At last he said to Dawson-Hill and me: “That’s as much counsel as I’m able to give you. The details of this regrettable incident — why, that’s the task you’ve got to put your minds to. It’s a task and a half, I can tell you. Now I propose to give you all my parting words.”
He gripped the arms of his chair and tried to struggle to his feet.
“No, come, you needn’t stand,” said Brown.
“Certainly I shall stand. I am capable of carrying out my office as I decide it should be carried out. Indeed I am. Will you give me an arm, Eliot? Will you give me an arm, Dawson-Hill?”
With some effort we got him to his feet.
“That’s better,” cried Gay. “That’s much better. Pray listen to me. This is the last chance I shall have of addressing you before your decision. As Moderator in this case of a deprived Fellow, being re-examined before the Court of Seniors, I give you my last words. To the Court of Seniors I have to say: This is a grave decision. Go now and do justice. If you can temper justice with mercy, do so. But go and do justice.”
He stopped for a breath, and went on, turning to Dawson-Hill and me: “To these gentlemen, members of the College, experienced in the law, I have to say this. See that justice is done. Be bold. Let no man’s feelings stand in your way. Justice is more important than any man’s feelings. Speak your minds, and see that justice is done.”
Then he called to us, and we helped him back into his chair. “Now I wish you all success in your tasks. And I wish you goodbye.”
He whispered to us, as the others began to leave the study: “Was that well done?”
“Very well done,” I said.
Dawson-Hill and I had followed the others and were almost out of the room, when the old man called us all back.
“Ah! I had forgotten something essential. Indeed I had. I must insist on your all hearing it. This is positively my last instruction.” He looked at one of his pages of notes. “You intend to reach a decision on or before Wednesday next, am I right?”
“That’s what we hope. But, speaking as Master, I can’t guarantee it,” said Crawford.
“Well spoken,” said Gay. “That’s a very proper caution. That’s what I like to hear. In any case, the time’s of no consequence. There will come a time when, I hope and pray, you’ll be able to reach your decision. Stick to it, all of you, and you’ll get there in the end. This is where my instruction comes in. I wish to be informed, before there is any question of your decision taking effect. As Moderator, I must be the first person to receive your decision. I do not feel inclined to insist on the whole Court of Seniors making this journey to my house again. It will meet my requirements if these gentlemen, Eliot and Dawson-Hill, are sent to me with the findings of the Court. Is that agreed?”
“Is that all right with you two?” Brown said under his breath.
“Agreed,” said Dawson-Hill. I said yes.
“Our two colleagues have undertaken to do that,” said Crawford.
“I shall be waiting for them day or night,” Gay cried with triumph. “This is my last instruction.”
As we went out, he was repeating himself, and we could hear him until we were out on the step. All this time the taxis had been waiting. When Brown got into ours, he peered at the meter and whistled through his teeth.
That was the only comment Brown allowed himself. Otherwise, while the taxi jingled back over the bridge, he did not refer to the next day, or the reason why the three of us were bundled incongruously together, driving through the Cambridge streets. He just domesticated this situation as he had done others before it. He enquired roundly, affably, prosily, about my family as though there was nothing between us. With banal thoroughness he asked if I or Dawson-Hill would find the time to see any of the university match: he speculated about the merits of the teams. It was all as flat and cosy as a man could reasonably manage. I wondered if Dawson-Hill saw through, or beneath, the cushioned prosiness of Brown.
There was nothing flat or cosy about dinner in the combination room that night. There were eight Fellows dining, beside Dawson-Hill and me. Those eight were split symmetrically, four for Howard, and four against. The sight of Dawson-Hill and me seemed to catalyse the clash of tempers. A harmless question by Tom Orbell — how many nights would they be dining in the combination room before they went “back into hall” — brought a snub from Winslow. G S Clark was asking Skeffington, politely but with contempt — “How can you possibly believe that? If you do, I suppose you’re right to say so.” This was not over anything to do with the affair, but upon a matter of church government.
Someone made a reference to our visit. Winslow, who was presiding, said: “Yes, I must say that this is a very remarkable occasion. But I suppose we oughtn’t to ventilate our opinions while this business is what I believe in the singular language of our guests’ profession is called sub judice.”
“It’s all one to me,” said Dawson-Hill nonchalantly, “and I’m sure I can speak for Lewis.”
“No, I suggest we’d better restrain ourselves for the time being,” said Winslow. “Which, since I am credibly informed that some of our number are not now on speaking terms, may not be so difficult as might appear.”
The air was crackling. Dawson-Hill set himself to make the party go, but instead of getting less, the tension grew. At the end of the meal, I told Winslow that he would have to excuse the two of us, since we wanted to discuss the procedure. He seemed glad to see us go. As we left the combination room, I noticed that Winslow was lighting his pipe, and Skeffington reading a newspaper. No one was willing to sit round to talk and drink wine.
26: Definitions by a Window
IN the court, as we walked to my rooms, the sky was lighter than it had been that afternoon. On the breeze came a smell of acacia, faint because the blossom was nearly over, faint because the evening was so cold and dry. Immediately we went into my sitting-room, Dawson-Hill said: “I must say, they’ve given you the Number 1 dressing-room.”
It was true, they had given me the college’s best spare set. Dawson-Hill, so he said, observing mine, had to put up with one much inferior. He observed it with a dash of surprise and no discernible rancour. In fact, he seemed to draw an obscure pleasure from changes of fortune, from the sheer worldliness of the world.
When we had first met, he had been the young man with the future, the brightest catch among young barristers. I had been a young provincial, said to be clever, but not in his swim. He had been polite, because that was his nature: he had laid himself out to amuse, because he had rather people round him were happy than unhappy: but he hadn’t expected to see much of me again. Our acquaintanceship had gone on like that for years. Then I left the bar, and he went on. He thought he had done pretty well. But he was a little surprised to find that, somehow, by processes which to him were pleasurably mysterious, I had become better-known. He was surprised, but not in the least hipped. This was the world. Clever chaps bobbed up when you didn’t expect them. It just showed that one often judged wrong. He was not an envious man, and nothing like so much a snob as he looked. He was ready to accept that I deserved what had happened to me. It made him like me more.