with a cheery laugh she went to the table and took up the newspaper.
