It never occurred to Sir Oulstone that the college might dispute his judgment. For a time, his confidence had a hypnotic effect on all there, and on Brown’s face there grew a comfortable, appreciative smile. Even Winslow did not produce a caustic remark, and it was left for Francis Getliffe to cross-examine Sir Oulstone about his detailed knowledge of Roy’s work. Francis, who was a precise and accurate man, knew that all Roy’s published work was linguistic — and he was right in thinking that Sir Oulstone was a historian, not a linguist at all. But Sir Oulstone was quite unperturbed by the questions: he turned to Foulkes, with the manner of one whistling up a technical assistant, and said with unshaken confidence: “Foulkes, I should like you to deal with that interesting point.” And Foulkes was off the mark at once.
Colonel Foulkes was off the mark even more rapidly when someone made a remark about Roy’s character.
“Splendid fellow. Everything you could wish for,” said Foulkes.
“I have heard reports,” said Winslow, “that the young man finds time for some night life. In the intervals of making his contribution to your subject, Sir Oulstone,” he added caustically, but I fancied that he was reluctant to bring in scandal. He had not done it before, and it was not his line.
“Nonsense,” said Colonel Foulkes instantaneously. “Fine clean-living fellow. He’s got his books and games, he doesn’t want anything else.”
Someone said a word, and Foulkes became incensed. “Listening to women’s gossip.” He glared round with hot, brown eyes. “Utterly unthinkable to anyone who knows Calvert as well as I do.”
Sir Oulstone intervened.
“I cannot pretend to have very intimate knowledge of Mr Calvert personally,” he said. “Though I may say that I’ve formed a very favourable impression. He does not thrust himself forward in the presence of his elders. But my friend Colonel Foulkes has been in constant touch with him—”
“The army teaches you to see the seamy side,” said Foulkes, still irate but simmering down. “Perhaps living in sheltered places makes you see things that aren’t there. Afraid I can’t leave this thing in its present state. I must correct this impression. Absolute nonsense. You couldn’t have a finer specimen of a young man.”
Immediately after we rose from hall, Foulkes went away without going into the combination room. He would not let a minute pass before he “corrected the impression”, and he had gone off, hot-temperedly, loyally, without thinking twice, to see the Master. Sir Oulstone blandly continued his praise of Roy for an hour in the combination room: for all his blandness, for all his impenetrable pomposity, he had a real desire to see his subject grow. As we broke up, I could not decide what had been the effect of this curious evening.
Later that night, I called on Roy. He was alone, the opalescent viewing screen was still lighted at the top of his tall desk, but he was sunk into an armchair. At the little table by his side, books had been pushed out of order, so as to make room for a bottle of brandy and a glass.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Not tired enough.”
He did not smile, he scarcely looked at me, his face was drawn and fixed with sadness.
“Have a drink, Lewis.”
“No.”
“You don’t mind me?” he said with a sad ironic courtesy, poured himself another glass, and took a gulp.
“There’s nothing special the matter, is there?” I asked, but I knew that it was not so.
“How could there be?”
He seemed to struggle from a depth far away, as he asked: “What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been in hall.”
“A good place, hall.”
“We were talking of you.”
“You should have something better to do,” he cried, half-angrily, half-wretchedly.
“It must happen just now, you know.” I tried to soothe him.
“They should forget me.”
“I told you, Oulstone Lyall was coming down—”
“He’s a dreadful man.”
“He’s pretty pompous,” I said. “But he was doing you very proud—”
“He should be told to stop,” said Roy with a grimace, sombre and frowning. “He’s a dreadful man. He’s stuffed. He’s never doubted himself for a minute in his life.”
In any mood, Roy was provoked by the Lyalls, by the self-satisfied, protected, and content; they were the men he could not meet as brothers. But now he was inflamed.
“He never even doubted himself when he pinched Erzberger’s work,” cried Roy.
Roy drank another brandy, and wildly told me of the scandal of thirty years before.
“It’s true,” said Roy angrily. “You don’t believe it, but it’s true.”
“Tell me the whole story some time.”
“You don’t need to humour me. That dreadful man oughtn’t to be talking nonsense about me. I need to stop him.”
I had never seen Roy so overwhelmed by despondency as this. I did not know what to expect, or what to fear next. I was appalled that night by the wild active gleam that kept striking out of the darkness. He did not submit to the despair, but struggled for anything that gave release.
All I could do, I thought, was try to prevent any action that might damage himself. I said that stretches of unhappiness had to be lived through; somehow one emerged from them; they were bad enough in themselves, it was worse if they left consequences when one was calm once again.
Roy listened, his eyes bright, bloodshot. He replied more gently than he had spoken that night.
“Dear old boy, you know what it is to be miserable, don’t you? But you think it ought to be kept in separate compartments, don’t you? You don’t believe that it ought to interfere with really serious things. Such as getting fellowships.”
“It’s better if it doesn’t,” I said.
“I wish I were as stoical as you,” he said. “Yet you’ve been hopeless, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just so. I’ll try, old boy, I’ll try. I can’t promise much.”
He was quiet for a time, and did not take another drink until Ralph Udal came in. Since I first met him, he had borrowed a considerable sum of money from Roy. He had followed Roy’s advice, and had taken a London curacy. He kept coming up to see Roy, so as to plan support within the college; but I knew he was also watching for Roy to be converted. His watch was patient, effortless, almost sinister. However, he was not so patient about obtaining his country living. Despite Roy’s instructions, he had been trying to hurry things that weekend. He had been calling on the Master, Despard-Smith, the Senior Tutor, Brown, in order to sound them about the next vacancy; he was being much more open than Roy thought wise.
“Wonderful!” shouted Roy as Udal entered. “Old Lewis won’t drink, but you will, won’t you?”
Udal took a sip of brandy, and looked at Roy with passive good-nature.
“Haven’t you had enough?” he said.
“Probably,” said Roy, drinking again. “Well, what did they say to you?”
Udal shrugged his shoulders. He seemed irritated and chagrined.
“They don’t seem anxious to let me retire.”
“The devils,” said Roy.
“They think I’m too young to settle down in comfort. I’ve always had a faint objection,” said Udal, “to people who find it necessary to make one do unpleasant things for the good of one’s soul. Why do they take it on themselves to make life into a moral gymnasium?”
“Why do they, Lewis? You should know,” cried Roy.