"But it hurts!" he gasped, in the tones of a puzzled civilization. "What you do hurts!" For the young man was nicking him over the shins with the rim of the book cover. "Little brute-ee--ow!"
"Then say Pax!"
Something revolted in Ansell. Why should he say Pax? Freeing his hand, he caught the little brute under the chin, and was again knocked into the lobelias by a blow on the mouth.
"Say Pax!" he repeated, pressing the philosopher's skull into the mould; and he added, with an anxiety that was somehow not offensive, "I do advise you. You'd really better."Ansell swallowed a little blood. He tried to move, and he could not. He looked carefully into the young man's eyes and into the palm of his right hand, which at present swung unclenched, and he said "Pax!""Shake hands!" said the other, helping him up. There was nothing Ansell loathed so much as the hearty Britisher; but he shook hands, and they stared at each other awkwardly. With civil murmurs they picked the little blue flowers off each other's clothes. Ansell was trying to remember why they had quarrelled, and the young man was wondering why he had not guarded his chin properly. In the distance a hymn swung off--"Fight the good. Fight with. All thy. Might."They would be across from the chapel soon.
"Your book, sir?"
"Thank you, sir--yes."
"Why!" cried the young man--"why, it's 'What We Want'! At least the binding's exactly the same.""It's called 'Essays,'" said Ansell.
"Then that's it. Mrs. Failing, you see, she wouldn't ca11 it that, because three W's, you see, in a row, she said, are vulgar, and sound like Tolstoy, if you've heard of him."Ansell confessed to an acquaintance, and then said, "Do you think 'What We Want' vulgar?" He was not at all interested, but he desired to escape from the atmosphere of pugilistic courtesy, more painful to him than blows themselves.
"It IS the same book," said the other--"same title, same binding." He weighed it like a brick in his muddy hands.
"Open it to see if the inside corresponds," said Ansell, swallowing a laugh and a little more blood with it.
With a liberal allowance of thumb-marks, he turned the pages over and read, "'the rural silence that is not a poet's luxury but a practical need for all men.' Yes, it is the same book." Smiling pleasantly over the discovery, he handed it back to the owner.
"And is it true?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Is it true that rural silence is a practical need?""Don't ask me!"
"Have you ever tried it?"
"What?"
"Rural silence."
"A field with no noise in it, I suppose you mean. I don't understand."Ansell smiled, but a slight fire in the man's eye checked him.
After all, this was a person who could knock one down. Moreover, there was no reason why he should be teased. He had it in him to retort "No. Why?" He was not stupid in essentials. He was irritable--in Ansell's eyes a frequent sign of grace. Sitting down on the upturned seat, he remarked, "I like the book in many ways. I don't think 'What We Want' would have been a vulgar title. But I don't intend to spoil myself on the chance of mending the world, which is what the creed amounts to. Nor am Ikeen on rural silences."
"Curse!" he said thoughtfully, sucking at an empty pipe.
"Tobacco?"
"Please."
"Rickie's is invariably--filthy."
"Who says I know Rickie?"
"Well, you know his aunt. It's a possible link. Be gentle with Rickie. Don't knock him down if he doesn't think it's a nice morning."The other was silent.
"Do you know him well?"
"Kind of." He was not inclined to talk. The wish to smoke was very violent in him, and Ansell noticed how he gazed at the wreaths that ascended from bowl and stem, and how, when the stem was in his mouth, he bit it. He gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul to contemplate its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type was common in Greece. It is not common today, and Ansell was surprised to find it in a friend of Rickie's. Rickie, if he could even "kind of know" such a creature, must be stirring in his grave.
"Do you know his wife too?"
"Oh yes. In a way I know Agnes. But thank you for this tobacco.
Last night I nearly died. I have no money."
"Take the whole pouch--do."
After a moment's hesitation he did. "Fight the good" had scarcely ended, so quickly had their intimacy grown.
"I suppose you're a friend of Rickie's?"
Ansell was tempted to reply, "I don't know him at all." But it seemed no moment for the severer truths, so he said, "I knew him well at Cambridge, but I have seen very little of him since.""Is it true that his baby was lame?"
"I believe so."
His teeth closed on his pipe. Chapel was over. The organist was prancing through the voluntary, and the first ripple of boys had already reached Dunwood House. In a few minutes the masters would be here too, and Ansell, who was becoming interested, hurried the conversation forward.
"Have you come far?"
"From Wiltshire. Do you know Wiltshire?" And for the first time there came into his face the shadow of a sentiment, the passing tribute to some mystery. "It's a good country. I live in one of the finest valleys out of Salisbury Plain. I mean, I lived.""Have you been dismissed from Cadover, without a penny in your pocket?"He was alarmed at this. Such knowledge seemed simply diabolical.
Ansell explained that if his boots were chalky, if his clothes had obviously been slept in, if he knew Mrs. Failing, if he knew Wiltshire, and if he could buy no tobacco--then the deduction was possible. "You do just attend," he murmured.
The house was filling with boys, and Ansell saw, to his regret, the head of Agnes over the thuyia hedge that separated the small front garden from the side lawn where he was sitting. After a few minutes it was followed by the heads of Rickie and Mr. Pembroke.