“I’m not giving her the opportunity,” said Miss Layton, with an impish grin. “Geoffrey’s sound-yes, darlings, definitely sound-but I’m taking no chances. Last time we had him to tea in the J.C.R., Flaxman came undulating in. So sorry, she had no idea anybody was there, and she’d left a book behind. With the Engaged Label on the door as large as life. I did not introduce Geoffrey.”
“Did he want you to?” inquired Miss Haydock.
“Asked who she was. I said she was the Templeton Scholar and the world’s heavyweight in the way of learning. That put him off.”
“What’ll Geoffrey do when you pull off your First, my child?” demanded Miss Haydock.
“Well, Eve-it will be awkward if I do that. Poor lamb! I shall have to make him believe I only did it by looking fragile and pathetic at the viva.” And Miss Layton did, indeed, contrive to look fragile and pathetic, and anything but learned. Nevertheless, on inquiry from Miss Lydgate, Harriet discovered that she was an exceptionally well-fancied favourite for the English School, and was taking, of all things, a Language Special. If the dry bones of Philology could be made to live by Miss Layton, then she was a very dark horse indeed. Harriet felt a respect for her brains; so unexpected a personality might be capable of anything.
So much for Third-Year opinion. Harriet’s first personal encounter with the Second Year was more dramatic.
The College had been so quiet for the last week that Harriet gave herself a holiday from police-duty and went to a private dance given by a contemporary of her own, who had married and settled in North Oxford. Returning between twelve and one, she garaged the car in the Dean’s private garage, let herself quietly through the grille dividing the Traffic Entrance from the rest of College and began to cross the Old Quad towards Tudor. The weather had turned finer, and there was a pale glimmer of cloudy moonlight. Against that glimmer, Harriet, skirting the corner of Burleigh Building, observed something humped and strange about the outline of the eastern wall, close to where the Principal’s private postern led out into St. Cross Road. It seemed clear that here, in the words of the old song, was “a man where nae man should be.”
If she shouted at him, he would drop over on the outer side and be lost. She had the key of the postern with her-having been trusted with a complete set of keys for patrol purposes. Pulling her black evening cloak about her face and stepping softly, Harriet ran quickly down the grass path between the Warden’s House and the Fellows Garden, let herself silently out into St. Cross Road and stood beneath the wall. As she emerged, a second dark form stepped out from the shadows and said urgently, “Oy!”
The gentleman on the wall looked round, exclaimed, “Oh, hell!” and scrambled down in a hurry. His friend made off at a smart pace, but the wall-climber seemed to have damaged himself in his descent, and made but poor speed. Harriet, who was nimble enough, for all she was over nine years down from Oxford, gave chase and came up a few yards from the corner of Jowett Walk. The accomplice, now well away, looked back, hesitating.
“Clear out, old boy!” yelled the captive; and then, turning to Harriet remarked with a sheepish grin, “Well, it’s a fair cop. I’ve bust my ankle or something.”
“And what were you doing on our wall, sir?” demanded Harriet. in the moonlight she beheld a fresh, fair and ingenuous face, youthfully rounded and, at the moment, disturbed by an expression of mingled apprehension and amusement. He was a very tall and very large young man; but Harriet had clasped him in a wiry grip that he could scarcely shake off without hurting her, and he showed no disposition to use violence.
“Just having a beano,” said the young man, promptly. “A bet, you know, and all that. Hang my cap on the tip-top branch of the Shrewsbury beeches. My friend there was the witness. I seem to have lost, don’t I?”
“In that case,” said Harriet severely, “where’s your cap? And your gown, if it comes to that? And, sir, your name and college?”
“Well,” said the young man, impudently, “if it comes to that, where and what are yours?”
When one’s thirty-second birthday is no more than a matter of months away, such a question is flattering. Harriet laughed.
“My dear young man, do you take me for an undergraduate?”
“A don-a female don. God help us!” exclaimed the young man, whose spirits appeared to be sustained, though not unduly exalted, by spirituous liquors.
“Well?” said Harriet.
“I don’t believe it,” said the young man, scanning her face as closely as he could in the feeble light. “Not possible. Too young. Too charming. Too much sense of humour.”
“A great deal too much sense of humour to let you get away with that, my lad. And no sense of humour at all about this intrusion.”
“I say,” said the young man, “I’m really most frightfully sorry. Mere lightheartedness and all that kind of thing. Honestly, we weren’t doing any harm. Quite definitely not. I mean, we were just winning the bet and going away quietly. I say, do be a sport. I mean, you’re not the Warden or the Dean or anything. I know them. Couldn’t you overlook it?”
“It’s all very well,” said Harriet. “But we can’t have this kind of thing. It doesn’t do. You must see that it doesn’t do.”
“Oh, I do see,” agreed the young man. “Absolutely. Definitely. Dashed. silly thing to do. Open to misinterpretation.” He winced, and drew up one leg to rub his injured ankle. “But when you do see a tempting bit of wall like that-”
“Ah. yes,” said Harriet, “what is the temptation? Just come and show me, will you?” She led him firmly, despite his protests, towards the postern. “Oh, I see, yes. A brick or two out of that buttress. Excellent foothold. You’d almost think they’d been knocked out on purpose, wouldn’t you? And a handy tree in the Fellows’ Garden. The Bursar will have to see to it. Are you well acquainted with that buttress, young man?”
“It’s known to exist,” admitted her captive. “But, look here, we weren’t-we weren’t calling on anybody or anything of that kind, you know, if you know what I mean”
“I hope not,” said Harriet.
“No, we were all on our own,” explained the young man, eagerly. “Nobody else involved. Good Heavens, no. And, look here, I’ve bust my ankle and we shall be gated anyhow, and, dear, kind lady-”
At this moment, a loud groan resounded from within the College wall. The young man’s face became filled with agonized alarm.
“What’s that?” asked Harriet.
“I really couldn’t say,” said the young man.
His groan was repeated. Harriet grasped the undergraduate tightly by the arm and led him along to the postern.
“But look here,” said the gentleman, limping dolefully beside her, “you mustn’t-please don’t think-”
“I’m going to see what’s the matter,” said Harriet.
She unlocked the postern, drew her captive in with her, and relocked the gate. Under the wall, just beneath the spot where the young man had been perched, lay a huddled figure, which was apparently suffering acute internal agonies of some kind.
“Look here,” said the young man, abandoning all pretence, “I’m most frightfully sorry about this. I’m afraid we were a bit thoughtless. I mean we didn’t notice. I mean, I’m afraid she isn’t very well, and we didn’t notice how it was, you know.”
“The girl’s drunk,” said Harriet, uncompromisingly.
She had, in the bad old days, seen too many young poets similarly afflicted to make any mistake about the symptoms.
“Well, I’m afraid-yes, that’s about it,” said the young man. “ Rogers will mix ’em so strong. But look here, honestly, there’s no harm done, and I mean-”
“H’m!” said Harriet. “Well, don’t shout. That house is the Warden’s Lodgings.”
“Help,” said the young man, for the second time. “I say-are you going to be sporting?”