In euphoria, Jago was talking about the college, rather as though he were visiting it, from the loftiest position in the great world outside, after a lapse of years. He mentioned Tom Orbell, who had been his last bright pupil. Brown was unbuttoned enough to say: “Between ourselves, Paul, I hope that young man gets a very good job elsewhere.” None of us needed an explanation of that sinister old college phrase. It meant that a man, even though a permanency as Tom was, would be under moral pressure to apply for other posts. It was getting late, and Jago and I stood up to say goodbye.
“Don’t let it be so long before you come in again,” said Brown to Jago.
“It shan’t be long!” Jago cried.
I wondered how long it would be.
“It shan’t be long!” Jago hallooed back up the stairs.
When we got into the court, I realised that he was unsteady on his feet, on feet abnormally small and light for such a heavy man. I had not paid attention, but he had been drinking hard since we arrived. I should have liked to know how much he drank with his wife at home. Cheerfully he weaved his way at my side to the side gate.
The fine spell had broken. The sky was overcast, a bleak wind blew into our faces, but Jago did not notice.
“Beautiful night!” he cried. “Beautiful night!”
He fumbled his key in the lock, until I took it from him and let him out.
“Shall you be all right?” I asked.
“Of course I shall be all right,” he said. “It’s a nice walk home. It’s a beautiful walk home.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Go and sleep well,” he said.
38: An Order in the Book
OUT of the window, as I sat at breakfast next day, the garden was dark; the room struck cold. All the morning the room struck cold, while I waited for a message from the combination room, where the Seniors were having their last meeting. To myself, I had given them an hour or so to find a formula. By twelve o’clock there was still no news. I couldn’t judge whether the delay was good or bad. I rang up Dawson-Hill, who also was waiting in his room: no, he had heard nothing.
There were no books in the guest room. I had read the morning papers twice over. I ate the relics of the bread and cheese which Jago and I had brought in the night before. Between one and half past I telephoned the porter’s lodge. The head porter told me that the combination room lights, which had been on most of the morning, were now turned off. The Seniors must have gone to lunch.
As soon as I heard that, I went quickly through the courts to the college library, took out a couple of books, returned to my rooms. I was anxious enough to telephone the porter’s lodge again: had there been a message during the minutes I had been away? When they said no, I settled down to read, trying to stop myself speculating: but I was ready to hear the college clock each time it struck.
It had just struck half past three, when there was a knock at my door. I looked for the college butler. It was Dawson-Hill.
“I must say, Lewis,” he said, “the old boys are taking their time.”
He was not cross, not in the least worried, except that he had to catch the last train back to London.
“I suggest,” he said, “that we both need a breath of fresh air.”
Leaving the window open on the garden side, we should, he said, be within earshot of the telephone. So we walked on the grass between the great chestnut and the palladian building. The wind was rough, the bushes seethed, but Dawson-Hill’s glossy hair stayed untroubled. He set himself to entertain me with stories which he himself found perennially fascinating: of how the commanding officer of his regiment had mistaken X for Y, of how Lord Boscastle had remarked, of a family who were the height of fashion, “Whatever made them think they were aristocrats?” He was setting himself to entertain me. His laugh, which sounded affected and wasn’t, cachinnated cheerfully into the wind-swept March-like garden. By this time I was worrying like a machine that won’t run down. I could have brained him.
At half past four his stories were still going on, but he had decided that we both needed a cup of tea. Back in my rooms, he rang up the kitchens: no one there yet, in the depth of vacation. He took me out to a café close by, leaving a message with the porter. No one had asked for us when we returned. It was after five when, sitting in my room, Dawson-Hill cachinnating, I heard another knock on the door. This time it was the butler.
“The Master’s compliments, gentlemen, and he would be grateful if you would join him in the combination room.”
As he walked in front of us through the court, it occurred to me that this was how the news of my Fellowship had come. I had been waiting in Francis Getliffe’s rooms (without suspense, because it had been settled beforehand), the butler had knocked on the door, given me the Master’s compliments, and led me in.
Again, this dark summer afternoon, the butler led us in. On the panels, the wall-sconces were shining rosily. The Seniors sat, Winslow with his head sunk over the table, Brown bolt upright, Nightingale with his arms crossed over his chest. Crawford gazed at us, face moonlike, back to his normal composure. When he spoke his voice was tired, but nothing like as jaded or spiky as on the day before.
“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” he said. “We apologise for keeping you all this time. We have had a little difficulty in expressing our intention.”
In front of him and Brown were sheets of foolscap, written on, passages crossed out, pages of holograph with lines across them, attempts at drafting, discarded resolutions.
The butler was leaving the room, when Brown plucked at Crawford’s gown and whispered in his ear.
“Before you go, Newby!” called Crawford.
“Thank you very much for reminding me, Senior Tutor. We are under pledge, as I think the Court will remember, to communicate our decision to Professor Gay, who was appointed by the College Moderator in this case. I believe it was agreed that our legal colleagues here would report our decision to the Moderator, as soon as it was signed and sealed. Is that correct?”
“Certainly, Master,” said Dawson-Hill.
“In that case,” Crawford said to the butler, “I should be obliged if you would give a message to Professor Gay’s house asking him to expect these two gentlemen this evening.”
No one was smiling. No one, except me, seemed to resent this final interruption.
The door closed.
“So that’s all in train,” said Crawford, and Brown steadily nodded.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Crawford, “perhaps now we can dispatch our business. I should like to make a preliminary observation. Speaking not as Master but as a member of the college, and as one who has spent half a century in academic life, I have often felt that our internal disagreements sometimes generate more heat than light. I seem to recall making a similar comment on other occasions. But, with deference to my colleagues, I doubt if that has ever been more true than in this present one, which, I am thankful to say, we are now concluding. Speaking as an academic man, I am sometimes inclined to believe in the existence of a special furor academicum. However, speaking now as Master about this special and unfortunate occasion, I have to say that it is one of our responsibilities to diminish the heat which it has generated. In the course of our very protracted and careful discussions in this Court, especially today, I need hardly remark that no one has ever entertained a thought that any Fellow of the college — with the solitary exception of the man whom the Court originally deprived — could possibly have acted except with good intentions and according to the code of men devoted to science or other branches of learning.”