CHAPTER THREE

.Heavenknowswhyitis.Foronething,thoughtJacob,they'reasuglyassin. Nowtherewasascrapingandmurmuring.HecaughtTimmyDurrant'seyelookedverysternlyathimandthen,verysolemnly,winked. "Waverley,"thevillaontheroadtoGirtonwascalled,notthatMr.PlumeradmiredScottorwouldhavechosenanynameatall,butnamesareusefulwhenyouhavetoentertainundergraduates,andastheysatwaitingforthefourthundergraduate,onSundayatlunch-time,therewastalkofnamesupongates. "Howtiresome,"Mrs.Plumerinterruptedimpulsively."DoesanybodyknowMr.Flanders?" Mr.Durrantknewhimandthereforeblushedslightly,andsaid,awkwardly,somethingaboutbeingsure—lookingatMr.Plumerandhitchingtherightlegofhistrouserashespoke.Mr.Plumergotupandstoodinfrontofthefireplace.Mrs.Plumerlaughedlikeastraightforwardfriendlyfellow.Inshort,anythingmorehorriblethanthescene,thesetting,theprospect,eventheMaygardenbeingafflictedwithchillsterilityandacloudchoosingthatmomenttocrossthesun,cannotbeimagined.Therewasthegarden,ofcourse.Everyoneatthesamemomentlookedatit.Owingtothecloud,theleavesruffledgrey,andthesparrows—thereweretwosparrows. "Ithink,"saidMrs.Plumer,takingadvantageofthemomentaryrespite,whiletheyoungmenstaredatthegarden,tolookatherhusband,andhe,notacceptingfullresponsibilityfortheact,neverthelesstouchedthebell. Therecanbenoexcuseforthisoutrageupononehourofhumanlife,savethereflectionwhichoccurredtoMr.Plumerashecarvedthemutton,thatifnodonevergavealuncheonparty,ifSundayafterSundaypassed,ifmenwentdown,becamelawyers,doctors,membersofParliament,businessmen—ifnodonevergavealuncheonparty— "Now,doeslambmakethemintsauce,ormintsaucemakethelamb?"heaskedtheyoungmannexthim,tobreakasilencewhichhadalreadylastedfiveminutesandahalf. "Idon'tknow,sir,"saidtheyoungman,blushingveryvividly. AtthismomentincameMr.Flanders.Hehadmistakenthetime. Now,thoughtheyhadfinishedtheirmeat,Mrs.Plumertookasecondhelpingofcabbage.Jacobdetermined,ofcourse,thathewouldeathismeatinthetimeittookhertofinishhercabbage,lookingonceortwicetomeasurehisspeed—onlyhewasinfernallyhungry.Seeingthis,Mrs.PlumersaidthatshewassureMr.Flanderswouldnotmind—andthetartwasbroughtin.Noddinginapeculiarway,shedirectedthemaidtogiveMr.Flandersasecondhelpingofmutton.Sheglancedatthemutton.Notmuchofthelegwouldbeleftforluncheon. Itwasnoneofherfault—sincehowcouldshecontrolherfatherbegettingherfortyyearsagointhesuburbsofManchester?andoncebegotten,howcouldshedootherthangrowupcheese-paring,ambitious,withaninstinctivelyaccuratenotionoftherungsoftheladderandanant-likeassiduityinpushingGeorgePlumeraheadofhertothetopoftheladder?Whatwasatthetopoftheladder?AsensethatalltherungswerebeneathoneapparentlysincebythetimethatGeorgePlumerbecameProfessorofPhysics,orwhateveritmightbe,Mrs.Plumercouldonlybeinaconditiontoclingtighttohereminence,peerdownattheground,andgoadhertwoplaindaughterstoclimbtherungsoftheladder. "Iwasdownattheracesyesterday,"shesaid,"withmytwolittlegirls." ItwasnoneofTHEIRfaulteither.Intheycametothedrawing-room,inwhitefrocksandbluesashes.Theyhandedthecigarettes.Rhodahadinheritedherfather'scoldgreyeyes.ColdgreyeyesGeorgePlumerhad,butinthemwasanabstractlight.HecouldtalkaboutPersiaandtheTradewinds,theReformBillandthecycleoftheharvests.BookswereonhisshelvesbyWellsandShawonthetableserioussix-pennyweeklieswrittenbypalemeninmuddyboots—theweeklycreakandscreechofbrainsrinsedincoldwaterandwrungdry—melancholypapers. "Idon'tfeelthatIknowthetruthaboutanythingtillI'vereadthemboth!"saidMrs.Plumerbrightly,tappingthetableofcontentswithherbareredhand,uponwhichtheringlookedsoincongruous. "OhGod,ohGod,ohGod!"exclaimedJacob,asthefourundergraduatesleftthehouse."Oh,myGod!" "Bloodybeastly!"hesaid,scanningthestreetforlilacorbicycle—anythingtorestorehissenseoffreedom. "Bloodybeastly,"hesaidtoTimmyDurrant,summinguphisdiscomfortattheworldshownhimatlunch-time,aworldcapableofexisting—therewasnodoubtaboutthat—butsounnecessary,suchathingtobelievein—ShawandWellsandtheserioussixpennyweeklies!Whatweretheyafter,scrubbinganddemolishing,theseelderlypeople?HadtheyneverreadHomer,Shakespeare,theElizabethans?Hesawitclearlyoutlinedagainstthefeelingshedrewfromyouthandnaturalinclination.Thepoordevilshadriggedupthismeagreobject.Yetsomethingofpitywasinhim.Thosewretchedlittlegirls— Theextenttowhichhewasdisturbedprovesthathewasalreadyagog.Insolenthewasandinexperienced,butsureenoughthecitieswhichtheelderlyoftheracehavebuiltupontheskylineshowedlikebricksuburbs,barracks,andplacesofdisciplineagainstaredandyellowflame.Hewasimpressionablebutthewordiscontradictedbythecomposurewithwhichhehollowedhishandtoscreenamatch.Hewasayoungmanofsubstance. Anyhow,whetherundergraduateorshopboy,manorwoman,itmustcomeasashockabouttheageoftwenty—theworldoftheelderly—thrownupinsuchblackoutlineuponwhatweareupontherealitythemoorsandByrontheseaandthelighthousethesheep'sjawwiththeyellowteethinitupontheobstinateirrepressibleconvictionwhichmakesyouthsointolerablydisagreeable—"IamwhatIam,andintendtobeit,"forwhichtherewillbenoformintheworldunlessJacobmakesoneforhimself.ThePlumerswilltrytopreventhimfrommakingit.WellsandShawandtheserioussixpennyweeklieswillsitonitshead.EverytimehelunchesoutonSunday—atdinnerpartiesandteaparties—therewillbethissameshock—horror—discomfort—thenpleasure,forhedrawsintohimateverystepashewalksbytheriversuchsteadycertainty,suchreassurancefromallsides,thetreesbowing,thegreyspiressoftintheblue,voicesblowingandseemingsuspendedintheair,thespringyairofMay,theelasticairwithitsparticles—chestnutbloom,pollen,whateveritisthatgivestheMayairitspotency,blurringthetrees,gummingthebuds,daubingthegre