“What’s the good of asking questions?” The speaker turned irritably away. “I’ve had such a lot of beastly dreams all night, I can’t tell what happened, and what didn’t happen. It was just a jolly row, that’s all I know.”
Sorell perceived that for some reason Radowitz was not going to tell him the story. But he was confident that Douglas Falloden had been at the bottom of it, and he felt a fierce indignation. He had however to keep it to himself, as it was clear that questions excited and annoyed the patient.
He sat by the boy a little, observing him. Then he suggested that Bateson the scout and he should push the bed into the sitting-room, for greater air and space. Radowitz hesitated, and then consented. Sorell went out to speak to Bateson.
“All right, sir,” said the scout. “I’ve just about got the room straight; but I had to get another man to help me. They must have gone on something fearful. There wasn’t an article in the room that wasn’t knocked about.”
“Who did it?” said Sorell shortly.
The scout looked embarrassed.
“Well, of course, sir, I don’t know for certain. I wasn’t there to see. But I do hear Mr. Falloden, and Lord Meyrick, and Mr. Robertson were in it—and there were some other gentlemen besides. There’s been a deal of ragging in this college lately, sir. I do think, sir, as the fellows should stop it.”
Sorell agreed, and went off to the surgery, thinking furiously. Suppose the boy’s hand—and his fine talent—had been permanently injured by that arrogant bully, Falloden, and his set! And Constance Bledlow had been entangling herself with him—in spite of what anybody could say! He thought with disgust of the scenes of the Marmion ball, of the reckless way in which Constance had encouraged Falloden’s pursuit of her, of the talk of Oxford. His work with the Greats’ papers had kept him away from the Magdalen ball, and he had heard nothing of it. No doubt that foolish child had behaved in the same way there. He was thankful he had not been there to see. But he vowed to himself that he would find out the facts of the attack on Radowitz, and that she should know them.
Yet the whole thing was very surprising. He had seen on various occasions that Falloden was jealous of Connie’s liking for Radowitz, of the boy’s homage, and of Connie’s admiration for his musical gift. But after the Marmion night, and the triumph she had so unwisely given the fellow—to behave in this abominable way! There couldn’t be a spark of decent feeling in his composition.