Birkland laughed. There was a long pause. Then Traill said again, rather uncertainly, “Don't you?”
He had never thought of Birkland as an unhappy man—as a matter of fact he never thought of people as being definite kinds of people, and he scarcely ever read novels.
Then Birkland spoke: “You had better not ask me that, young man, if you want an encouraging answer.”
Then very slowly, after another pause, the words came out: “I'm going to speak the truth to you to-night for the good and safety of your soul, and I haven't cared for the good and safety of anyone's soul for—well!—I should be afraid to say how long. I'm afraid—I don't really care very much about the safety of yours—but I care enough to speak to you; and the one thing I say to you is—get out—get away. Fly for your life.” His voice sank to a whisper. “If you don't, you will die very soon—in a year perhaps. We are all dead here, and we died a great many years ago.”
Traill moved uncomfortably in his chair. He smiled across the flickering candles at Birkland.
“Oh! I say,” he said, “that's a bit of exaggeration, isn't it? I suppose one is tired sometimes, of course; but, after all, there are a good many men in the country who make a pretty good thing out of mastering and are n't so very miserable.”
It was evident that he thought that it was all a kind of joke on Birkland's part. He pulled contentedly at his pipe.
But the other man went on: “I shouldn't have said this at all if I hadn't meant it, and if I hadn't got twenty years of experience behind me to prove what I say. I don't know why I'm bothering you, I'm sure; but now I've begun I'm going on, and you've got to listen. You can't say you haven't been given your chance. Have you ever looked round the common room and seen what kind of men they are?”
“Of course,” said Traill; “but,” he added modestly, “I'm not observant, you know. I'm not at all a clever kind of chap.”
“Well, you would have seen what I'm telling you written in their faces right enough. Mind you—what I'm saying to you doesn't apply to the first-class public school. That's a different kind of thing altogether. I'm talking about places like Moffatt's—places that are trying to be what they are not—to do what they can't do—to get higher than they can reach. There are thousands of them all over the country—places where the men are underpaid, with no prospects, herded together, all of them hating each other, wanting, perhaps, towards the end of term, to cut each other's throats. Do you suppose that that is good for the boys they teach?”