CHAPTER XXXVIII--A NIGHT OF IT

The college and its guests were assembled. Peter and his eight, with

members of the crews they had defeated, were seated at the high table.

The bump-supper was in progress. Scarcely anyone was absolutely sober.

For the first time in history Calvary had gone up seven places and had

finished head of the river.

Stoop-shouldered dons, men who held themselves aloof with a scholar's

shyness, broke their rule to-night and hobnobbed with undergraduates.

The dim old college hall was-uproarious with strong laughter and bass

voices. The animal splendor of youth, the rage of life, as seen that

afternoon on the river, had lured them away from cramped texts and

grievous truths contained in books--had opened their eyes to a more

vigorous and primitive conception of living.

A German Rhodes scholar, seated next to the college chaplain, was trying

to teach him that scandalous libel against all parsons, The Ballad of

The Parson's Cow. The chaplain, who on more formal occasions would have

felt insulted, was doing his eager best to pick up the words and tune.

He kept assuring the German Rhodes scholar of his immense gratitude.

He compared The Ballad of The Parson's Cow to Piers the Ploughman, and

affected to regard it as a literary pearl of great price.

Somewhere in the distance, behind clouds of tobacco smoke, Harry was

singing his latest. Dons said “Shish!” gazing round with half-hearted

severity. Nobody paid them much attention. Topsy-turvydom ruled;

discipline was at an end. Behind the clouds of tobacco smoke the

irrepressible voice sang on; other voices swelled the volume, taking up

the chorus:

“Ever been born on a Friday?

What, never been born on a Friday!

What, never been born on a Friday yet,

When your mother wasn't at home!”

Even Professor Benares Usk, the greatest Homeric scholar in Europe,

let himself go under the influence of wine. His bald egg-shaped head

perspired profusely. “I don't mind telling you,” he kept saying. He was

one of those self-important pedants who never minded telling anybody. He

had made a corner in one fragment of human knowledge; consequently the

things which he didn't mind telling people would fill a library. Just

at present he was explaining to Roy Hardcastle, with a sugar bowl for a

galley and forks for oars, the technique of Greek rowing as revealed in

Homer. Hardcastle repeatedly broke in on him with skittish references

to Olympian immoralities. He propounded the theory to the Professor that

the Iliad, in its day, had been no more than a bad boy's book of frisky

stories. The Professor was sufficiently not himself to contest the

theory warmly.

Flushed faces, eager eyes, gusty laughter! From painted canvases, on

paneled walls, grim founders looked down on bacchanalia, some of them

sourly, others indifferently, and yet others with envy because, since

becoming angels, they could no longer enjoy a glass of port.

The air was getting stifling. Speeches were commencing. The grave old

warden was turning to Peter, and addressing him. Hardly a word was

audible above the cheers. Hardcastle, as captain of the rowing, rose to

reply.

Outside, behind stained-glass windows, the cool dusk of summer drifted

noiselessly. Creepers rustled against crumbling masonry. The faint sweet

smell of bean fields, far-blown from wide hillsides, met the wistful

fragrance of imprisoned rose-gardens; they wandered together like

ghostly lovers through the shadowy quiet of the quads.

Peter wanted to be out there--wanted to go to her. For the first time

in a year he had seen her. Strange how little he had forgotten! He

half-closed his eyes, picturing and remembering: her nun-like trick of

carrying her hands against her breast; the way her voice slurred; her

meek appearance of gay piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and

the challenge of her eyes denied. She was a girl-woman, borrowing

the attitudes of sophistication, yet exquisitely young and poignantly

ignorant of the world.

He hadn't been able to say much to her--only, “I heard you, Cherry”; to

which she, shy in the presence of his parents, had replied, “I'm glad. I

was afraid--so afraid that you wouldn't win the race.”

They had walked up through the meadows, all of them together; he, with

his mother and Kay on either side; she, between his father and the

Faun Man. He had heard her tripping footsteps following behind. At the

college-gate he had said, “I'll see you again”; and she, “Perhaps.”

No more than that. He had not dared to appoint a place of meeting; his

parents didn't know--they wouldn't understand. Then he had had to run

off to change for dinner.

She might be leaving early to-morrow. Did she care for him? She had

seemed more sorry for him, more as though she were trying to be kind to

him than in love with him. She was non-committal, elusive. But she was

in Oxford to-night. Where, and with whom?

All down the long hall they were pushing back their chairs, struggling

up from tables and tumbling out into the cool twilight. Men were

hurrying to their rooms to put on their oldest clothes; there was going

to be a “rag.” A piano struck up; then ceased suddenly. A groping of

feet in the darkness of a wooden staircase! From one of the doorways

a jostling, shouting crowd emerged. The piano was set down in the open

quad; a chair was tossed out of a window. Harry took his seat at the

key-board and commenced jingling over the air of, “What, never been born

on a Friday yet, when your mother wasn't at home!” Several of the crew

seized Peter and hoisted him on to the top of the piano. He stood there

an unwilling statue on a burlesque pedestal. They joined hands and

danced about him in a circle. Then came the old wander-song of his

childhood, bringing thoughts of her and of the Happy Cottage, “I've been

shipwrecked off Patagonia.” Harry shouldn't have played that.

A new diversion! They took him by the arms and ran him away: others

followed, staggering under the weight of the piano. Through a passage a

red glow grew up. In a neighboring quad a bon-fire had been kindled.

It wasn't high enough, broad enough, big enough--wasn't worthy of the

occasion. From windows, two and three stories up, men leant out and

hurled down furniture. Very often it wasn't their furniture. Who cared?

The sky rained desks, and chairs, and tables.

Singing and shouting everywhere! An impromptu loving-cup was drunk,

composed of anything alcoholic that came handy.

“Barrington! Hardcastle! Barrington!”

He and Hardcastle had to make speeches to one another.

A rocket soared into the night and burst among the stars. A rocket from

a neighboring college answered the challenge. Soon the sky became a

target against which Oxford aimed burning arrows.

A dispute arose as to the details of the last great race. Hardcastle

insisted that there was nothing for it but to row it all afresh. With

grave solemnity the crewmen, as though they were taking their places in

an eight, were made to seat themselves in a line along the path. A rival

crew, selected from among the defeated oarsmen of other colleges, was

arranged ahead of them. Peter took his place at stroke in this sham

rehearsal of an event accomplished. A pistol was fired; with empty

hands, the eightsmen went through all the motions of rowing, to an

accompaniment of yells of encouragement.

It must be nearly twelve--the out-of-college men and guests were

departing. Peter wished he could follow them. Good-byes were being said

with exaggerated fervor, as if long journeys were in prospect. The last

of them had seized his gown and run. The porter was locking the gate of

the lodge. Big Tom boomed the hour. The college was closed; there would

be no more knocking in or out until to-morrow. And to-morrow she might

be gone.

Peter caught Harry by the arm and led him aside. “Where's she staying?”

“Who?”

“Cherry, of course.”

Harry laughed slyly. “Cherry, of course! Who else? Staying! Lorie's

taken a room for her in Bath Place. You know--between Holywell and Hell

Passage.”

“Which room?”

Harry became serious. “Look here, old chap, what d'you want to know

for?”

“Because i'm going to her.”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yes, to-night. You know what she is--may be gone before breakfast.”

“Here, you'd better come to bed.”

As they strolled across quad to Peter's room, Harry asked him, “Whatever

put such a mad scheme into your head? You can't get out of college--the

gate's shut. If you did and got caught, you'd be sent down for a

certainty.”

When the door had closed behind them, Peter didn't sit down--he didn't

start to undress. He went to the window, threw it open and leant out.

“I'm going, Harry, and I shan't get caught, either. You've got to help.

It's a twenty-foot drop. If I knot my sheets together they'll be long

enough. You wait here till I come back and haul me up.”

Harry didn't approve of it; but he was the mouth-organ boy and the

adventure was in keeping with the night. The rope of sheets was flung

out. For a moment Peter balanced on the sill; then he slipped down,

hand-over-hand, into the blackness.

“All right.”

The rope was withdrawn.

The street was intensely quiet--empty of all sound. Houses slept. Not a

shadow stirred. A cool breeze blew upon his forehead. He had the world

to himself. He felt immensely young and exultant.

He began to run stealthily and on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall.

There was never any telling--someone might come round a corner suddenly

and take him unawares.

As he passed Professor Usk's house, he thought for a moment of Glory. In

one of those prim rooms she was lying safe in bed--she and Riska. He'd

seen Riska laughing with Hardcastle on the barge. Who the dickens had

introduced her? She was quite capable of having introduced herself.

Then he forgot everything and everyone but Cherry and the purpose of his

errand.

He came out on to High Street, flowing in a slow curve past churches

and ancient doorways. As he went by All Souls he had the sense of still

gardens and cool turf, lying steeped in moonlight. He wanted to laugh,

wanted to shout to the silent city that he would soon be talking with

her.

He turned down by Hell Passage and dived under an archway into a little

court, where a lamp smoldered in an iron bracket and echoes played

hide-and-seek behind his footsteps. There was an uncared for garden. In

one corner stood a public house, with all the lights extinguished. Along

one side, hugging the wall of a low-roofed house, ran the narrow path.

He stepped back and looked up at the windows; that must be hers to the

left.

He whispered her name, “Cherry. Cherry.”

Was she awake? He fancied that he heard her stir. He picked up some

earth and threw it against the panes. He had startled her; something

creaked, as though she sat up sharply.

“Don't be frightened. It's Peter,” he called beneath his breath.

She was coming. Soon she would look out. He saw her, leaning down on

him, white clad, with her dark hair falling all about her face.

“I couldn't stop away any longer, Cherry. I had to come to you. I want

you to promise that you'll be here to-morrow. When I asked you before

you only said, 'Perhaps.' Only perhaps, Cherry, after a year of waiting!

Promise me, 'Yes.'”

Was she laughing? Was she angry? He was whispering to her again. “They'd

locked all the doors. I was afraid that I'd never get out. I climbed

down, when everyone was in bed. I had to come to you.”

“Oh, Peter, Peter!” She wasn't cross with him. She was laughing. “You're

so persistent. It took you to do that.”

Silence again.

“But promise,” he urged. He wished that he might see her clearly. They

had called her Cherry because her lips were red. “But promise. Won't you

say 'Yes'?”

Her answer came so that he could scarcely hear it. “If I promise, will

you go now?”

He nodded like a child, to give emphasis.

“Then yes--but only if you go now at once.”

She waited to see him start. He turned away reluctantly. As he entered

the shadow of the archway he thought she kissed her hand.