Chapter Twenty One.
“Going It.”
Jeffreys started for London with a lighter heart than he had known since he first came to Wildtree. When he contrasted his present sense of relief with the oppression which had preceded it, he marvelled how he could ever have gone on so long, dishonestly nursing his wretched secret under Mr Rimbolt’s roof. Now, in the first reaction of relief, he was tempted to believe his good name was really come back, and that Mr Rimbolt having condoned his offence, the memory of Bolsover was cancelled.
It was a passing temptation only. Alas! that memory clung still. Nothing could alter the past; and though he might now feel secure from its consequences, he had only to think of young Forrester to remind him that somewhere the black mark stood against his name as cruelly as ever.
Yet, comparatively, he felt light-hearted, as with the Rimbolt family he stood at last on the London platform.
It was new ground to him. Some years ago Mr Halgrove had lived several months in the Metropolis, and the boy, spending his summer holidays there, and left entirely to his own devices, had learned in a plodding way about as much of the great city as a youth of seventeen could well do in the time.
The Rimbolts’ house in Clarges Street was to Jeffreys’ mind not nearly so cheerful as Wildtree. The library in it consisted of a small collection of books, chiefly political, for Mr Rimbolt’s use in his parliamentary work; and the dark little room allotted to him, with its look-out on the mews, was dull indeed compared with the chamber at Wildtree, from which he could at least see the mountain.
Nor did he by any means enjoy the constant round of entertainments which went on in London, at which he was sometimes called upon in a humble way to assist. He had been obliged, in deference to Mrs Rimbolt’s broad hints, to buy a dress suit, and in this he was expected on occasions to present himself at the end of a grand dinner-party, or when Mr Rimbolt required his professional attendance.
For, there being no books to take care of here, Mr Rimbolt availed himself of his librarian’s services as a private secretary in some important political business, and found him so efficient and willing, that he proposed to him a considerable increase in his salary, in consideration of his permanently undertaking a good share of his employer’s ordinary correspondence.
The chief portion of Jeffreys’ time, however, still belonged to Percy, and it was a decided relief to him that that young gentleman scoffed at and eschewed the endless hospitalities and entertainments with which his mother delighted to fill up their life in London.
“I don’t see the fun of gorging night after night, do you, Jeff? A good spread’s all very well now and again, but you get sick of it seven nights a week. Makes me sleepy. Then all these shows and things! I’ve a good mind to get laid up again, and have a real good time. There’s to be no end of a crowd here to-night—everybody. I shall cut it if I can; shan’t you?”
“Mr Rimbolt wants me to come into the drawing-room after dinner,” said Jeffreys.
“All serene! That won’t be till nine. Come up to Putney, and have a row on the river this afternoon.”
Percy was an enthusiastic oarsman, and many an afternoon Jeffreys and he, flying from the crowd, had spent on the grand old Thames. Jeffreys enjoyed it as much as he, and no one, seeing the boy and his tutor together in their pair-oar, would have imagined that the broader of the two was that ungainly lout who had once been an object of derision in the Bolsover meadows.
The party that evening was, as Percy predicted, a very large one, and Jeffreys had the discomfort of recognising a few of the guests who last autumn had helped to make his position so painful.
They, to do them justice, did not now add to his discomfort by recognising him. Even the lady who had given him that half-crown appeared wholly to have forgotten the object of her charity.
What, however, made him most uncomfortable was the sight of Mrs Scarfe, and hearing her say to Percy, “Edward is coming on Saturday, Percy; he is looking forward with such pleasure to taking you about to see the University sports and the Boat Race. Your dear mamma has kindly asked two of his college friends to come too, so you will be quite a merry quartette.”
Jeffreys had nearly forgotten Scarfe’s existence of late. He no longer dreaded him on his own account, but on Percy’s he looked forward to Saturday with dismay. He would have liked to know also, as a mere matter of curiosity of course, what Raby thought about the promised visit.
His own communications with that young lady had not been very frequent of late, although they continued friendly. Percy’s nonsense gave them both a considerable amount of embarrassment; for although Jeffreys never for a moment supposed that Mr Rimbolt’s niece thought twice about him except as a persecuted dependant and a friend to Percy, to have anything else suggested disturbed his shy nature, and made him feel constrained in her presence.
“You’ll have to mind your eye with Raby now that Scarfe’s coming,” said Percy that night. “You bet he’ll try to hook her. I heard his mother flying kites with ma about it, to see how the land lies.”
Jeffreys had given up the formality of pretending, when Percy launched out on this delicate subject, not to know what he was talking about.
“Whatever Scarfe does,” said he, “is nothing to me.”
“What I don’t you and Raby hit it off, then?”
“Hit what off?”
“I mean aren’t you dead on her, don’t you know?—spoons, and all that sort of thing?”
“I am not aware that I entertain feelings towards anybody which could be described by any article of cutlery at all.”
“Well, all I can say is, when I blowed her up for being down on you, she blushed up no end, and cried too. I should like to know what you call that, if it isn’t spoons?”
“I think it would be kinder, Percy, if you did not talk to your cousin about me; and I fancy she would as soon you did not talk about her to me.”
“Well, that’s rather what I should call a shut-up,” said Percy. “It bothers me how people that like one another get so precious shy of letting the other fellow know it. I know I shan’t. I’ll have it out at once, before any other chap comes and cuts me out.”
With which valiant determination Percy earned Jeffreys’ gratitude by relapsing into silence.
He was, however, destined to have the uncomfortable topic revived in another and more unexpected quarter.
On the day before Scarfe’s proposed visit, Walker accosted him as he was going out, with the announcement that my lady would like to speak to him in the morning-room.
This rare summons never failed to wring a groan from the depths of the librarian’s spirit, and it did now as he proceeded to the torture-chamber.
The lady was alone, and evidently burdened with the importance of the occasion.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, with a tone of half conciliation which put up Jeffreys’ back far more than her usual severe drawl, “kindly take a seat; I wish to speak to you.”
“It’s all up with me!” groaned the unhappy Jeffreys inwardly, as he obeyed.
Mrs Rimbolt gathered herself together, and began.
“I desire to speak to you, Mr Jeffreys, in reference to my niece, Miss Atherton, who, in her father’s absence, is here under my protection and parental control.”
Jeffreys flushed up ominously.
“It does not please me, Mr Jeffreys, to find you, occupying, as you do, the position of a dependant in this house, so far forgetting yourself as to consider that there is anything in your respective positions which justifies you in having communications with Miss Atherton other than those of a respectful stranger.”
Jeffreys found himself frivolously thinking this elaborate sentence would be an interesting exercise in parsing for the head class at Galloway House. He barely took in that the remarks were intended for him at all, and his abstracted look apparently disconcerted Mrs Rimbolt.
“I must request your attention, Mr Jeffreys,” said she severely.
“I beg your pardon. I am all attention.”
“I am quite willing to suppose,” continued she, “that it is ignorance on your part rather than intentional misconduct which has led you into this; but from henceforth I wish it to be clearly understood that I shall expect you to remember your proper station in this house. Miss Atherton, let me tell you, has no need of your attentions. You perfectly understand me, Mr Jeffreys?”
Jeffreys bowed, still rather abstractedly.
“You do not reply to my question, Mr Jeffreys.”
“I perfectly understand you, madam.”
“I trust I shall not have to speak to you again.”
“I trust not,” said Jeffreys, with a fervour which startled the lady.
He left the room, outraged, insulted, sorely tempted to shake the dust of the place once and for all from off his feet. The evil temper within him once more asserted itself as he flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the whole house vibrate.
The narrow room was insupportable. It stifled him. He must get out into the fresh air or choke.
On the doorstep he met Mr Rimbolt, alighting from his brougham.
“Oh, Jeffreys, so glad to have caught you. Look here. I find I must be in the House to-night and to-morrow, and I intended to go down to Exeter to attend that four days’ sale of Lord Waterfield’s library. I must get you to go for me. You have the catalogue we went through together, with the lots marked which I must have. I have put an outside price against some, and the others must be mine at any price—you understand. Stick at nothing. Take plenty of money with you for travelling and expenses. Do things comfortably, and I will give you a blank cheque for the books. Mind I must have them, if it comes to four figures. Go down by the Flying Dutchman to-night, and send me a telegram at the end of each day to say what you have secured.”
The proposal came opportunely to Jeffreys. He was in the humour of accepting anything for a change; and this carte blanche proposal, and the responsibility it involved, contained a spice of excitement which suited with his present mood.
He went down to Exeter that night, trying to think of nothing but Lord Waterfield’s books, and to forget all about Raby, and Percy, and Mrs Rimbolt, and Scarfe.
The last-named hero and his two friends duly presented themselves at Clarges Street next day. Scarfe was in great good-humour with himself, and even his antipathies to the world at large were decidedly modified by the discovery that Jeffreys was out of town.
His two friends were of the gay and festive order—youths who would have liked to be considered fast, but betrayed constantly that they did not yet know the way how.
Percy, with his usual facile disposition, quickly fell into the ways of the trio, and rather enjoyed the luxury of now and then getting a rise out of the undergrads by showing that “he knew a thing or two” himself.
They spent their first few days together in “going it”—that is, in seeing and doing all they could. Scarfe’s friends began shyly, feeling their way both with their host and hostess and with their son. But then they saw that Mr Rimbolt was far too engrossed to think of anything beyond that they should all enjoy themselves and do as they liked—when they saw that Mrs Rimbolt swore by Scarfe, and, to use the choice language of one of them, “didn’t sit up at anything as long as the Necktie was in it”—and when they saw that Percy was a cool hand, and, whatever he thought, did not let himself be startled by anything, these two ingenuous youths plucked up heart and “let out all round.”
They haunted billiard saloons, but failed to delude any one into the belief that they knew one end of a cue from another. They went to theatres, where the last thing they looked at was the stage. They played cards without being quite sure what was the name of the game they played. They smoked cigars, which it was well for their juvenile stomachs were “warranted extra mild”; and they drank wine which neither made glad their hearts nor improved their digestions; and they spiced their conversation with big words which they did not know the meaning of themselves, and would certainly have never found explained in the dictionary.
Percy, after a few days, got sick of it. He had never “gone it” in this style before; and finding out what it meant, he didn’t see much fun in it. Late hours and unwholesome food and never-ending “sport” did not agree with him. He had looked forward to seeing a lot of the boat practice on the river, and hearing a lot about University sport and life. But in this he was disappointed. The “boats” were voted a nuisance; and whenever the talk turned on Oxford it was instantly tabooed as “shop.” Scarfe sneered to him in private about these two fools, but when with them he “went it” with the rest, and made no protest.
“Percy,” said Raby, two or three days after this sort of thing had been going on, “you look wretchedly pale and tired. Why do you stay out so late every night?”
“Oh,” said Percy wearily, “I don’t know—we humbug about. Nothing very bad.”
“If it makes you ill and wretched, I say it is bad, Percy,” said the girl.
“Oh, I don’t know. Scarfe goes in for it, you know.”
“I don’t care a bit who goes in for it. It’s bad.”
“You don’t mean to say you think Scarfe is a bad lot?”
“Don’t speak to me of Mr Scarfe. I hate him for this!”
Percy whistled.
“Hullo, I say! here’s a go!” he cried. “Then you’re really spoons on Jeff after all? How awfully glad he’ll be when I tell him!”
“Percy I shall hate you if you talk like that!” said the girl. “I hate any one who is not good to you; and it is certainly not good to you to lead you into folly and perhaps wickedness.”
This protest had its effect on Percy. The next day he struck, and pleaded an excuse for accompanying the precious trio on an expedition to Windsor, to be consummated by a champagne supper at the “Christopher.”
They urged him hard, and tempted him sorely by the prospect of a row on the river and any amount of fun. He declined stubbornly. He was fagged, and not in the humour. Awfully sorry to back out and all that, but he couldn’t help it, and wanted to save up for the Sports and Boat Race on Friday and Saturday.
They gave him up as a bad job, and started without him.
He watched them go without much regret, and then, putting on his hat, walked off towards Paddington to meet Jeffreys, who was due in about an hour.
The quiet walk through the streets rather revived him; and the prospect of seeing Jeffreys again was still more refreshing.
Of course he knew he should have to tell him of his folly, and Jeff would “sit on him” in his solemn style. Still, that was better than getting his head split open with cigars, and having to laugh at a lot of trashy jokes.
Jeffreys was delighted to see him; and the two were leaving Paddington arm-in-arm when Scarfe and his two friends, alighting from a cab, suddenly confronted them.