Chapter 16

He went up to Cambridge the next morning. Term had not begun, but he went; a Robin with all the briskness gone out of him, and if still with something of the bird left only of a bird that is moulting. His father was mildly surprised, but applauded the apparent desire for solitary study. His mother was violently surprised, and tried hard to get at his true reasons. She saw with the piercing eye of a relation—that eye from which hardly anything can ever be hidden—that something had happened and that the something was sobering and unpleasant. She could not imagine what it was, for she did not know he had been to Creeper Cottage the night before and all the afternoon and at dinner he had talked and behaved as usual. Now he did not talk at all, and his behaviour was limited to a hasty packing of portmanteaus. Determined to question him she called him into the study just before he started, and shut the door.

“I must go mater,” he said, pulling out his watch; he had carefully avoided her since breakfast though she had laid many traps for him.

“Robin, I want to tell you that I think you splendid.”

“Splendid? What on earth for? You were telling me a very different sort of thing a day or two ago.”

“I am sorry now for what I said on Sunday.”

“I don’t think a mother ought ever to say she’s sorry,” said Robin gloomily.

“Not if she is?”

“She oughtn’t to say so.”

“Well dear let us be friends. Don’t go away angry with me. I do appreciate you so much for going. You are my own dear boy.” And she put her hands on his shoulders.

He took out his watch again. “I say, I must be off.”

“Don’t suppose a mother doesn’t see and understand.”

“Oh I don’t suppose anything. Good-bye mater.”

“I think it so splendid of you to go, to turn your back on temptation, to unwind yourself from that wretched girl’s coils.”

“Coils?”

“My Robin”—she stroked his cheek, the same cheek, as it happened, Priscilla had smitten—”my Robin must not throw himself away. I am ambitious where you are concerned, my darling. It would have broken my heart for you to have married a nobody—perhaps a worse than nobody.”

Robin, who was staring at her with an indescribable expression on his face, took her hands off his shoulders. “Look here mater,” he said—and he was seized by a desire to laugh terrifically—”there is nothing in the world quite so amusing as the way people will talk wisely of things they don’t in the faintest degree understand. They seem to feel wise in proportion to their ignorance. I expect you think that’s a funny speech for me to make. I can tell you I don’t think it half as funny as yours was. Good-bye. I shall miss my train you know if you keep me, and then I’d be exposed again to those—what was the word? ah, yes—coils. Coils!” He burst into loud laughter. “Good-bye mater.”

She was staring at him blankly. He hastily brushed her forehead with his moustache and hurried to the door, his face full of strange mirth. “I say,” he said, putting in his head again, “there’s just one thing I’d like to say.”

She made an eager step towards him. “Do say it my darling—say all that is in your heart.”

“Oh it’s not much—it’s only God help poor Tuss.” And that was the last of him. She heard him chuckling all down the passage; but long before his fly had reached Ullerton he had left off doing that and was moulting again.

It rained that day in Somersetshire, a steady, hopeless rain that soaked many a leaf off the trees before its time and made the year look suddenly quite old. From the windows of Creeper Cottage you could see the water running in rivulets down the hill into the deserted village, and wreaths of mist hanging about the downs beyond. The dripping tombstone that blocked Priscilla’s window grew danker and blacker as the day went by. The fires in the cottage burnt badly, for the wood had somehow got wet. The oilcloth and the wall-papers looked very dismal in the grey daylight. Rain came in underneath the two front doors and made puddles that nobody wiped away.

Priscilla had got up very late, after a night spent staring into the darkness, and then had sent for Fritzing and told him what Robin had done. The unhappy man’s horror will be easily imagined. She was in bed the night before when he came in, quite cured of her hunger and only wanting to be alone with her wrath. Fritzing had found no one in the parlour but Tussie clasping an immense biscuit-tin in his arms, with a face so tragic that Fritzing thought something terrible must have happened. Tussie had returned joyfully, laden with biscuits and sardines, to find the girl standing straight and speechless by the table, her face rigid, her eyes ablaze. She had not so much as glanced at the biscuits; she had not said a single word; her look rested on him a moment as though she did not see him and then she went into the next room and upstairs to bed. He knew she went upstairs to bed for in Creeper Cottage you could hear everything.

Fritzing coming in a few minutes later without the cook he had hoped to find, was glad enough of Tussie’s sardines and biscuits—they were ginger biscuits—and while he ate them, abstractedly and together, Tussie looked on and wondered in spite of his wretchedness what the combination could possibly taste like. Then, after a late breakfast on the Wednesday morning, Priscilla sent for Fritzing and told him what Robin had done. The burdened man, so full already of anxieties and worries, was shattered by the blow. “I have always held duelling in extreme contempt,” he said when at last he could speak, “but now I shall certainly fight.”