"Ah! who knows! There'll be something for me to do, I expect. . . . I will see Margaret to-morrow--and say good-bye."

Craven's face was white, the eyelids had almost closed, his head hung forward as though it were too heavy to support.

"I'm just about done," he murmured, "just about done. It's been all a beastly dream . . . and now you're all right--you and Margaret--I haven't got to bother about her any more."

2

After hall Olva went to Cardillac's room for the last time. No one there knew that it was for the last time. It seemed to them all that he was just beginning to come out, to be one of them. The football match of that afternoon had been wonderful enough for anything, and the excitement of it lingered still about Cardillac's rooms, thick now with tobacco-smoke, crowded with men, noisy with laughter. The air was so strong with smoke, the lights so dim, the voices so many, that Olva finding a corner near an open window slipped, it might almost seem, from the world. Outside the snow, threatening all day, now fell heavily; the old Court took it with a gentleness that showed that the snow was meant for it, and the snow covered the grey roofs and the smooth gra.s.s with a satisfaction that could almost be heard, so deep was it. Just this little window-pane between the world that Olva was leaving and the world to which he was going!

He caught fragments: "Just that last run--gorgeous--but old Snodky says that that horse of his---"

"My dear fellow, you take it from me--they can't get on without it. . . . Now a girl I know----"

"They fairly fell upon one another's necks and hugged. Talk of the fatted calf! Now if I'd asked the governor----"

Around him there came, with a poignancy, a beauty, that, now that he was to lose it all, was like a wound, the wonder of this Cambridge. Then he had it, the marvellous moment! On the other side of the window the still court, a few twinkling lights, the powdering snow--and here the vitality, the energy, the glowing sense of two thousand souls marching together upon Life and seizing it, with a shout, lifting it, stepping out with it as though it were one long glory! Afterwards what matter?

There had been the moment, never to be forgotten! Cambridge, the beautiful threshold!

For an instant the sense of his own forthcoming journey--away from life, as it seemed to him--caught him as he sat there. "What will G.o.d do with me?"

From the outer world through the whispering snow, he caught the echo of the Voice--"My Son . . . My Son."

Soon he heard Lawrence's tremendous laugh--"Where's Dune? Is he here?"

Lawrence found him and sat down beside him.

"By Jupiter, old man, I was frightened for you this afternoon. Until half-time you were drugged or somethin', and there was I prayin' to my Druids all I was worth to put back into you. And, my word, they did it I Talk about that second half--never saw anythin' like it! Have a drink, old man!"

"No, thanks. Yes, I didn't seem to get on to it at all at first."

"Well, you're fixed for Queen's Club--just heard--got your Blue all right. You and Whymper ought to do fine things between you, although stickin' two individualists together on the same wing like that ain't exactly my idea, and they don't as a rule settle the team as early as this"--Lawrence put a large hand on Olva's knee. "Goin' home for Christmas?" he said.

"I expect so."

"Well, yer see--I've got a sort of idea. I wish this vac, you'd come an' stay with us for a bit. Good old sorts, my people. Governor quite a brainy man--and you could talk, you two. There'll be lots of people tumblin' about the place--lots goin' on, and the governor'll like to have a sensible feller once in a way . . . and I'd like it too," he ended at the bottom of his gruff voice.

"Well, you see;" Olva explained, "it depends a bit on my own father.

He's all alone up there at our place, and I like to be with him as much as possible." Olva looked through the window at the snow, grey against the sky, white against the college walls. "I don't quite know where I shall be--I think you must let me write to you."

"Oh! _that's_ all right," said Lawrence. "I want you to come along some time. You'd like the governor--and if you don't mind listening to an a.s.s like me--well, I'd take it as an honour if you'd talk to me a bit."

As Olva looked Lawrence in the eyes he knew that it would be well with him if, in his journey through the world, he met again so good a soul.

Cardillac joined them and they all talked for a little. Then Olva said good-night.

He turned for a moment at the door and looked back. Some one at the other end of the room was singing "Egypt" to a cracked piano. A babel of laughter, of chatter, every now and again men tumbled against one another, like cubs in a cave, and rolled upon the floor. Lawrence, his feet planted wide apart, was standing in the middle of an admiring circle, explaining something very slowly.

"If the old scrum-half," he was saying, "only stood back enough---"

What a splendid lot they were! What a life it was! So much joy in the heart of so much beauty! . . . Cambridge!

As he crossed the white court the strains of "Egypt" came, like a farewell, through the tumbling snow.

There was still a thing that he must do. He went to say good-bye to Bunning. He thought with surprise as he climbed the stairs that this was the first time that he'd ever been to Bunning's room. It had always been Bunning who had come to him. He would always see that picture---Bunning standing, clumsily, awkwardly in the doorway. Poor Bunning!

When Olva came in he was sitting in a very old armchair, staring into the fire, his hair on end and his tie above his collar. Olva watched him for a moment, the face, the body, everything about him utterly dejected; the sound of Olva's entrance did not at once rouse him. When at last he saw who it was he started up, his face flushing crimson.

"You!" he cried.

"Yes," said Olva, "I've come to tell you that everything's all right."

For a moment light touched Bunning's eyes, then slowly he shook his head.

"Things can't be all right. It's gone much too far."

"My dear Bunning, I've seen Craven. I've told him. I a.s.sure you that all is well."

"You told him?"

"Everything. That I killed Carfax--he knew it, of course, long ago. He went fast asleep at the end of it."

Bunning shook his head again, wearily. "It's all no good. You're saying these things to comfort me. Even if Craven didn't do anything he wouldn't let you marry his sister now. That's more important than being hung."

"If it hadn't been for you," Olva said slowly, "I should have gone on wriggling. You've made me come out into the open. 'I'm going to tell Miss Craven everything to-morrow."

"What will she do?"

"I don't know. She'll do the right thing. After that I'm going away."

"Going away?"

"Yes. I want to think about things. I've never thought about anything except myself. I'm going to tramp it home, and after that I shall find out what I'm going to do."

"And Miss Craven?"

"I shall come back to her one day--when I'm fit for it--or rather, _if_ I'm fit for it. But that's enough about myself. I only wanted to tell you, Bunning, before I go that I shall never forget your telling Craven.

You're lucky to have been able to do so fine a thing. We shall meet again later on--I'll see to that."

Bunning, his whole body strung to a desperate appeal, caught Olva's hand. "Take me with you, Dune. Take me with you. I'll be your servant--anything you like. I'll do anything if you'll let me come. I won't be a nuisance--I'll never talk if you don't want me to--I'll do everything you tell me--only let me come. You're the only person who's ever shown me what I might do. I might be of use if I were with you--otherwise----"

"Rot, Bunning. You've got plenty to do here. I'm no good yet for anybody. One day perhaps we'll meet again. I'll write to you. I promise not to forget you. How could I? and one day I'll come back---"

Bunning moved away, his head banging. "You must think me an awful fool--of course you do. I am, I suppose. I'd be awful to be with for long at a time--of course I see that. But I don't know what to do. If I go home and tell them I'm not going to be a parson it'll be terrible.

They'll all be at me. Not directly. They won't say anything, but they'll have people to talk to me. They'll fill the house--they won't spare any pains. And then, at last, being all alone, I shall give in. I know I shall, I'm not clever or strong. And I shall be ordained--and then it'll be h.e.l.l. I can see it all. You came into my life and made it all different, and now you're going out of it again and it will be worse than ever---"

"I won't go out of it," said Olva. "I'll write if you'd like--and perhaps we'll meet. I'll be always your friend. And--look here--I'll tell Margaret--Miss Craven--about you, and she'll ask you to go and see her, and if you two are friends it'll be a kind of alliance between all of us, won't it?"

Bunning was happier--"Oh, but she'll think me such an a.s.s!"