As Olva was changing into his football things, Cardillac appeared.

"Come up to the field with me, will you? I've got a hansom."

Olva finished tying his boots and stood up. Cardillac looked at him.

"My word, you seem fit."

"Yes, I'm splendid, thanks."

He felt splendid. Never before had he been so conscious of the right to be alive. His football clothes smelt of the earth and the air. He moved his arms and legs with wonderful freedom. His blood was pumping through his body as though death, disease, infirmity such things---were of another planet.

For such a man as he there should only be air, love, motion, the begetting of children, the surprising splendour of a sudden death. Now already Craven was waiting for him.

He had sent a note round to Craven's rooms; he had said, "Come in to see me after the match---five o'clock. I have something to tell you."

At five o'clock then. . . .

Meanwhile it was nice of Cardillac to come. They exchanged no words about it, but they understood one another entirely. It was as though Cardillac had said---"I expect that you're going to knock me out of this Rugger Blue as you knocked me out of the Wolves, and I want to show you that we're pals all the way through."

What Cardillac really said was---"Have a cigarette? These are Turkish.

Feel like playing a game to-day?"

"Never felt better in my life."

"Well, these Dublin fellows haven't had their line crossed yet this season. May one of us have the luck to do it."

"Pretty hefty lot of forwards."

"Yes, O'Brien's their spot Three I believe."

Olva and Cardillac attracted much attention as they walked through the College. Miss Annett, watching them from a little window where she washed plates, gulped in her thin throat with pride for "that Mr. Dune.

There's a gentleman!" The sun above the high grey buildings broke slowly through yellow clouds. The roads were covered with a thin fine mud and, from the earth, faint clouds of mist rose and vanished into a sky that was slowly crumbling from thick grey into light watery blue.

The cold air beat upon their faces as the hansom rattled past Dunstan's, over the bridge, and up the hill towards the field.

Cardillac talked. "There goes Braff. He doesn't often come up to a game nowadays--must be getting on for seventy--the greatest half the 'Varsity's ever had, I suppose."

"It's a good thing this mud isn't thicker. It won't make the ball bad.

That game against Monkstown the other day! My word. . . ."

But Olva was not listening. It seemed to him now that two separate personalities were divided in him so sharply that it was impossible to reconcile them.

There was Olva Dune concentrating all his will, his mentality, upon the game that he was about to play. This was his afternoon. After it there would be darkness, death, what you will--parting from Margaret--all purely physical emotions.

The other Olva felt nothing physical. The game, confession to Rupert, trial, imprisonment, even separation from Margaret, all these things were nothing in comparison with some great business that was in progress behind it all, as real life may go on behind the painted back cloth of a stage. Here were amazing happenings, although at present he was confused and bewildered by them. It was not that Olva was, actually, at the instant conscious of actual impressions, but rather that great emotions, great surprising happiness, seemed to shine on some horizon. It was as though something had said to his soul, "Presently you will feel a joy, a splendour, that you had never in your wildest thoughts imagined."

The pursuit was almost at an end. He was now enveloped, enfolded.

Already everything to him--even his love for Margaret--was trivial in comparison with the effect of some atmosphere that was beginning to hem him in on every side.

But against all this was the other Olva--the Olva who desired physical strength, love, freedom, health.

Well, let it all be as confusing as it might, he would play his game.

But as he walked into the Pavilion he knew that the prelude to his real life had only a few more hours to run. . . .

4

As he pa.s.sed, with the rest of the team, up the field, he observed two things only; one thing was Margaret, standing on the left side of the field just below the covered stand--he could see her white face and her little black hard hat.

The other thing was that on the horizon where the wall at the further end of the field cut the sky there were piled, as though resting on the top of the wall, high white clouds. For a moment these clouds, piled in mountain shape of an intense whiteness with round curving edges, held his eyes because they exactly resembled those clouds that had hung above him on the day of his walk to Sannet Wood--the day when he had been caught by the snowstorm. These clouds brooded, waiting above him; their dazzling white had the effect of a steady, unswerving gaze.

They lined out. He took his place as centre three-quarter with Cardillac outside left and Tester and Buchan on the other wing. Old Lawrence was standing, a solid rock of a figure, back. There was a great crowd present. The tops of the hansom cabs in the road beyond rose above the wall, and he could hear, m.u.f.fled with distance, shots from the 'Varsity firing range.

All these things focussed themselves upon his brain in the moment before the whistle went; the whistle blew, the Dublin men had kicked off, Tester had fielded the ball, sent it back into touch, and the game had begun.

This was to be the game of his life and yet he could not centre his attention upon it. He was conscious that Whymper--the great Whymper--was acting as linesman and watching every movement. He knew that for most of that great crowd his was the figure that was of real concern, he knew that he was as surely battling for his lady as though he had been fighting, tournament-wise, six hundred years ago.

But it all seemed of supreme unimportance. To-night he was to face Rupert, to state, once and for all, that he had killed Carfax, to submit Margaret to a terrible test . . . even that of no importance. All life was insignificant beside something that was about to happen; before the gaze of that white dazzling cloud be felt that he stood, a little pigmy, alone on a brown spreading field.

The game was up at the University end. The Dublin men were pressing and the Cambridge forwards seemed to have lost their heads. It was a case now of "scrum," lining out, and "scrum" again. The Cambridge men got the ball, kept it between their heels and tried, desperately to wheel with it and carry it along with them. It escaped them, dribbled out of the scrimmage, the Cambridge half leapt upon it, but the Dublin man was upon him before he could get it away. It was on the ground again, the Dublin forwards dribbled it a little and then some one, sweeping it into his arms, fell forward with it, over the line, the Cambridge men on top of him.

Dublin had scored a try, and a goal from an easy angle followed--Dublin five points.

They all moved back to the centre of the field and now the Cambridge men, rushing the ball from a line-out in their favour, pressed hard. At last the ball came to the three-quarters. Tester caught it, it pa.s.sed to Buchan, who as he fell flung it right out to Cardillac; Cardillac draw his man, swerved, and sent it back to Olva. As Olva felt the neat hard surface of it, as he knew that the way was almost clear before him, his feet seemed clogged with heavy weights. Something was about to happen to him--something, but not this. The crowd behind the ropes were shouting, he knew that he was himself running, but it seemed that only his body was moving, his real self was standing back, gazing at those white clouds--waiting.

He knew that he made no attempt to escape the man in front of him; he seemed to run straight into his arms; he heard a little sigh go up from behind the ropes, as he tumbled to the ground, letting the ball trickle feebly from his fingers. A try missed if ever one was!

No one said anything, but he felt the disappointment in the air. He knew what they were saying--"One of Dune's off days! I always said you couldn't depend upon the man. He's just too sidey to care what happens.

Well they might say it if they would; his eyes were on the horizon.

But his failure had had its effect. Let there be an individualist in the line and Tester and Buchan would play their well-ordered game to perfection. They relied as a rule upon Whymper--to-day they had depended upon Dune. Well Dune had failed them, the forwards were heeling so slowly, the scrum-half was never getting the ball away--it was a miserable affair.

The Dublin forwards pressed again. For a long time the two bodies of men swayed backwards and forwards; in the University twenty-five Lawrence was performing wonders. He seemed to be everywhere at once, bringing men down, seizing, in a lightning flash of time, his opportunity for relieving by kicking into touch.

Twice the ball went to the Dublin three-quarters and they seemed certainly in, but on the first occasion a man slipped and on the second Olva caught his three-quarter and brought him sharply to the ground. It was the only piece of work that he had done.

More struggling--then away on the right some Dublin man had caught it and was running. Some one dashed at him to hurl him into touch, but he slipped past and was in.

Another try--the kick was again successful--Dublin ten points.

The half-time whistle blew. As the met gathered into groups in the middle of the field, sucking lemons and gathering additional melancholy there from, Olva stood a little away from them. Whymper came out into the field to exhort and advise. As he pa.s.sed Olva he said--

"Rather missed that try of yours. Ought to have gone a bit faster."

He did not answer, it seemed to be no concern of his at all. He was now trembling it every limb, but his excitement had nothing to do with the game. It seemed to him that the earth and the sky were sharing his emotion am he could feel in the air a great exaltation. I was becoming literally true for him that earth air, sky were praising at this moment, in wonderful unison, some great presence.