Part 8 (2/2)
Killigrew stared at his friend in amazement. Was this the Ishmael who a half-hour or so ago had put forward the theory that one should never fight till one was sure of winning? He did not know that the wine in Ishmael's brain at that minute was the headiest in the world, the most sure in imparting sense of power--the sudden up-welling of the joy of life. It was Doughty's turn to laugh now; he seemed suddenly to have recovered poise.
”I forgot--you'd be such a good judge of a gentleman--with your family history,” he said.
The singing went from Ishmael's being, but something hot came up through him like a tide. ”What d'you mean by that?” he asked, and still in his pa.s.sionate dislike of the other did not see what was opening at his feet.
”Only that a fellow with a pack of b.a.s.t.a.r.d brothers must have had just the father and mother to teach him....”
There was a moment's silence; the boys all felt intensely uncomfortable, not so much even at Hilaria's presence as at this sudden nakedness of thought and emotion. Doughty, set on justifying himself at least as far as accuracy went, held on. ”I heard it at once when I went to my uncle's at Penzance last holidays. Everyone knows it down there. Of course Ruan knew it all along; he's been kidding all you fellows. He's no right in a school for gentlemen at all. His father married his mother when he was dying and all the brats but him were already born. That's why Ruan's being brought up a gentleman--because he's the only one who's not a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
”Shut your foul mouth,” ordered Polkinghorne angrily. ”Hilaria, let me--”
”It's not true,” cried Hilaria. ”Tell them it's not true, Ishmael.”
Killigrew had the quicker instinct. ”What does it matter if it's true or not?” he asked. ”We all know Ruan, and we think he's an awfully nice chap, and nothing else is any affair of ours. We don't care what Doughty's father and mother are, because we don't like him; we don't care what Ruan's are because we do like him. Personally, I don't see why Ruan should mind either. The thing doesn't alter him at all.”
But that was exactly what Ishmael felt it did, though how he could not yet have told. Although he never doubted what he heard, it seemed to him like a dream that he had dreamt long ago and forgotten. It was a curious sense of unreality that impressed him most, that feeling of ”This cannot really have happened to me ...” that everyone knows in the first moment of disaster. It was this sensation, not any temporising or actual disbelief, that kept him still motionless, staring. Polkinghorne began to feel the proprieties outraged by this immobility.
”I say,” he began, ”you can't take no notice ...; he's said things about your people, you know--about your mother ...”
For in common with many male creatures, men and boys, Polkinghorne, though not feeling more than others any particular sentiment beyond affection for his mother, yet held the point of honour, perhaps dating from ancient days of matriarchy, that an insult to one's mother was the deepest to oneself. Ishmael, too honest to be influenced by this consideration, yet felt constrained by the weight of public opinion.
Also he was still upon the uplift of his mood; his blood tingled the more for the mental shock that had numbed his reasoning faculties. As in his turn he hit Doughty's cheek he felt a little glow at his own carelessness of consequences. Polkinghorne was beginning to feel worried, because seen together it was plain that the big Doughty overtopped Ishmael by nearly a head. Suddenly he had an inspiration and threw himself between them as Doughty swung out at the younger boy, thereby incidentally getting the blow himself.
”I'll lick you for that later, Doughty,” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”Meanwhile, kindly shut up while I say something. Ruan can't fight you--”
”Can't he? Then what did he hit me for?”
”I can fight him all right, thanks,” said Ishmael.
”But he can wrestle you,” went on Polkinghorne imperturbably, ”because he's a clever wrestler and he'll stand a fair chance. You can take it or leave it, but if you leave it I'll give you a thras.h.i.+ng for the honour of the school.”
A murmur of a.s.sent came from the others, who saw an impossibly difficult situation thus in a way to be solved as far as the two princ.i.p.als in the quarrel were concerned, while to themselves it gave time to adjust their att.i.tude, which they did not all take as simply as had Killigrew. In a fight Doughty's superior size would have given him all the advantage; in the West Country method of wrestling this would not necessarily hold true. And Ishmael was in far better condition.
Polkinghorne turned to Hilaria.
”Someone will see you home, of course,” he said politely. ”I shall have to stay as stickler, and Carminow as well, but I'll send Moss and the young 'un with you. And mind you keep your jaws shut about it when you get back to the school, you two.”
Polkinghorne minor and Moss both looked considerably taken aback, but not more so than Hilaria. ”Oh, I must stay, Polkinghorne,” she pleaded, feeling for the first time a terrible sensation of not being wanted, of an unimportance essential to her s.e.x and beyond her power to alter whatever her tastes or her justifiable reliance on her own nerves. But Polkinghorne, backed by Killigrew and Ishmael himself, was adamant, though Carminow saw no reason why she should not stay if it interested her. They stood waiting till her crinoline, like a huge piece of blown thistledown, had swayed around a curve of the path which hid it and the two little boys from sight, and then they prepared for business.
CHAPTER XIII
THE WRESTLING
It was growing swiftly dusk, though the amphitheatre of turf where the boys stood, cupped the last of the light from the west, backed as it was by the semi-circle of tall rocks.
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