Letters — a pile of them, and all subtly annoying. Ada, most civil. Kitty, saying his mother looked done up. Aunt Ida — a postcard — wanting to know whether the chauffeur was supposed to obey orders, or had one misunderstood? business fatuities, circulars about the College Mission, the Territorial training, the Golf Club, and the Property Defence Association. He bowed humorously over them to his hostess. When she scarcely responded, he went hot round his mouth. It was only that Mrs Durham's own letters worried her. But he did not know this, and was carried out further by the current. Each human being seemed new, and terrified him: he spoke to a race whose nature and numbers were unknown, and whose very food tasted poisonous.
After breakfast Simcox returned to the charge. "Sir, in Mr
Durham's absence the servants feel — we should be so honoured if you would captain us against the Village in the forthcoming 'Park versus Village' match."
"I'm not a cricketer, Simcox. Who's your best bat?"
"We have no one better than the under gamekeeper."
"Then make the under gamekeeper captain."
Simcox lingered to say, "Things always go better under a gentleman."
"Tell them to put me to field deep — and I won't bat first: about eighth if he likes — not first. You might tell him, as I shan't come down till it's time." He closed his eyes, feeling sick-ish. He had created something whose nature he ignored. Had he been theologically minded, he would have named it remorse, but he kept a free soul, despite confusion.
Maurice hated cricket. It demanded a snickety neatness he could not supply; and, though he had often done it for Clive's sake, he disliked playing with his social inferiors. Footer was different — he could give and take there — but in cricket he might be bowled or punished by some lout, and he felt it unsuitable. Hearing his side had won the toss, he did not go down for half an hour. Mrs Durham and one or two friends already sat in the shed. They were all very quiet. Maurice squatted at their feet, and watched the game. It was exactly like other years. The rest of his side were servants and had gathered a dozen yards away round old Mr Ayres, who was scoring: old Mr Ayres always scored.
"The captain has put himself in first," said a lady. "A gentleman would never have done that. Little points interest me."
Maurice said, "The captain's our best man, apparently."
She yawned and presently criticized: she'd an instinct that man was conceited. Her voice fell idly into the summer air. He was emigrating, said Mrs Durham — the more energetic did — which turned them to politics and Clive. His chin on his knees, Maurice brooded. A storm of distaste was working up inside him, and he did not know against what to direct it. Whether the ladies spoke, whether Alec blocked Mr Borenius's lobs, whether the villagers clapped or didn't clap, he felt unspeakably oppressed: he had swallowed an unknown drug: he had disturbed his life to its foundations, and couldn't tell what would crumble. When he went out to bat, it was a new over, so that Alec received first ball. His style changed. Abandoning caution, he swiped the ball into the fern. Lifting his eyes, he met Maurice's and smiled. Lost ball. Next time he hit a boundary. He was untrained, but had the cricketing build, and the game took on some semblance of reality. Maurice played up too. His mind had cleared, and he felt that they were against the whole world, that not only Mr Borenius and the field but the audience in the shed and all England were closing round the wickets. They played for the sake of each other and their fragile relationship — if one fell the other would follow. They intended no harm to the world, but so long as it attacked they must punish, they must stand wary, then hit with full strength, they must show that when two are gathered together majorities shall not triumph. And as the game proceeded it connected with the night, and interpreted it. Clive ended it easily enough. When he came to the ground they were no longer the leading force; people turned their heads, the game languished, and ceased. Alec resigned. It was only fit and proper that the squire should bat at once. Without looking at Maurice, he receded. He too was in white flannels, and their looseness made him look like a gentleman or anyone else. He stood in front of the shed with dignity, and when Clive had done talking offered his bat, which Clive took as a matter of course: then flung himself down by old Ayres.
Maurice met his friend, overwhelmed with spurious tenderness.
"Clive… Oh my dear, are you back? Aren't you fagged frightfully?"
"Meetings till midnight — another this afternoon — must bat a minute to please these people."
"What! Leaving me again? How frightfully rotten."
"You may well say so, but I really do come back this evening, then your visit really does begin. I've a hundred things to ask you, Maurice."
"Now, gentlemen," said a voice; it was the socialist schoolmaster, out at long stop.
"We stand rebuked," said Clive, but didn't hurry himself. "Anne's cried off the afternoon meeting, so you'll have her for company. Oh look, they've actually mended her dear little hole in the roof of the drawing-room. Maurice! No, I can't remember what I was going to say. Let us join the Olympic Games."
Maurice went out first ball. "Wait for me," called Clive, but he went straight for the house, for he felt sure that the breakdown was coming. As he passed the servants, the majority of them rose to their feet, and applauded him frantically, and the fact that Scudder didn't alarmed him. Was it meant for impertinence? The wrinkled forehead — the mouth — possibly a cruel mouth; head a trifle too small — why was the shirt open at the throat like that? And in the hall of Penge he met Anne.
"Mr Hall, the meeting didn't go." Then she saw his face, which was green-white, and cried, "Oh, but you're not well."
"I know," he said, trembling.
Men hate to be fussed, so she only replied, "I'm frightfully sorry, I'll send some ice to your room."
"You've been so kind to me always —"
"Look here, what about a doctor?"
"Never another doctor," he cried frantically.
"We want to be kind to you — naturally. When one's happy oneself one wants the same happiness for others."
"Nothing's the same."
"Mr Hall —!"
"Nothing's the same for anyone. That's why life's this Hell, if you do a thing you're damned, and if you don't you're damned — " he paused, and continued. "Sun too hot — should like a little ice."
She ran for it, and released he flew up to the Russet Room. It brought home to him the precise facts of the situation, and he was violently sick.
He felt better at once, but realized that he must leave Penge. He changed into the serge, packed, and was soon downstairs again with a neat little story. "The sun caught me," he told Anne, "but I'd radier a worrying letter too, and I think I'd better be in town."
"Much, much better," she cried, all sympathy.
"Yes, much better," echoed Clive, who was up from the match. "We'd hoped you'd put it right yesterday, Maurice, but we quite understand, and if you must go you must go."
And old Mrs Durham had also accrued. There was to be a laughing open secret about this girl in town, who had almost accepted his offer of marriage but not quite. It didn't matter how ill he looked or how queerly he behaved, he was officially a lover, and they interpreted everything to their satisfaction and found him delightful.
Clive motored him to the station, since their ways lay together that far. The drive skirted the cricket field before entering the woods. Scudder was fielding now, looking reckless and graceful. He was close to them, and stamped one foot, as though summoning something. That was the final vision, and whether of a devil or a comrade Maurice had no idea. Oh, the situation was disgusting — of that he was certain, and indeed never wavered till the end of his life. But to be certain of a situation is not to be certain of a human being. Once away from