Are we going to be friends or enemies, do you suppose?
Jersey Tiger by Maggie Bevan
George knew that old people were incapable of understanding young ones, so he pitied his father rather than despising him, and resolved to wait out the four years manfully before marrying Charlotte.
George Meadows was butterfly-hunting along Westheath when he saw a tall boy somewhat older than himself advance along the track, followed at a distance by a servant carrying a couple of dead rabbits and a gun. He knew the boy to be Edward Gardner-Hervey, but they were not acquainted, so he made to touch his hat and pass on. Young Gardner-Hervey, however, stopped squarely across his path. "You're Meadows," he stated. "Your father's a lace-maker."
"Father was a lace dealer," corrected George, "but he's retired from business."
"And lives in the Dutch House at Torcombe with only an acre of garden. I know. It's a queer little house. The roof is like an upturned boat."
"That sort is usual in Holland. And there are six bedrooms, without counting the garrets."
Edward Gardner-Hervey laughed. "You answer coolly for a tradesman's son!" He turned his head aside and called to his servant, "Stay, Dagworthy!" - as if the man were a dog, thought George. Dagworthy lounged against a thorn tree and lit his pipe. Edward Gardner-Hervey said, "But you see, what is usual in Holland may be queer in England. As for size, your entire house would fit in the hall at Knowle."
"Knowle is much bigger, but you exaggerate."
"I do not. Apart from being large in area, the hall rises the entire height of the house. You must consider the cubic capacity. Oh - do you know what cubic capacity is?"
"Certainly. I study mathematics at school."
"Ah! What school?"
" Bulverton Grammar."
"That's twelve miles off. Do you board?"
"I sleep in the Master's house and come home at weekends."
"I have a tutor. Dull work! Do you have fun with the other fellows after lights out?"
"There are no other fellows after lights out. The rest go home at night. I share my room with the usher."
"Then do you have fun with him after light out? Or is he a tedious fellow, always spouting Latin?"
"He's very good-natured, but I go to bed early, and am asleep when he comes up."
"Then I don't envy you after all. No point in boarding without fun after lights out. Is mathematics your favourite subject?"
"No. Latin."
"I don't care for Latin, though I'm very good at it. I'm reading Caesar's Gallic Wars."
"I've finished Caesar's Gallic Wars."
"Good Lord! How old are you?"
"Nearly fourteen. But I skipped over two classes."
"I should have thought mathematics the best study for a tradesman's son."
"But I don't mean to go into trade. I shall go to Cambridge and take my degree and become a fellow."
"Then you'd better not go to Kings, for my great uncle Erasmus Hervey is Master of Kings and I'm going there myself."
"I shall go to Clare. It's an older foundation. Kings is only Henry VI."
Edward Gardner-Hervey laughed, displaying glinting white teeth, and said, "Are we going to be friends or enemies, do you suppose? There is something very interesting about you, though I don't much care for your being so awfully good at Latin. It might be more entertaining to be enemies...Do you think me handsome?"
Taken aback, George stared at the tall, slight, well-knit figure and the fine-skinned, slightly aquiline face with its shapely lips and glittering hazel eyes. "I suppose so," he replied, wondering at the same time whether the face was good- or ill-natured, and unable to decide, for it looked capable of being either. Edward gave him look for look. "You are not handsome," he said. "You are too short and square and your hands and feet are too broad. Narrow hands and feet are a sign of breeding, you know. So are height and slenderness."
"But they're not, unless your father's ill-bred, for he's a broad man," protested George. "And unless your servant's well-bred, for he's tall and thin. It's all nonsense. Shape and size say nothing about breeding."
"I was going to say, you are not handsome but you are personable. Perhaps I shall still, for all your rudeness. Your face is a good shape and your mouth handsome." He put out a hand and stroked a lock of hair out of George's eye. "So is your brown hair. Fine as a girl's - at any rate, as far as I can tell. Take off your hat!"
George stepped backward, poked away the stray lock and tugged his hat lower. "It's only ordinary hair," he said.
The older boy also took a step away. "What are you doing here with those bulging pockets?" he asked sharply. "Poaching? This is our land, you know!"
"I do know, for your father enclosed it only last year, and I'm not poaching, and my pockets are full of jars. I'm collecting butterflies." He displayed his net on a stick. "I'm not trespassing, either, for this is a right of way."
"Butterflies! And you pin them out and make designs to put on tea-trays, like a girl?"
"No, I do not. I study them through a lens to identify them." George gathered that his refusal to display his hair had given offense and the boy had decided upon enmity. He bowed slightly and was about to pursue his walk when a flutter of orange caught his gaze and his quick eye followed an insect to a gorse bush, upon which it settled.
"Where did it go?" said Edward Gardner-Hervey. "Ah, there he is! No. That's not it. The one I saw was orange. This fellow's striped like a zebra."
"It's the same one. The underwings are orange," said George.
"It's the queerest butterfly I ever saw," said Edward, peering forward.
"Don't put your shadow over it or it'll fly," warned Edward, easing his net into position. "It's not a butterfly. See the spear shape? It's a moth - a Jersey Tiger! I never found one before."
As George's net fell back for the swoop, the older boy slid swiftly out of his shooting coat and flung it over the gorse bush, moth and all. "Mine!" he exclaimed, grinning. " I capture the tiger! The great hunter goes home empty-handed!"
"But I saw it first!" cried George.
"But I caught it first, and possession is nine points of the law. In any event, it's my moth because it's on my land. You can't come here poaching my moths you know. Lord, how red you've gone! Do you want to fight me for it?"
"It'll be all broken under that heavy coat! It's useless now and not worth fighting for!"
"Do you want to fight me anyway?"
"No I don't. I'll bet you're sly and won't fight fair!"
"You're a coward!"
"I'm not. You are the coward. You only offer to fight because your servant will help you if you lose. And you're dog-in-the-manger to keep the moth from me when you don't want it for yourself!"
"Not dog-in-the-manger, precisely," said Edward thoughtfully. "It's more that I want to enjoy your rage - and aren't I just! You're like a beetroot. You're right that I don't fight fair. Where's the fun in that? But as for Dagworthy helping me - he'd far rather see me take a thrashing. Do try to give me one!"
"No, I won't! You disdain me because you're rich and live at Knowle and I'll have nothing more to do with you."
"Dear me, a democrat! Should you like to cut off my head, like the Frenchies?"
"No, but I wish we lived at either end of England so I might never see your head." George turned abruptly and strode off the way he'd come.
Edward Gardner-Hervey laughed behind him. "You're not a coward," he called. "Come back and fight." George marched on. "Well, we'll fight some day! See if we don't!"
George walked off his fury and returned to the Dutch House in time for dinner. As he dried his hands he stared in the glass above his wash stand - but never before having given his appearance a moment's thought, could not make out whether the face that stared back was pleasing or repulsive, whether the hair was handsome or perfectly ordinary: it was just his face, his hair. He turned a little sideways. His chest was broad and deep, and his stature certainly was low compared with Edward Gardner-Hervey's. "But he's near two years older," he muttered. "If I grow as high as Father I'll be five foot-ten. That's tall enough."
George was an only child, orphaned of his mother, living with a father to whom he was devoted. But even when the servant had cleared dinner and they were alone, he said nothing of his encounter with Edward Gardner-Hervey. There had been something odd about it which he felt unequal to explain - which could not explain even to himself.
For the next couple of years George saw Edward Gardner-Hervey only at church or passing by on his horse or in the phaeton he took to driving. Once, returning from a walk, he met with the Hunt, the bold spirits of which were jumping a hedge while the prudent turned through a gate. George waited courteously at the gate until the last rider was though and then closed it. Then he noticed a rider hanging back, and made to open the gate again, but the horseman called, "No, no, I'm for the hedge, my good fellow!" It was Edward Gardner-Hervey. Instead of putting his horse at the low section of hedge where the rest had jumped, Gardner-Hervey swerved through a muddy puddle at George's feet, and called over his shoulder as he cleared the barrier at its highest point, "You never look at me!"
George wiped himself down with his handkerchief, undistressed by the dirt, for he wore an old suit of clothes, accustomed to rough use. He was more concerned about being called "my good fellow" and about the young gentleman's parting remark. It was true that he avoided looking at Edward Gardner-Hervey when they passed, because even after the passage of time there was unease for him in recalling the scene at Westheath. But why should the young man wish to be looked at? He could hardly expect admiration. Did he then wish to savour their enmity, in the same way he had savoured George's rage? Or did he think George craven, incapable of meeting his eye? In case this was so, George changed his demeanour, and from then on, whenever he came face to face with his enemy, gave him a cool, bland, unconcerned stare.
The summer following this encounter, the Gardner-Herveys held an Open Day. Although their social circle comprised only great landed families, every five or six years they felt themselves obliged to treat Torcombe to an afternoon in the grounds of Knowle and a tea including the famous Knowle strawberries, served in the drawing room to gentlefolk and in a tent on the lawn to the rest. The invitation was general. Anyone might come, from Parson to maidservant. There were sports for the males, gossip and best clothes for the females, sweetmeats for the children.
George Meadows had never seen an Open Day, having had measles on the one occasion he had been at home and of an age to attend. He did not at all want to go to this one, but was at a loss what excuse to make to his father, who took for granted that both would go. However, when he learned that the entertainment was to include a cricket match, Knowle against Torcombe, his reluctance diminished. He was good at cricket.
The sports of Torcombe were skittles and wrestling. Only boys played at cricket. Thus Mr Dove, the parson, who captained the Town, was obliged to choose men and youths of general athleticism who knew little or nothing of the game, and rapidly instruct them in its rules. Indeed, the whole of Torcombe did not possess a cricket bat of a size for a man (and scarcely one of any size at all, since boys played mostly with odd lengths of wood), so George's father paid Mr Longmire, the turner and cabinet-maker, to make a couple for the Town to share amongst them. The Town team practiced on the green each evening for the week or so before the Open Day, and George, the best bat, shared his small expertise with the team, while Mr Dove attempted to explain the mysteries of spinning the ball to make it break, which he could contrive to do only occasionally himself. Mr Dove evidently doubted his gallant team's ability to win by scoring heavily and shattering the opposing wickets, for he insisted upon sharp work by the look-outs, and the vital importance of cutting off each ball before it reached the boundary.
As bat-owner, George practiced privately with his father, who bowled to him for hours on end with the utmost good-nature. Mr Meadows hadn't the knack of spinning, but since the ball bounced eccentrically on their uneven lawn, it was almost as good. George soon found himself able to meet anything his father threw, and was confident that on the day of the match he would hit the ball hard and often.
For the first part of the Open Day, George kept himself out of the way, walking about distant parts of Knowle grounds and admiring the pools and peacocks and statues, strolling along the far edge of the lawn with its peerless view of vast sky, rolling sea and great red headlands marching westwards. He just glimpsed Edward Gardner-Hervey above the heads of his guests, for he was fully six feet high now, while George still struggled towards his hoped-for five foot-ten. He could easily avoid the fellow in this crowd - except at the cricket, of course. Young Gardner-Hervey was rumoured to be a clever bowler. However, since George could deal with anything his father and Mr Dove threw, he was sure to make mincemeat of his enemy.
The cricketers gathered in the paddock. The guests crowded its edges. George saw that the Knowle team consisted of the senior Mr Gardner-Hervey, his son Edward, a visiting cousin and several of the footmen, grooms and gardeners. The umpire was his butler, tall and portly Mr Maer, who tossed the coin. Mr Dove won and chose to bat first. As prearranged, he and George were the opening pair and George took first strike. Mr Gardner-Hervey, as Knowle captain, tossed the ball to his son. The players took the field to polite applause.
Resolving to keep his eye strictly on the ball, George took his stance. Edward Gardner-Hervey walked back a few paces and ran slowly up to bowl - but instead of throwing the ball in the conventional manner he tossed it skywards in an immense, lazy loop, up and up and up until George, squinting painfully into the sun, lost it entirely - and then suddenly it was descending before his watering eyes, dead over the wicket. Frantic with haste, he raised his bat to knock the ball away. The crowd shouted - the ball flew - "How's that?" cried the bowler. Mr Maer held up his hand. George gaped in consternation. He had caught the bales along with the ball and destroyed his own wicket. For a moment his chagrin was so intense he couldn't stir. Then he gathered his wits, contrived a ruefully comical grin, and marched off to resign his bat to the next man. Edward Gardner-Hervey smiled at him half-hungrily, half-exultantly and altogether unbearably as he passed. George watched the rest of his side's innings from an isolated position on the far side of the field in order to avoid commiserations.
His spirits revived slightly upon seeing Mr Dove score twenty-seven runs before scooping up an easy catch to a footman. The only other sportsman to distinguish himself was Robert Slade, the butcher, with a score of twenty-three. The rest all got a few runs and had amassed ninety between them when the last wicket fell - and it should have been fewer, for several balls reached the boundary which could have been cut off. The Knowle defence was remarkably lax. Mr Gardner-Hervey and the visiting cousin did not look-out at all, but sat on a bench drinking sherry, the wicket-keeper didn't know his work and the remainder of the field was sluggish. George was further heartened by his enemy's relative ill-success in bowling after that first fantastical shot. He attempted the same trick several times, but never again judged it accurately, and then the sun moved round and half its effect was lost. Bowling conventionally, he was no better than any other, and took only one wicket more. George began to think that Torcombe's ninety could win the day.
And so it proved. Knowle's batting was of much the same standard as their own, but smart look-out prevented much scoring and Knowle was all out for seventy-three. George's chagrin was further soothed when a backward-running aerial leap brought him a spectacular catch - but still he was sore at being the only man to contribute not a single run to the victory. Edward Gardner-Hervey sidled over to him as the combatants refreshed themselves with lemonade and murmured, "I don't care about losing. I only wanted to bowl you out." George knew at once that this was true and was as puzzled and furious as he had been about the Jersey Tiger.
In the summer before he was to take his place at Jesus, George Meadows was in love. Charlotte James, daughter of William James, the attorney, was at eighteen a year his senior, and just come home from school in Bath. They met at a dance at the home of mutual friends. As well as being darkly pretty, just the right height and beautifully formed, Charlotte seemed to him kind and sweet-natured and very intelligent indeed: she not only took a great interest in his moths and butterflies, she also declared her disdain of Edward Gardner-Hervey. "He is either lazy or stupid," she said, "for he is older than you, yet is going up to Cambridge at the same time. And he thinks himself grand just because he is rich, when wealth means nothing except for the good one may do. And he is so vain of his appearance! Though I have never spoken to him, one may easily see him preening. But what has he to be vain of? He is not even good-looking!"
Edward thought she had never looked so lovely as when declaring her indifference to wealth; and though he could hardly agree with her conclusion that Gardner-Hervey was ill-looking, yet it was balm to his soul, especially since her dark eyes declared as she spoke that she did think him good-looking. He almost proposed marriage on the spot - but as her brother walked over at that moment to have his tea cup refilled, the opportunity was gone; and on second thoughts he decided to first consult his father.
"Charlotte James!" said his father that evening. "I know no harm of the girl, and she's quite pretty, but you're far too young to think of marriage. Besides, she's a year older than you, and that's a difference the wrong way."
"Quite pretty!" said George, nonplussed at his father's tepid response. "She's beautiful. And what can one year of age matter? You don't understand my feelings, father. I love her."
"Very well, if you still love her when you come down from Cambridge..."
"I shall love her always!"
"Excellent, my boy. So when you come down from Cambridge, that will be soon enough to consider the matter."
"But that's years. She might marry somebody else."
"Which would prove she doesn't love you. Don't fret, dear boy. If you're of the same mind three or four years hence I'll have nothing to say against it, nothing at all - but in the meantime, enjoy her society during vacations and work hard in term time. You don't want a wife hanging upon you just now. Besides, what happened to your ambition to take a fellowship and become a fellow? Fellows may not marry, you know!"
"Oh, that is behind me now. I didn't understand what the sacrifice would be."
"I rather thought you didn't - and I'd sooner see you happily married than a Cambridge don. I only have to recall what your mother was to me...and that reminds me dear child, my advice is: consider the mother."
"What ever can you mean?"
"Consider Mrs James. She was a pretty girl five-and-twenty years ago, and she and Charlotte are like as two peas. Take a view of Mrs James and you'll have a very fair idea of what Charlotte will become."
"That's absurd! Charlotte's not the least like Mrs James!"
George knew that old people were incapable of understanding young ones, so he pitied his father rather than despising him, and resolved to wait out the four years manfully before marrying Charlotte. The next time he was at her house, however, he found himself unable to resist a comparison of mother and daughter. They were alike, except that Mrs James was fat and had a distinct shadow on her upper lip, which he supposed a common defect of very dark women in later age. Their voices were also alike, except that Mrs James's, being louder, had more of the metallic note that occasionally marred Charlotte's. He tried not to acknowledge to himself that his ardour was cooled by this. He would marry her in the end, of course, but for the present he was content to enjoy her society during vacations, as his father advised.
Torcombe had of recent years grown from a retired seaside town to a small resort popular with those of the leisured class with an eye for picturesque scenery. Increased prosperity had followed the change. Many families let out apartments to less wealthy visitors, and a handsome terrace of houses and a row of seven or eight-bedroom rustic 'cottages' with sea views had been built to accommodate the richer. The town was now so full of company in summer that a group of enterprising gentlemen (Mr Meadows amongst them) had combined to build an Assembly Room for dances and whist clubs and other public amusements. The inaugural ball was to be held during the July that George was in love with Charlotte James.
It was a matter of course that he should attend, but nothing could have exceeded his indifference to the treat - until he fell in love with Charlotte. Then the prospect of dancing with her, of being blamelessly and respectably close to her throughout the greater part of an evening, was as inspiring as that of finding a new moth. The comparison of Miss James with her mother certainly had staggered him, but only momentarily; he contrived to deny it and bury it and look forward to the ball with great excitement. He pre-engaged Charlotte for the opening two dances.
The Gardner-Herveys were at the ball. This was no surprise, since Mr Gardner-Hervey was also an investor in the Assembly Room, but George had supposed they would be elegantly late, as befitted their status - but no, their presence lent cachet and they were there to protect their investment (as he supposed) by mingling graciously with the distinguished visitors from London. Edward Gardner-Hervey opened the ball with a tall young woman said to be a niece of the Duke of Buckingham. Due to Charlotte's eagerness to start, George found himself early in the set, second only to Edward. They bowed slightly to one another but confined their conversation to their partners.
The dances were all to short for George. Miss James listened to his talk of butterflies with rapt attention and brilliant smiles, flew lightly down the set displaying her figure to advantage, and lowered her eyes demurely while giving hands-across to Edward Gardner-Hervey, whose partner was nowhere near so pretty as his own. By candlelight, there was no trace of a shadow on Charlotte's upper lip. George began to think his father's hints all moonshine, and to long for marriage as earnestly as before. He escorted her back to her place, delighted with a half-promise of another dance after the interval and a more than half-promise of being allowed to escort her to supper.
As he took his place for a duty-dance with a neighbour's daughter he saw Edward Gardner-Hervey leading Charlotte to the other set. His lips tightened - but he supposed she could hardly refuse if asked. Then, eyeing them closely whilst waiting his turn to dance, it seemed to him that she could have had no desire to refuse. She danced more lightly than ever, with constant twists and turns that drew attention to her slender shapeliness. She smiled and smiled, and cast her partner glittering glances from under long black lashes. They seemed engaged in some altercation, he begging and she refusing. She was flirting with him. But unconsciously, George thought fiercely. She was too innocent to guard against his attentions as she should. He would drop her a hint at supper time.
When the interval arrived, however, having danced with Gardner-Hervey a second time (a distinction denied to him), he was astonished and angry to see his enemy to place a shawl about Miss James' shoulders and lead her in to supper. They sat with the Knowle party. She talked to Edward continuously, doing everything in her power to attract and fix his attention, and sedulously avoiding George's eye. George forced down a lobster patty, drank his cup of tea, and spent the next hour pacing up and down and frowning, awaiting an opportunity (which never came) to approach his lady love. Then, on seeing Gardner-Hervey once more lead Charlotte to the set, he took himself off to the card room, where he lost four and sixpence at whist. Charlotte was a lost cause. The fact that Edward Gardner-Hervey had opened his eyes to this fact in no way tempered his loathing of him, and he wondered if he was to undo and thwart him in every effort of his life.
Meeting Charlotte by chance one day in the stationer's shop (he had ceased to visit her home), he wondered to see her leave her mother's side and approach him. "Good morning, Mr Meadows," she said pleasantly. "We have not had the pleasure of seeing you recently. I hope you are quite well."
"Perfectly," he replied with a slight bow.
She frowned and smiled at the same time. "It is usual for one's partner to call the morning after a ball, you know - to enquire about one's enjoyment of the evening and assure himself one has not caught cold."
"So I understand. Did he?"
"What do you mean? You know very well you did not!"
"You danced most with Mr Gardner-Hervey, and had supper with him. He was your partner, not I."
"Nonsense! It would have been ill-mannered to refuse when he asked, but don't imagine I wished to dance with him! You know I never liked him, and being acquainted only confirmed my opinion. He is vain and empty-headed and tries to flirt without knowing how, and he asked Miss Jenkins for the last dance, which was quite rude, after all he had said to me. I'm sorry I didn't dance with you again, but I was so engaged that I had no opportunity. I can't think why so many people asked me." She lowered her eyes.
"Can't you? Good day, Miss James," said George.
She bridled. "Oh! If I did not know you better I would think you jealous!" she murmured.
"Then it's as well you do know me better," said George with a smile.
"But do, please, call soon, for father and mother are wondering at your absence, and I long to hear more about your butterflies."
"I shall be busy the rest of the summer, and then I leave for Cambridge. Your servant, ma'am." He walked off, well convinced of Charlotte's chagrin that Edward Gardner-Hervey's attentions had come to nothing; and equally certain that Gardner-Hervey's purpose had been to deprive him of yet another object he didn't in the least want for himself.
The greyness of Cambridge and the imposing architecture dismayed George a little on first going up, but he soon learned to appreciate the austere beauty of flat commons with trees planted in straight lines, different as they were from all the green and red profusion of home. On finding himself better-read and more intelligent than most of his peers, he settled into his rooms at Clare with real pleasure, making friends, studying conscientiously, and putting his breadth of chest and muscular limbs to good use by joining his college rowing club, in which he was soon the leading oar. In the intervals of these exertions he took long walks beside the Cam or hired a gig and drove out on the fens to hunt for butterflies.
For two years he never once encountered Edward Gardner-Hervey, but only glimpsed him a few times at a distance, always managing to turn out of his path before they met. He heard about him, however, for Gardner-Hervey had joined an exclusive and expensive drinking club, and was said to be often inebriated and to have had to re-take his examinations and to be often in trouble with his uncle Erasmus Hervey on this account.
But George scarcely ever thought of his enemy now, having formed a new set of ambitions absorbing enough to preclude such pointless preoccupations. After taking his degree, he intended (with his father's hearty approval) to take holy orders, settle in Devonshire and devote the time not engrossed by his profession in writing an exhaustive book on the British Lepidoptera. He also proposed to marry miss Blanche Garland, to whose family he had been introduced by his Director of Studies. Blanche, a clergyman's daughter, was practical, intelligent, good-natured, and well-looking in a style that would endure. George did not neglect to study Mrs Garland, who was at forty still a handsome woman, and both kindly and useful, without the least coarseness of body, mind or voice. If Blanche grew like her mother he would be very well-satisfied - and even were she to grow stout and develop a shadow on her upper lip, he loved her too dearly to conceive of having any objection. There were seven children of the Garland family, ranging in age from eleven to twenty-two, and they were so intelligent, handsome and pleasant amongst themselves that George already looked forward to entertaining them in Devonshire and gathering around himself the brothers and sisters he had always lacked. Blanche herself not only took an interest in his insects, but was actually energetic in capturing specimens of the tiniest and obscurest moths, and as earnest as he in peering at them through a microscope.
One evening in the April of his third year, George was walking into Cambridge from Trumpington (where the Garlands resided) and considering regretfully that he would have to see rather less of Blanche in the few remaining weeks before Finals, when round a corner appeared Edward Gardner-Hervey and a couple of his cronies. There was no avoiding them without turning back the way he had come, which George had no mind to do. He gave his enemy the usual bland stare and made to walk by. Edward Gardner-Hervey stepped across his path.
"George!" he cried, flinging an arm across George's shoulders. "At last! Imagine our never meeting in near three years! I was beginning to think I'd have to engineer an encounter, but you walk bang up to me at last!" George tried to ease away but Gardner-Hervey gripped his shoulder and swung him round, breathing brandy in his face. "My dear George! My dearest dear old George! Fellows, this is my dear old friend George from Devonshire. His father makes lace and lives in a little house with a roof like an upturned boat. He has very handsome hair. George has, that is, not his father. I never thought of his father's hair. He may not have any hair for anything I know. But George has very handsome hair, fine as a girl's." The two cronies sniggered. George flung Gardner-Hervey's hand from his shoulder and once more tried to walk on, but again Gardner-Hervey countered him, staggering slightly. "He holds himself high for a tradesman's son," said Gardner-Hervey. "Do you see, fellows? He's trying to get away. He has nothing to say to me. But I don't want him to get away. I don't want you to get away, George, for all you're a creeping little prig with your damned Latin and your damned butterflies. I've some famous brandy in my rooms at kings. Come back and drink it with us and we'll be friends and brothers! Friends and brothers." He peered into George's face, eyes glittering.
"Thank you, but it grows late and I don't want to be locked out; in any event, I don't want to drink brandy, and it appears to me that you've drunk enough already. Good evening to you, sir!"
"Stand off a moment, you fellows," commanded Edward Heriot-Gardner, with little more pretence at politeness, George thought, than he'd shown his servant on Westheath all those years ago. "George and I must have private words."
"I have nothing to say to you that may not..."
"But I have something to say to you. Bear with me a moment. Just one little moment." Short of pushing the man from his path, George had no choice. He sighed. Gardner-Hervey peered into his face, eyes glittering. At these close quarters George could see marks of dissipation in his features - pallid skin, black smudges about the eyes and the beginnings of soddeness along the jawbone. He was handsome still but the destruction of beauty was written in his countenance. George felt a sudden and reluctant pity for him.
Gardner-Hervey spoke low and energetically. "Shall tell you my dream, George? Shall I? I have dreamt it for years. I dream that I am a Moorish king and you are my Christian slaved transported in chains to the Alcazar for my amusement. I dream that I whip and rack and torture you even to stripping your skin by inches until you bend the knee and lick my feet and call me 'master'. Do I then raise and embrace you, George, or do I put you to the sword? I cannot tell - for the very resistance I scourge out of you is that which I most love in you Without it you would be but a mockery of the..."
"You are raving!" cried George in astonishment. "For God's sake, man, go home and sleep it off."
Gardner-Hervey laughed uproariously. "A prig! A prig! What did I tell you, fellows? So you reject my overtures! Well, all the worse for you." He raised his cane and with astonishing deftness considering his condition, flicked George's hat into the gutter. "But at least we'll see your hair. Look, fellows, ain't it handsome? Did you ever see finer hair?" The two cronies leaned against one another, doubled up at their friend's wit.
George retrieved his hat and crammed it back on his head. "If you were not drunk I'd knock you down!" he said furiously.
"Never mind drunk, George! Try it! Come on! I always wanted to fight you."
"Stand out of my road, sir."
"Not cross enough yet? What can I say? So you're going to take orders, are you, and be a famous little prig of a boat-rowing, butterfly-hunting parson. Yes, I know all about you, George. I've made you my study. You mean to marry that mealy-mouthed Garland piece and live with her in damned Devonshire. Well, I grant you she's less foul than the James trollop ( whom I saved you from, by the bye) but by the time you've got half-a-dozen brats on her she'll be fat as a Berkshire sow and near half as pretty, like every other damned..."
George drove a fist into Gardner-Hervey's face. The two cronies hissed through their teeth and muttered, "Oh, I say, you know." Gardner-Hervey measured his length on the pavement, bleeding from the nose. George stepped over him and strode on.
"George! George!" He glanced back. Gardner-Hervey had regained his feet and was staggering towards him, masked with blood. "George! Never walk away! We have business together! Name your friends!"
"Name my..."
"Your friends. You insult me, I resent it. Surely even a tradesman's son knows that much of the code duello."
"I don't fight filthy drunkards."
"You've no choice, man! You accept my challenge or you are a commoner and a coward. Ain't that so, fellows?"
"Well, in theory, you know," said the smaller of the cronies, a handsome, dapper little gentleman. "But no need to make a fighting matter of it, Edward! Just a piece of fun! I'm sure you may come to terms."
"If Meadows should apologise for the blow..." said Edward.
"Apologise!" stormed George. "Not I! And if you apologise for your insults to miss Garland I fling it back in your teeth! I'll fight and be damned to you!"
"Well done, George! Of course you will! You would never cry craven!"
George knew that his closest friend, Harris, if asked to act for him, would instantly report the duel to the Master and have it stopped. He considered taking this course as a means of scotching the quarrel, but much as he detested the thought of fighting, his resentment was too hot to be tamely relinquished. In the end, he asked a rowing man of his acquaintance to stand his friend. Ned Bannerman, a light-hearted fellow, always in and out of scrapes over drinking and gambling, and not in the least likely to inform against him, or even to take the affair over-seriously, willingly agreed to act.
He proved a kind and surprisingly knowing ally. Instead of treating it all as a joke, he advised George, who had chosen pistols (for he had at least shot sporting guns before, while he had never handled a sword) to wear a plain dark coat buttoned to the throat and to stand sideways to present a narrow target. "Oh, but he surely does not mean to kill me," George protested.
"Very likely not, but as well to be wary," replied Bannerman, "for I know for a fact he's been keeping sober and practising his shots this last day or two. What's more he's a reckless fellow, and bad-hearted, if rumour's true. He's said to have knocked out his servant's eye while drunk and paid him off to keep mum. And I've heard worse of him, even, than that. Perhaps it's moonshine, perhaps it ain't. But he supplies the pistols, you know, so I'll take good care to check the loads and see everything fair and square. I wouldn't put it past him to slip you a blank. So see here, George: you stand right side foremost, to shield the heart; and don't wait for him to take his shot, but fire at once, and aim for the body. If you go for the head you'll either miss or you'll kill him. And remember, don't tug at the trigger or you'll fire off sideways. Squeeze it gently."
Remembering his own youthful conviction that Edward Gardner-Hervey would not fight fair, George went to bed on the eve of the engagement in a state of perturbation. He still could not credit that his enemy actually meant to kill him, but was persuaded that he meant somehow to humiliate and confound him yet more thoroughly than he had in their former encounters. But he managed to get to sleep, and then woke sweating from a nightmare - in fact, from Gardner-Hervey's dream, in which he screamed upon the rack while his enemy looked on gloatingly. He drank some water, slept again, and got up early and in surprisingly good heart. After all, it would be over in a couple of hours. Two shots would be fired; at worst a slight injury would result. Then he could come back to College and forget all about it.
Ned Bannerman drove him in his curricle to King's Hedges, the lonely spot at the edge of the fen where the meeting was to take place. They were first on the field. George buttoned up his coat so as not to have to do so under Gardner-Hervey's eye. He paced up and down. Ned Bannerman was beginning to glance at his watch when the sound of a vehicle was heard. Within minutes, Edward Gardner-Hervey walked on to the field, supported by a man introduced as Statham and accompanied by a middle-aged gentleman with a leather bag. "Surgeon," murmured Ned Bannerman. George swallowed. Gardner-Hervey's friend presented a case of pistols, Bannerman examined them narrowly, declared himself satisfied, and handed one to George. The two seconds paced out the ground. The principals took their places. Gardner-Hervey wore a light-coloured coat with large silver buttons, and faced George squarely, which made him impatient with his own cautious stance, though not enough so to alter it.
"When I say 'Ready', aim your weapons," called out Ned Bannerman."When I say 'Fire', discharge them. Now, gentlemen, the salute." George bowed stiffly, Gardner-Hervey gracefully, all the while staring in his opponent's face as if trying to compel the eyes fixed determinedly on the horizon to meet his own.
"Ready!" George took aim at his opponent's shoulder. "Fire!"
A ball flew past George's head as he squeezed his own trigger. Gardner-Hervey fell. "Foul play!" cried Ned Bannerman. "He fired early! The damned rascal fired on the 'ready'!"
"No matter, for he's hit," cried Gardner-Hervey's friend Statham, running forward.. "How goes it, old fellow? Are you hurt bad?"
The surgeon was crouched over the prostrate young gentleman by the time the rest of the company congregated around him. He looked up at George. "Dead," he said
"Dead," cried Gardner-Hervey's second."He can't be dead. No, no, he's merely fainted. Brandy! Give him brandy."
The surgeon moved to reveal the scarlet stain spreading on Gardner-Hervey's white shirt. "Heart's blood," he said. "Dead as mutton, I assure you."
Statham blanched and staggered. He took a flask from his pocket, swigged at the contents, and passed the bottle to George, who took it automatically and handed it to Ned Bannerman. "What's to be done?" asked Statham.
"Why, we must take the corpse back to Cambridge and inform the authorities," said the surgeon. "May I trouble you for a pull at that bottle, sir?"
Ned Bannerman gave him the flask. "You, sir," said Ned to Gardner-Hervey's second, "What's your damned name?"
"Statham. Henry Statham."
"Statham, do you agree that your principle fired early?"
"I'm not at all sure he did. I'm damned if he did! What has that to say to anything, in any event?"
Bannerman turned to the surgeon. "You're Tracy of Green Street, I know. Do you bear witness that Gardner-Hervey fired early?"
"Certainly. He fired on the 'ready'. Write that down and I'll sign it."
Bannerman scribbled in his pocket notebook and Tracy appended his signature.
"But I aimed for the shoulder," said George.
"You fetch the carriage, sir," said the surgeon to Mr Statham. "We'll rig a stretcher of our coats to get him aboard."
Statham went off a few paces Then he came back, took a paper from his pocket and thrust it at George, who glanced at it blankly and thrust it in his own pocket. Ned Bannerman gripped George's arm and propelled him rapidly towards the road. They reached his curricle, which was parked closer by than Gardner-Hervey's carriage. "Up with you, old fellow, make haste," instructed Ned Bannerman.
"But - we can't just leave. We must help with the - with the..."
"No, no, they can manage very well. We go ahead of them Make haste. Make haste"
George climbed into the carriage. Bannerman drove off past the other carriage and the staring Statham, whipped up his horses, and was at once bowling towards Cambridge at a splitting pace.
"But why are we...?" said George. "Must we inform the authorities first, to warn them what to expect? What authorities? I can't take it in."
"Brandy under the seat. Take a good pull and give me one."
George obeyed. The liquor cleared his wits and brought a terrible realisation of the enormity of events. "I killed a man," he uttered incredulously. "My God, I killed a man. What am I to do? What am I to do?"
"Have another go at that brandy and I'll tell you. And another for me, if you please. Now, Meadows, I'll drop you off at the Eagle and you'll hire a post chaise for Harwich, where you'll take ship for Holland or Belgium or any damn place t'other side the sea. Four horses, mind. Change frequently. Stop for nothing. You'll be well away before the hue and cry's up."
"Hue and cry! What do you mean? I can't run away! What of Finals? What of Gardner-Hervey? I must explain it to his people. I must face the consequence of my folly."
"My dear fellow, the consequence of your folly is a rope round your neck. The Gardner-Herveys are rich and powerful and will pursue your destruction. As for Finals, even if you could sit them, a degree's of no use to a dead man. No, no, there's nothing else for it. You must flee"
George dropped his head in his hands and groaned. "But Bannerman, I've no money but seven guineas in my rooms, and even if I stop to get them, they won't pay my expenses to Holland."
"Oh, don't worry for that. I have a hundred in my pocket book. Borrowed it especially in case of emergency, but didn't mention in case it should make you nervous."
"But I can't take your..."
"You can and will. And anyway, it ain't mine, it's Freebody's. Always good for a loan, Freebody. When you reach the Continent, you can write to your father to repay me the hundred guineas and to send you more cash. And let me know your direction when you've got one, so I may tell you how things stand in England."
"Oh, Bannerman, how can they stand but ill?" cried George dismally. "I don't know that I wouldn't sooner hang!"
"I wager you'd think differently in the condemned cell, with the hammer, hammer, hammer of the gallows building. Brace up, man! All's not lost. I have the surgeon's deposition that the fellow fired on the 'ready', you know, and his cheating must help your case with a jury. Then if one could gather evidence of Gardner-Hervey's vicious disposition and his forcing the fight upon you, you might well get off. No doubt your father will hire a great lawyer and get advice, and I'll help him as best I may. Then, if all seems fairly in your favour, you may decide whether to come back and stand trial. But no use just staying here to hang. Best see how the wind blows."
George thought of a black bag over his head and a ripe tightening round his throat. "I suppose I must do as you say," he groaned. "How can I thank you, Bannerman? I don't know why you should even concern yourself. We're the merest acquaintances."
"Well, damn me, you're the best oar in college, as well as a game one to fight, for all you're a studious fellow. I like you, man! Take another drink. We're nearly there. I won't come in the Eagle for fear of being taken up for abetting a felon. Here's the cash. Take the bottle. You need it more than I. Change first at Linton and then at Haverhill, and insist upon good horses. Get a sandwich to eat along the way. Goodbye and good luck and be sure to write!"
The first two stages of George's flight passed in bitter wretchedness as he contemplated his morning's work. His father, Blanche Garland - to hear without warning of his crime and his flight! The idea of their dismay and distress was unendurable. And his own loss! Even if circumstances seemed hopeful for a return to England, a trial and an acquittal, would Blanche marry a killing duellist? Would Mr Garland allow her to do so even if she wished it? Could a duellist take holy orders? Could he even take his degree? It all seemed most unlikely. Yet these were but hollow cares, for in all likelihood he would never see England again, but eke out his life on the flat shores of Holland, perhaps seeing his father on brief annual visits until he should be too old and infirm to travel. As he bowled across the flats of Cambridgeshire and the low, broad hills of Essex, he groaned aloud to think he might never see even these again, let alone wander the red cliffs and green combes of Devon, navigate the tree-hung Axe and the Exe, or hunt butterflies across the moors and commons of his native land.
It was only in the third stage of his flight, having devoured the bread and beef purchased at Haverhill (for despite everything, he found himself ravenous), that in putting his hand in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his fingers, he rediscovered the paper given to him by Statham at Kings hedges. It was sealed and directed to George Meadows.
One could not read classical literature for years and years without stumbling on the idea that in antiquity, passions had not always flowed in the open and obvious course; that, in short, men had been voluptuously attached to other men. George had been much astonished upon first making this discovery, but never having heard of such a thing in the modern world, had supposed that such peculiar desires had died out in the course of civilisation, along with such crudities as the vomitorium and the practice of crucifixion. Only Gardner-Hervey's dream and a few vague hints of Ned Bannerman's had opened to him the idea that Edward Gardner-Hervey had conceived some sort of perverse passion for himself. No matter that he dismissed the notion as ludicrous, that he reckoned that he, a mild and conventional butterfly hunter, was not the kind of man to attract deathly passions, the idea once planted refused to wither. And it was the more baffling in that Gardner-Hervey's passion led to no fine feeling and selfless devotion such as you read about in Latin verse, but was fraught about with the desire to torment and destroy. It was perversion upon perversion. But if this was the case - and George had by now convinced himself that it was - then the letter his enemy had left him might assist in his defence. It might contain some declaration of passion, some confession of having provoked the duel, some hint of its writer's insanity and his intention to kill his opponent - something, anything, to persuade a jury of George's innocence in the affair. After all, the letter was written to be read after Gardner-Hervey's death when he would have nothing to lose by openness.
George fingered the letter. He gazed at the bold, careless writing of his own name. On the other hand, Gardner-Hervey might pursue him beyond the grave. He might have written what would incriminate George and exonerate himself. He might have written in terms that would condemn himself to the well-informed but seem perfectly innocent to an outsider.
But if this were the case, George could simply destroy the letter.
Between hope and despair, George broke the seal. He unfolded the sheet. He looked. He dropped his head in his hands. His old enemy mocked and taunted still.
The paper was perfectly blank.
Monday, 9 February, 2009
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