Part 9 (1/2)
Meanwhile, from the watchers left in the quad, came a loud cough.
”Dons!--by Jove! Scatter!” And they rushed further up the staircase, taking refuge in the rooms of two of the ”raggers.” The lookout in the quadrangle turned to walk quietly towards the porter's lodge. The Senior Tutor--a spare tall man with a Jove-like brow--emerged from the library, and stood on the steps surveying the broken gla.s.s.
”All run to cover, of course!” was his reflection, half scornful, half disgusted. ”But I am certain I heard Falloden's voice. What a puppy stage it is! They would be much better employed worrying old boots!”
But philosopher or no, he got no clue. The quadrangle was absolutely quiet and deserted, save for the cheeping of the swallows flitting across it, and the whistling of a lad in the porter's lodge. The Senior Tutor returned to the library, where he was unpacking a box of new books.
The rioters emerged at discreet intervals, and rejoined each other in the broad street outside the college.
”Vengeance is still due!”--said Falloden, towering among them, always with the faithful and grinning Meyrick at his side--”and we will repay.
But now, to our tents! Ta, ta!” And dismissing them all, including Meyrick, he walked off alone in the direction of Holywell. He was going to look out a horse for Constance Bledlow.
As he walked, he said to himself that he was heartily sick of this Oxford life, ragging and all. It was a good thing it was so nearly done.
He meant to get his First, because he didn't choose, having wasted so much time over it, not to get it. But it wouldn't give him any particular pleasure to get it. The only thing that really mattered was that Constance Bledlow was in Oxford, and that when his schools were over, he would have nothing to do but to stay on two or three weeks and force the running with her. He felt himself immeasurably older than his companions with whom he had just been rioting. His mind was set upon a man's interests and aims--marriage, travel, Parliament; they were still boys, without a mind among them. None the less, there was an underplot running through his consciousness all the time as to how best to punish Radowitz--both for his throw, and his impertinence in monopolising a certain lady for at least a quarter of an hour on the preceding evening.
At the well-known livery-stables in Holywell, he found a certain animation. Horses were in demand, as there were manoeuvres going on in Blenheim Park, and the minds of both dons and undergraduates were drawn thither. But Falloden succeeded in getting hold of the manager and absorbing his services at once.
”Show you something really good, fit for a lady?”
The manager took him through the stables, and Falloden in the end picked out precisely the beautiful brown mare of which he had spoken to Constance.
”n.o.body else is to ride her, please, till the lady I am acting for has tried her,” he said peremptorily to Fox. ”I shall try her myself to-morrow. And what about a groom?--a decent fellow, mind, with a decent livery.”
He saw a possible man and another horse, reserving both provisionally.
Then he walked hurriedly to his lodgings to see if by any chance there were a note for him there. He had wired to his mother the day before, telling her to write to Constance Bledlow and Mrs. Hooper by the evening's post, suggesting that, on Thursday before the Eights, Lady Laura should pick her up at Medburn House, take her to tea at Falloden's lodgings and then on to the Eights. Lady Laura was to ask for an answer addressed to the lodgings.
He found one--a little note with a crest and monogram he knew well.
Medburn House.
”Dear Mr. Falloden,--I am very sorry I can not come to tea to-morrow. But my aunt and cousins seem to have made an engagement for me. No doubt I shall see Lady Laura at the boats. My aunt thanks her for her kind letter.
”Yours very truly,
”Constance Bledlow.”
Falloden bit his lip. He had reckoned on an acceptance, having done everything that had been prescribed to him; and he felt injured. He walked on, fuming and meditating, to Vincent's Club, and wrote a reply.
”DEAR LADY CONSTANCE,--A thousand regrets! I hope for better luck next time. Meanwhile, as you say, we shall meet to-morrow at the Eights. I have spent much time to-day in trying to find you a horse, as we agreed. The mare I told you of is really a beauty. I am going to try her to-morrow, and will report when we meet. I admire your nepticular (I believe _neptis_ is the Latin for niece) docility!
”Yours sincerely,
”DOUGLAS FALLODEN.”
”Will that offend her?” he thought. ”But a pin-p.r.i.c.k is owed. I was distinctly given to understand that if the proprieties were observed, she would come.”
In reality, however, he was stimulated by her refusal, as he was by all forms of conflict, which, for him, made the zest of life.
He shut himself up that evening and the following morning with his Greats work. Then he and Meyrick rushed up to the racket courts in the Parks for an hour's hard exercise, after which, in the highest physical spirits, a splendid figure in his white flannels, with the dark blue cap and sash of the Harrow Eleven--(he had quarrelled with the captain of the Varsity Eleven very early in his Oxford career, and by an heroic sacrifice to what he conceived to be his dignity had refused to let himself be tried for it)--he went off to meet his mother and sister at the railway station.