Gaudy Night

12

The arrival of Miss Edwards, together with the rearrangements of residences due to the completion of the Library Building, greatly strengthened the hands of authority at the opening of the Trinity Term. Miss Barton, Miss Burrows and Miss de Vine moved into the three new sets on the ground floor of the Library; Miss Chilperic was transferred to the New Quad, and a general redistribution took place; so that Tudor and Burleigh Buildings were left entirely denuded of dons. Miss Martin, Harriet, Miss Edwards and Miss Lydgate established a system of patrols, by which the New Quad, Queen Elizabeth and the Library Building could be visited nightly at irregular intervals and an eye kept on all suspicious movements…

Thanks to this arrangement, the more violent demonstrations of the Poison-Pen received a check. It is true that a few anonymous letters continued to arrive by post, containing scurrilous insinuations and threats of revenge against various persons. Harriet was carefully docketing as many of these as she could hear of or lay hands on-she noticed that by this time every member of the S.C.R. had been persecuted, with the exception of Mrs. Goodwin and Miss Chilperic; in addition, the Third Year taking Schools began to receive sinister prognostications about their prospects, while Miss Flaxman was presented with an ill-executed picture of a harpy tearing the flesh of a gentleman in a mortar-board.

Harriet had tried to eliminate Miss Pyke and Miss Burrows from suspicion, on the ground that they were both fairly skilful with a pencil, and would therefore be incapable of producing such bad drawings, even by taking thought; she discovered, however, that, though both were dexterous, neither of them was ambidexterous, and that their left-handed efforts were quite as bad as anything produced by the Poison-Pen, if not worse. Miss Pyke, indeed, on being shown the Harpy picture, pointed out that it was, in several respects, inconsistent with the classical conception of this monster; but there again it was clearly easy enough for the expert to assume ignorance; and perhaps the eagerness with which she drew attention to the incidental errors told as much against her as in her favour.

Another trifling but curious episode, occurring on the third Monday in term, was the complaint of an agitated and conscientious First-Year that she had left a harmless modern novel open upon the table in the Fiction Library, and that on her return to fetch it after an afternoon on the river, she had found several pages from the middle of the book-just where she was reading-ripped out and strewn about the room. The First-Year, who was a County Council Scholar, and as poor as a church mouse, was almost in tears; it really wasn’t her fault; should she have to replace the book? The Dean, to whom the question was addressed, said, No; it certainly didn’t seem to be the First-Year’s fault. She made a note of the outrage: “The Search by C. P. Snow, pp. 327 to 340 removed and mutilated, May 13th,” and passed the information on to Harriet, who incorporated it in her diary of the case, together with such items as:

“March 7, abusive letter by post to Miss de Vine,”

“March 11, do. to Miss Hillyard and Miss Layton,”

“April 29, Harpy drawing to Miss Flaxman,” of which she had now quite a formidable list.

So the Summer Term set in, sun-flecked and lovely, a departing April whirled on wind-spurred feet towards a splendour of May. Tulips danced in the Fellows’ Garden; a fringe of golden green shimmered and deepened upon the secular beeches; the boats put out upon the Cher between the budding banks, and the wide reaches of the Isis were strenuous with practising eights. Black gowns and summer frocks fluttered up and down the streets of the city and through the College gates, making a careless heraldry with the green of smooth turf and the silver-sable of ancient stone; motorcar and bicycle raced perilously side by side through narrow turnings and the wail of gramophones made hideous the water-ways from Magdalen Bridge to far above the new By-pass. Sunbathers and untidy tea-parties desecrated Shrewsbury Old Quad, newly-whitened tennis-shoes broke out like strange, unwholesome flowers along plinth and window-ledge, and the Dean was forced to issue a ukase in the matter of the bathing-dresses which flapped and fluttered, flag-fashion, from every coign of vantage. Solicitous tutors began cluck and brood tenderly over such ripening eggs of scholarship as were destined to hatch out damply in the Examination Schools after their three years incubation; candidates, realizing with a pang that they had now fewer than eight weeks in which to make up for cut lectures and misspent working hours, went flashing from Bodley to lecture-room and from Camera to coaching; and the thin trickle of abuse from the Poison-Pen was swamped and well-nigh forgotten in that stream of genial commination always poured out from the lips of examinees elect upon examining bodies. Nor, in the onset of Schools Fever, was a lighter note lacking to the general delirium. The draw for the Schools Sweep was made in the Senior Common Room, and Harriet found herself furnished with the names of two “horses,” one of whom, a Miss Newland, was said to be well fancied. Harriet asked who she was, having never to her knowledge seen or heard of her.

“I don’t suppose you have,” said the Dean. “She’s a shy child. But Miss Shaw thinks she’s pretty safe for a First.”

“She isn’t looking well this term, though,” said the Bursar. “I hope she isn’t going to have a break-down or anything. I told her the other day she ought not to cut Hall so often.”

“They will do it,” said the Dean. “It’s all very well to say they can’t be bothered to change when they come off the river and prefer pyjamas and an egg in their rooms; but I’m sure a boiled egg and a sardine aren’t sustaining enough to do Schools on.”

“And the mess it all makes for the scouts to clear up,” grumbled the Bursar. “It’s almost impossible to get the rooms done by eleven when they’re crammed with filthy crockery.”

“It isn’t being out on the river that’s the matter with Newland,” said the Dean. “That child works.”

“All the worse,” said the Bursar. “I distrust the candidate who swots in her last term. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if your horse scratched, Miss Vane. She looks nervy to me.”

“That’s very depressing,” said Harriet. “Perhaps I’d better sell half my ticket while the price is good. I agree with Edgar Wallace, ‘Give me a good stupid horse who will eat his oats.’ Any offers for Newland?”

“What’s that about Newland?” demanded Miss Shaw, coming up to them. They were having coffee in the Fellows’ Garden at the time. “By the way, Dean, couldn’t you put up a notice about sitting on the grass in the New Quad? I have had to chase two parties off. We cannot have the place looking like Margate Beach.”

“Certainly not. They know quite well it isn’t allowed. Why are women undergraduates so sloppy?”

“They’re always exceedingly anxious to be like the men,” said Miss Hillyard, sarcastically, “but I notice the likeness doesn’t extend to showing respect for the College grounds.”

“Even you must admit that men have some virtues,” said Miss Shaw.

“More tradition and discipline, that’s all,” said Miss Hillyard.

“I don’t know,” said Miss Edwards. “I think women are messier by nature. They are naturally picnic-minded.”

“It’s nice to sit out in the open air in this lovely weather,” suggested Miss Chilperic, almost apologetically (for her student days were not far behind her), “and they don’t think how awful it looks.”

“In hot weather,” said Harriet, moving her chair back into the shade, men have the common sense to stay indoors, where it’s cooler.”

“Men,” said Miss Hillyard, “have a passion for frowst.”

“Yes,” said Miss Shaw, “but what were you saying about Miss Newland? You weren’t offering to sell your chance. Miss Vane, were you? Because, take it from me, she’s a hot favourite. She’s the Latymer Scholar, and her work is brilliant.”

“Somebody suggested she was off her feed and likely to be a nonstarter.”

“That’s very unkind,” said Miss Shaw, with indignation. “Nobody’s any right to say such things.”

“I think she looks harassed and on edge,” said the Bursar. “She’s too hard-working and conscientious. She hasn’t got the wind-up about Schools, has she?”

“There’s nothing wrong with her work,” said Miss Shaw. “She does look a little pale, but I expect it’s the sudden heat.”

“Possibly she’s worried about things at home,” suggested Mrs. Goodwin. She had returned to College on the May 9th, her boy having taken a fortunate turn for the better, though he was still not out of the wood. She looked anxious and sympathetic.

“She’d have told me if she had been,” said Miss Shaw. “I encourage my students to confide in me. Of course she’s a very reserved girl, but I have done my best to draw her out, and I feel sure I should have heard if there was anything on her mind.”

“Welt,” said Harriet, “I must see this horse of mine before I decide what to do about my sweep-stake ticket. Somebody must point her out.”

“She’s up in the Library at this moment, I fancy ” said the Dean; “I saw her stewing away there just before dinner-cutting Hall as usual. I nearly spoke to her. Come and stroll through. Miss Vane. If she’s there, we’ll chase her out for the good of her soul. I want to look up a reference, anyhow.”

Harriet got up, laughing, and accompanied the Dean.

“I sometimes think,” said Miss Martin, “that Miss Shaw would get more real confidence from her pupils if she wasn’t always probing into their little insides. She likes people to be fond of her, which I think is rather a mistake. Be kind, but leave ’em alone, is my motto. The shy ones shrink into their shells when they’re poked, and the egotistical ones talk a lot of rubbish to attract attention. However, we all have our methods.”

She pushed open the Library door, halted in the end bay to consult a book and verify a quotation, and then led the way through the long room. At a table near the centre, a thin, fair girl was working amid a pile of reference books. The Dean stopped.

“You still here, Miss Newland? Haven’t you had any dinner?”

“I’ll have some later, Miss Martin. It was so hot, and I want to get this language paper done.”

The girt looked startled and uneasy. She pushed the damp hair back from her forehead. The whites of her eyes showed like those of a fidgety horse.

“Don’t you be a little juggins, said the Dean. ”All work and no play is simply silly in your Schools term. If you go on like this, we’ll have to send you away for a rest-cure and forbid work altogether for a week or so. Have you got a headache? You look as if you had.”

“Not very much, Miss Martin.”

“For goodness’ sake,” said the Dean, “chuck that perishing old Ducange and Meyer-Lübke or whoever it is and go away and play. I’m always having to chase the Schools people off to the river and into the country,” she added, turning to Harriet. “I wish they’d all be like Miss Camperdown-she was after your time. She frightened Miss Pyke by dividing the whole of her Schools term between the river and the tennis courts, and she ended up with a First in Greats.”

Miss Newland looked more alarmed than ever. “I don’t seem able to think,” she confessed. “I forget things and go blank.”

“Of course you do,” said the Dean, briskly. “Sure sign you’re doing too much. Stop it at once. Get up now and get yourself some food and then take a nice novel or something, or find somebody to have a knock-up with you.”

“Please don’t bother. Miss Martin. I’d rather go on with this. I don’t feel like eating and I don’t care about tennis-I wish you wouldn’t bother!” she finished, rather hysterically.

“All right,” said the Dean; “bless you, I don’t want to fuss. But do be sensible.”

“I will, really. Miss Martin. I’ll just finish this paper. I couldn’t feel comfortable if I hadn’t. I’ll have something to eat then and go to bed. I promise I will.”

“That’s a good girl.” The Dean passed on, out of the Library, and said to Harriet:

“I don’t like to see them getting into that state. What do you think of your horse’s chance?”

“Not much,” said Harriet. “I do know her. That is, I’ve seen her before. I saw her last on Magdalen Tower.”

“What?” said the Dean. “Oh, lord!”

Of Lord Saint-George, Harriet had not seen very much during that first fortnight of term. His arm was out of a sling; but a remaining weakness in it had curbed his sporting activities, and when she did see him, he informed her that he was working. The matter of the telegraph pole and the insurance had been safely adjusted and the parental wrath avoided. “Uncle Peter,” to be sure, had had something to say about it, but Uncle Peter, though scathing, was as safe as houses. Harriet encouraged the young gentleman to persevere with his work and refused an invitation to dine and meet “his people.” She had no particular wish to meet the Denvers, and had hitherto successfully avoided doing so.

Mr. Pomfret had been assiduously polite. He and Mr. Rogers had taken her on the river, and had included Miss Cattermole in the party. They had all been on their best behaviour, and a pleasant time had been enjoyed by all, the mention of previous encounters having, by common consent, been avoided. Harriet was pleased with Miss Cattermole; she seemed to have made an effort to throw off the blight that had settled upon her, and Miss Hillyard’s report had been encouraging. Mr. Pomfret had also asked Harriet to lunch and to play tennis; on the former occasion she had truthfully pleaded a previous engagement and, on the second, had said, with rather less truth, that she had not played for years, was out of form and was not really keen. After all, one had one’s work to do (Le Fanu, ‘Twixt Wind and Water, and the History of Prosody among them made up a fairly full programme), and one could not spend all one’s time idling with undergraduates. On the evening after her formal introduction to Miss Newland, however, Harriet encountered Mr. Pomfret accidentally. She had been to see an old Shrewsburian who was attached to the Somerville Senior Common Room, and was crossing St. Giles on her way back, shortly before midnight, when she was aware of a group of young men in evening dress, standing about one of the trees which adorn that famous thoroughfare. Being naturally inquisitive, Harriet went to see what was up. The street was practically deserted, except for through traffic of the ordinary kind. The upper branches of the tree were violently agitated, and Harriet, standing on the outskirts of the little group beneath, learned from their remarks that Mr. Somebody-or-the-other had undertaken, in consequence of an after-dinner bet, to climb every tree in St. Giles without interference from the Proctor. As the number of trees was large and the place public, Harriet felt the wager to be rather optimistic. She was just turning away to cross the street in the direction of the Lamb and Flag when another youth, who had evidently been occupying an observation-post, arrived, breathless, to announce that the Proggins was just coming into view round the corner of Broad Street. The climber came down rather hastily, and the group promptly scattered in all directions-some running past her, some making their way down side-streets, and a few bold spirits fleeing towards the small enclosure known as the Fender, within which (since it belongs not to the Town but to St. John’s) they could play at tig with the Proctor to their hearts’ content. One of the young gentlemen darting in this general direction passed Harriet close, stopped with an exclamation, and brought up beside her.

“Why, it’s you!” cried Mr. Pomfret, in an excited tone.

“Me again,” said Harriet. “Are you always out without your gown at this time of night?”

“Practically always,” said Mr. Pomfret, falling into step beside her. “Funny you should always catch me at it. Amazing luck, isn’t it?… I say, you’ve been avoiding me this term. Why?”

“Oh, no,” said Harriet; “only I’ve been rather busy.”

“But you have been avoiding me,” said Mr. Pomfret. “I know you have. I suppose it’s ridiculous to expect you to take any particular interest in me. I don’t suppose you ever think about me. You probably despise me.”

“Don’t be so absurd, Mr. Pomfret. Of course I don’t do anything of the sort. I like you very much, but-”

“Do you?… Then why won’t you let me see you? Look here, I must see you. There’s something I’ve got to tell you. When can I come and talk to you?”

“What about?” said Harriet, seized with a sudden and awful qualm.

“What about? Hang it, don’t be so unkind. Look here, Harriet-No, stop, you’ve got to listen. Darling, wonderful Harriet-”

“Mr. Pomfret, please-”

But Mr. Pomfret was not to be checked. His admiration had run away with him, and Harriet, cornered in the shadow of the big horse-chestnut by the Lamb and Flag, found herself listening to as eager an avowal of devotion as any young gentleman in his twenties ever lavished upon a lady considerably his senior in age and experience.

“I’m frightfully sorry, Mr. Pomfret. I never thought-No, really, it’s quite impossible. I’m at least ten years older than you are. And besides-”

“What does that matter?” With a large and clumsy gesture Mr. Pomfret swept away the difference of age and plunged on in a flood of eloquence, which Harriet, exasperated with herself and him, could not stop. He loved her, he adored her, he was intensely miserable, he could neither work nor play games for thinking of her, if she refused him he didn’t know what he should do with himself, she must have seen, she must have realized-he wanted to stand between her and all the world-

Mr. Pomfret was six feet three and broad and strong in proportion.

“Please don’t do that,” said Harriet, feeling as though she were feebly saying “Drop it, Caesar,” to somebody else’s large and disobedient Alsatian. “No, I mean it. I can’t let you-” And then in a different tone: “Look out, juggins! Here’s the Proctor.”

Mr. Pomfret, in some consternation, gathered himself together and turned as to flee. But the Proctor’s bull-dogs, who had been having a lively time with the tree-climbers in St. Giles, and were now out for blood, had come through the archway at a smart trot, and seeing a young gentleman not only engaged in nocturnal vagation without his gown but actually embracing a female (mulier vel meretrix, cujus consortio Christianis prorsus interdictum est) leapt gleefully upon him, as upon a lawful prey.

“Oh, blast!” said Mr. Pomfret. “Here, you-”

“The Proctor would like to speak to you, sir,” said the Bull-dog, grimly.

Harriet debated with herself whether it might not be more tactful to depart, leaving Mr. Pomfret to his fate. But the Proctor was close on the heels of his men; he was standing within a few yards other and already demanding to know the offender’s name and college. There seemed to be nothing for it but to face the matter out.

“Just a moment, Mr. Proctor,” began Harriet, struggling, for Mr. Pomfret’s sake, to control a rebellious uprush of laughter. “This gentleman is with me and you can’t-Oh! good evening, Mr. Jenkyn.”

It was, indeed, that amiable pro-Proctor. He gazed at Harriet, and was struck dumb with embarrassment.

“I say,” broke in Mr. Pomfret, awkwardly, but with a gentlemanly feeling that some explanation was due from him; “it was entirely my fault. I mean, I’m afraid I was annoying Miss Vane. She-I-”

“You can’t very well prog him, you know,” said Harriet, persuasively, “can you now?”

“Come to think of it,” replied Mr. Jenkyn, “I suppose I can’t. You’re a Senior Member, aren’t you?” He waved his bull-dogs to a distance. “I beg.your pardon,” he added, a little stiffly.

“Not at all,” said Harriet. “It’s a nice night. Did you have good hunting in St. Giles?”

“Two culprits will appear before their dean tomorrow,” said the pro-Proctor, rather more cheerfully. “I suppose nobody came through here?”

“Nobody but ourselves,” said Harriet; “and f can assure you that we haven’t been climbing trees.”

A wicked facility in quotation tempted her to add “except in the Hesperides”; but she respected Mr. Pomfret’s feelings and restrained herself.

“No, no,” said Mr. Jenkyn. He fingered his bands nervously and hitched his gown with its velvet facings protectively about his shoulders. “I had better be away in pursuit of those that have.”

“Good-night,” said Harriet.

“Good-night,” said Mr. Jenkyn, courteously raising his square cap. He turned sharply upon Mr. Pomfret. “Goodnight, sir.”

He stalked away with brisk steps between the posts into Museum Road, his long liripipe sleeves agitated and fluttering. Between Harriet and Mr. Pomfret there occurred one of those silences into which the first word spoken falls like the stroke of a gong. It seemed equally impossible to comment on the interruption or to resume the interrupted conversation. By common consent, however, they turned their backs upon the pro-Proctor and moved out once more into St. Giles. They had turned left and were passing through the now-deserted Fender before Mr. Pomfret found his tongue.

“A nice fool I look,” said Mr. Pomfret, bitterly.

“It was very unfortunate,” said Harriet, “but I must have looked much the more foolish. I very nearly ran away altogether. However, all’s well that ends well. He’s a very decent sort and I don’t suppose he’ll think twice about it.”

She remembered, with another disconcerting interior gurgle of mirth, an expression in use among the irreverent: “to catch a Senior girling.”

“To boy” was presumably the feminine equivalent of the verb “to girl”; she wondered whether Mr. Jenkyn would employ it in Common Room next day. She did not grudge him his entertainment; being old enough to know that even the most crashing social bricks make but a small ripple in the ocean of time, which quickly dies away. To Mr. Pomfret, however, the ripple must inevitably appear of the dimensions of a maelstrom. He was muttering sulkily something about a laughing-stock.

“Please,” said Harriet, “don’t worry about it. It’s of no importance. I don’t mind one bit.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Pomfret. “Naturally, you can’t take me seriously. You’re treating me like a child.”

“Indeed I’m not. I’m very grateful-I’m very much honoured by everything you said to me. But really and truly, it’s quite impossible.”

“Oh, well, never mind,” said Mr. Pomfret, angrily.

It was too bad, thought Harriet. To have one’s young affections trampled upon was galling enough; to have been made an object of official ridicule as well was almost unbearable. She must do something to restore the young gentleman’s self-respect.

“Listen, Mr. Pomfret. I don’t think I shall ever marry anybody. Please believe that my objection isn’t personal at all. We have been very good friends. Can’t we-?”

Mr. Pomfret greeted this fine old bromide with a dreary snort.

“I suppose,” he said, in a savage tone, “there’s somebody else.”

“I don’t know that you’ve any right to ask that.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Pomfret, affronted. “I’ve no right to ask you anything. I ought to apologize for asking you to marry me. And for making a scene in front of the Proggins-in fact, for existing. I’m exceedingly sorry.”

Very clearly, the only balm that could in the least soothe the wounded vanity of Mr. Pomfret would be the assurance that there was somebody else. But Harriet was not prepared to make any such admission; and besides, whether there was anybody else or not, nothing could make the notion of marrying Mr. Pomfret anything but preposterous. She begged him to take a reasonable view of the matter; but he continued to sulk; and indeed, nothing that could possibly be said could mitigate the essential absurdity of the situation. To offer a lady one’s chivalrous protection against the world in general, and to be compelled instead to accept her senior standing as a protection for one’s self against the just indignation of the Proctor is, and remains, farcical.

Their ways lay together. In resentful silence they paced the stones, past the ugly front of Balliol and the high iron gates of Trinity, past the fourteen-fold sneer of the Caesars and the top-heavy arch of the Clarendon Building, till they stood at the Junction of Cat Street and Holywell.

“Well,” said Mr. Pomfret, “if you don’t mind, I’d better cut along here. It’s just going twelve.”

“Yes. Don’t bother about me. Good-night… And thank you again very much.”

“Goodnight.”

Mr. Pomfret ran hurriedly in the direction of Queen’s College, pursued by a chorus of chimes.

Harriet went on down Holywell. She could laugh now if she wanted to; and she did laugh. She had no fear of any permanent damage to Mr. Pomfret’s heart; he was far too cross to be suffering in anything but his vanity. The incident had that rich savour of the ludicrous which neither pity nor charity can destroy. Unfortunately, she could not in decency share it with anybody; she could only enjoy it in lonely ecstasies of mirth. What Mr. Jenkyn must be thinking of her she could scarcely imagine. Did he suppose her to be an unprincipled cradle-snatcher? or a promiscuous sexual maniac? or a disappointed woman eagerly grasping at the rapidly disappearing skirts of opportunity? or what? The more she thought about her own part in the episode the funnier it appeared to her-She wondered what she should say to Mr. Jenkyn if she ever met him again.

She was surprised to find how much Mr. Pomfret’s simple-minded proposal had elated her. She ought to have been thoroughly ashamed of herself. She ought to be blaming herself for not having seen what was happening to Mr. Pomfret and taken steps to stop it-why hadn’t she? Simply, she supposed because the possibility of such a thing had never occurred to her. She had taken it for granted that she could never again attract any man’s fancy, except the eccentric fancy of Peter Wimsey. And to him she was, of course, only the creature of his making and the mirror of his own magnanimity. Reggie Pomfret’s devotion, though ridiculous, was at least single-minded; he was no King Cophetua; she had not to be humbly obliged to him for kindly taking notice of her. And that reflection, after all, was pleasurable. However loudly we may assert our own unworthiness, few of us are really offended by hearing the assertion contradicted by a disinterested party.

In this unregenerate mood she reached the College, and let herself in by the postern. There were lights in the Warden’s Lodgings, and somebody was standing at the gate, looking out. At the sound of Harriet’s footsteps, this person called out, in the Dean’s voice-

“Is that you, Miss Vane? The Warden wants to see you.”

“What’s the matter, Dean?”

The Dean took Harriet by the arm.

“Newland hasn’t come in. You haven’t seen her anywhere?”

“No-I’ve been round at Somerville. It’s only just after twelve. She’ll probably turn up. You don’t think-?”

“We don’t know what to think-it’s not like Newland to be out without leave. And we’ve found things.”

She led Harriet into the Warden’s sitting-room. Dr. Baring was seated at her desk, her handsome face stern and judicial. In front of her stood Miss Haydock, with her hands thrust into her dressing-gown pockets; she looked excited and angry. Miss Shaw curled dismally in a corner of the big couch, was crying; while Miss Millbanks the Senior Student, half-frightened and half-defiant, hovered uneasily in the background. As Harriet came in with the Dean, everybody looked hopefully towards the door and then away again.

“Miss Vane,” said the Warden, “the Dean tells me that you saw Miss Newland behaving in a peculiar manner on Magdalen Tower last May Day. Can you give me any more exact details about that?”

Harriet told her story again. “I am sorry,” she added in conclusion, “that I didn’t get her name at the time; but I didn’t recognize her as one of our students. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember ever noticing her at all, until she was pointed out to me yesterday by Miss Martin.”

“That’s quite right,” said the Dean. “I’m not at all surprised you shouldn’t have known her. She’s very quiet and shy and seldom comes in to Hall or shows herself anywhere. I think she works nearly all day at the Radcliffe. Of course, when you told me about the May-Day business I decided that somebody ought to keep an eye on her. I informed Dr. Baring and Miss Shaw, and I asked Miss Millbanks whether any of the Third Year had noticed that she seemed to be in any trouble.”

“I can’t understand it,” cried Miss Shaw. “Why couldn’t she have come to me about it? I always encourage my pupils to give me their full confidence. I asked her again and again. I really thought she had a real affection for me.”

She sniffed hopelessly into a damp handkerchief.

“I knew something was up,” said Miss Haydock, bluntly. “But I didn’t know what it was. The more questions you asked, the less she’d tell you-so I didn’t ask many.”

“Has the girl no friends?” asked Harriet.

“I thought she looked on me as a friend,” complained Miss Shaw.

“She didn’t make friends,” said Miss Haydock.

“She’s a very reserved child,” said the Dean. “I don’t think anybody could make much out of her. I know I couldn’t.”

“But what has happened, exactly?” asked Harriet.

“When Miss Martin spoke to Miss Millbanks about her,” said Miss Haydock, cutting in without respect of persons upon the Warden’s reply, “Miss Millbanks mentioned the matter to me, saying she couldn’t see that we could be expected to do anything.”

“But I scarcely knew her…” Began Miss Millbanks.

“Nor did I,” said Miss Haydock. “But I thought something had better be done about it. I took her out on the river this afternoon. She said she ought to work, but I told her not to be an idiot, or she’d crack up. We took a punt up over the Rollers and had tea along by the Parks. She seemed all right then. I brought her back and persuaded her to come and dine properly in Hall. After that, she said she wanted to go and work at the Radder. I had an engagement, so I couldn’t go with her-besides, I thought she’d think it funny if I trailed after her all day. So I told Miss Millbanks that somebody else had better carry on.”

“Well, I carried on myself,” said Miss Millbanks, rather defiantly. “I took my own work across there. I sat in a desk where I could see her. She was there till half-past nine. I came away at ten and found she’d gone.”

“Didn’t you see her go?”

“No. I was reading and I suppose she slipped out. I’m sorry; but how was I to know? I’ve got Schools this term. It’s all very well to say I oughtn’t to have taken my eyes off her, but I’m not a nurse or anything-”

Harriet noticed how Miss Millbanks’s self-assurance had broken down. She was defending herself angrily and clumsily like a schoolgirl.

“On returning,” pursued the Warden, “Miss Millbanks-”

“But has anything been done about it?” interrupted Harriet, impatient with this orderly academic exposition. “I suppose you asked whether she’d been up to the gallery of the Radcliffe.”

“I thought of that later on,” replied the Warden, “and suggested that a search should be made there. I understand that it has been made, without result-However, a subsequent-”

“How about the river?”

“I am coming to that. Perhaps I had better continue in chronological order. I can assure you that no time has been wasted.”

“Very well, Warden.”

“On returning,” said the Warden, taking up her tale exactly where she had left it, “Miss Millbanks told Miss Haydock about it, and they ascertained that Miss Newland was not in College. They then, very properly, informed the Dean, who instructed Padgett to telephone through as soon as she came in. At 11.15 she had not returned, and Padgett reported that fact. He mentioned at the same time that he had himself been feeling uneasy about Miss Newland. He had noticed that she had taken to going about alone, and that she looked strained and nervous.”

“Padgett is pretty shrewd,” said the Dean. “I often think he knows more about the students than any of us.”

“Up till tonight,” wailed Miss Shaw, “I should have said I knew all my pupils intimately.”

Padgett also said he had seen several of the anonymous letters arrive at the Lodge for Miss Newland.

“He ought to have reported that,” said Harriet.

“No,” said the Dean. “It was after you came last term that we instructed him to report. The ones he saw came before that.”

“I see.”

“By that time,” said the Warden, “we were beginning to feel alarmed, and Miss Martin rang up the police. In the meantime, Miss Haydock made a search in Miss Newland’s room for anything that might throw light on her state of mind; and found-these.”

She took a little sheaf of papers from her desk and handed them to Harriet, who said, “Good God.”

The Poison-Pen, this time, had found a victim ready made to her hand. There were the letters, thirty or more of them (“and I don’t suppose that’s the lot, either,” was the Dean’s comment)-menacing, abusive, insinuating-all hammering remorselessly upon the same theme. “You needn’t think you will get away with it”-“What will you do when you fail in Schools?”-“You deserve to fail and I shall see that you do”-then more horrible suggestions: “Don’t you feel your brain going?”-“If they see you are going mad they will send you down”-and finally, in a sinister series: “You’d better end it now”-“Better dead than in the loony-bin”-“In your place I should throw myself out of the window”-“Try the river”-and so on; the continuous, deadly beating on weak nerves that of all things is hardest to resist.

“If only she had shown them to me!” Miss Shaw was crying.

“She wouldn’t, of course,” said Harriet. “You have to be very well balanced to admit that people think you’re going mad. That’s what’s done the mischief.”

“Of all the wicked things-” said the Dean. “Think of that unfortunate child collecting all these horrors and brooding over them! I’d like to kill whoever it is!”

“It’s a definite effort at murder,” said Harriet. “But the point is, has it come off?”

There was a pause. Then the Warden said in an expressionless voice: “One of the boat-house keys is missing.”

“Miss Stevens and Miss Edwards have gone up-stream in the Water-fly,” said the Dean, “and Miss Burrows and Miss Barton have taken the other sculler down to the Isis. The police are searching too. They’ve been gone about three-quarters of an hour. We didn’t discover till then that the key was gone.”

“Then there’s not much we can do.” said Harriet, suppressing the angry comment that the boat-house keys should have been checked the moment Miss Newland’s absence had been remarked. “Miss Haydock-did Miss Newland say anything to you-anything at all-while you were out, that might suggest where she was likely to go in case she wanted to drown herself.”

The blunt phrase, spoken openly for the first time, shook everybody. Miss Haydock put her head in her hands.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I do remember something. We were well up through the Parks-Yes-It was after tea, and we went a bit further before turning. I struck a bad bit of water and nearly lost the pole. I remember saying it would be a nasty place to go in, because of the weeds. It’s a bad bottom-all mud with deep holes in it. Miss Newland asked if that wasn’t the place where a man had been drowned last year. I said I didn’t know, but I thought it was near there. She didn’t say anything more, and I’d forgotten it till this moment.”

Harriet looked at her watch.

“Half-past nine, she was last seen. She’d have to get to the boat-house. Had she a bicycle? No? Then it would take her nearly half an hour. Ten. Say another forty minutes to the Rollers, unless she was very quick-”

“She’s not a quick punter. She’d take a canoe.”

“She’d have the wind and stream against her. Say 10.45. And she’d have to get the canoe over the Rollers by herself. That takes time. But she would still have over an hour. We may be too late, but it’s just worth trying.”

“But she might have gone in anywhere.”

“Of course she might. But there’s just the chance. People get an idea and stick to it. And they don’t always make their minds up instantly.”

“If I know anything of the girl’s psychology,” began Miss Shaw.

“What’s the good of arguing?” said Harriet. “She’s either dead or alive and we’ve got to risk a guess. Who’ll come with me? I’ll get the car-we shall go quicker by road than by river. We can commandeer a boat somewhere above the Parks-if we have to break open a boat-house. Dean-”

“I’m with you,” said Miss Martin.

“We want torches and blankets. Hot coffee. Brandy. Better get the police to send up a constable to meet us at Timms’s. Miss Haydock, you’re a better oar than I am-”

“I’ll come,” said Miss Haydock. “Thank God for something to do.”

Lights on the river. The plash of sculls. The steady chock of the rowlocks.

The boat crept slowly down-stream. The constable, crouched in the bows, swept the beam of a powerful torch from bank to bank. Harriet holding the rudder-lines, divided her attention between the dark current and the moving light ahead. The Dean, setting a slow and steady stroke, kept her eyes before her and her wits on the job.

At a word from the policeman, Harriet checked the boat and let her drift, down towards a dismal shape, black and slimy on the black water. The boat lurched as the man leaned out. In the silence came the answering groan, plash, chuck of oars on the far side of the next bend.

“All right,” said the policeman. “Only a bit o’ sacking.”

“Ready? Paddle!”

The sculls struck the water again.

“Is that the Bursar’s boat coming up?” said the Dean.

“Very likely,” said Harriet.

Just as she spoke, someone in the other boat gave a shout. There was a splash and a cry ahead, and an answering shout from the constable: “There she goes!”

“Pull like blazes,” said Harriet. As she drew on the rudderlines to bring their nose round the bend, she saw, across stroke’s shoulder in the beam of the torch, the thing they had come to find-the shining keel of a canoe adrift in midstream, with the paddles floating beside it; and all around it the water ran, ringed and rippling with the shock of the plunge.

“Look out, ladies. Don’t run her down. She can’t be far off.”

“Easy!” said Harriet. And then, “Back her! Hold her!”

The stream chuckled and eddied over the reversed oar blades. The constable shouted to the up-coming sculler, and then pointed away towards the left bank.

“Over by the willow there.”

The light caught the silver leaves, dripping like rain towards the river. Something swirled below them, pale and ominous.

“Easy. Paddle. One on bow. Another on bow. Another. Easy. Paddle. One. Two. Three. Easy. Paddle on stroke, backwater on bow. One. Two. Easy. Look out for your bow oars.”

The boat swung across the stream and turned, following the policeman’s signal. He was kneeling and peering into the water on the bow side. A white patch glimmered up to the surface and sank again.

“Fetch her round a bit more, miss.”

“Ready? One on stroke, paddle. Another. Easy. Hold her.” He was leaning out, groping with both hands among the ribbon-weed. “Back a little. Easy. Keep those bow oars out of the water. Trim the boat. Sit over to stroke. Have you got her?”

“I’ve got her-but the weeds are cruel strong.”

“Mind you don’t go over or there’ll be two of you. Miss Haydock-ready, ship! See if you can help the constable. Dean-paddle one very gentle stroke and sit well over.”

The boat rocked perilously as they heaved and tore at the clinging weeds, razor-sharp and strong as grave-bands. The Water-fly had come up now and was pulling across the stream. Harriet yelled to Miss Stevens to keep her sculls out of mischief. The boats edged together. The girl’s head was out of the water, dead-white and lifeless, disfigured with black slime and dark stripes of weed. The constable was supporting the body. Miss Haydock had both hands in the stream, slashing with a knife at the ribbon-weed that was wrapped viciously about the legs. The other boat, hampered by its own lightness, was heeling over to stroke with gunwales awash, as her passengers reached and grappled.

“Trim your boat, damn you!” said Harriet, not pleased at the idea of having two fresh corpses to see to, and forgetting in her wrath to whom she was speaking. Miss Stevens paid no attention; but Miss Edwards threw her weight over; and as the boat lifted the body lifted too. Harriet, keeping her torch steady so that the rescuers could see what they were doing, watched the reluctant weeds loose their last coils and slip back.

“Better get her in here,” said the constable. Their boat had the less room in it, but the stronger arms and the better balance. There was a strong heave and a violent lurch as the dead weight was hauled over the side and rolled in a dripping heap at Miss Haydock’s feet.

The constable was a capable and energetic young man. He took the first-aid measures in hand with admirable promptness. The women, gathered on the bank, watched with anxious faces. Other help had now arrived from the boat-house. Harriet took it upon herself to stem the stream of questions.

“Yes. One of our students. Not a good waterman. Alarmed to think she had taken a canoe out alone. Reckless. Yes, we were afraid there might be a accident. Wind. Strong current. Yes. No. Quite against the rules.” (If there was going to be an inquest, other explanations might have to be made there. But not here. Not now.) “Very unwise. High spirits. Oh, yes. Most unfortunate. Taking risks…”

“She’ll do now,” said the constable.

He sat up and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

Brandy. Blankets. A melancholy little procession along the fields to the boat-house, but less melancholy than it might have been. Then an orgy of telephoning. Then the arrival of the doctor. Then Harriet found herself, suddenly shaking with nerves, being given whisky by some kindly person. The patient was better. The patient was quite all right. The capable policeman and Miss Haydock and Miss Stevens were having their hands dressed, where the sharp weeds had slashed them to the bone. People were talking and talking, Harriet hoped they were not talking foolishly.

“Well, said the Dean in her ear, ”we are having a night!”

“Who’s with Miss Newland?”

“Miss Edwards. I’ve warned her not to let the child say anything if she can help it. And I’ve muzzled that nice policeman. Accident, my dear, accident. It’s quite all right. We’ve taken your cue. You kept your head wonderfully. Miss Stevens lost hers a bit, though. Started to cry and talk about suicide. I soon shut her up.”

“Damn!” said Harriet. “What did she want to do that for?”

“What indeed? You’d think she wanted to make a scandal.”

“Somebody obviously does.”

“You don’t think Miss Stevens-? She did her bit with the rescue-work, you know.”

“Yes, I know. All right, Dean. I don’t think. I won’t try to think. I thought she and Miss Edwards would have that boat over between them.”

“Don’t let’s discuss it now. Thank Heaven the worst hasn’t happened. The girl’s safe and that’s all that matters. What we’ve got to do now is to put the best face on it.”

It was nearly five in the morning when the rescuers, weary and bandaged, sat once again in the Warden’s house. Everybody was praising everybody else.

“It was so clever of Miss Vane,” said the Dean, “to realize that the wretched child would go up to that particular place. What a mercy that we arrived just when we did.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Harriet. “We may have done more harm than good. Do you realize that it was only when she saw us coming that she made up her mind to do it?”

“Do you mean she mightn’t have done it at all if we hadn’t gone after her?”

“Difficult to say. She was putting it off, I think. What really sent her in was that shout from the other boat. Who shouted, by the way?”

“I shouted,” said Miss Stevens. “I looked over my shoulder and saw her. So I shouted.”

“What was she doing when you saw her?”

“Standing up in the canoe.”

“No she wasn’t,” said Miss Edwards. “I looked round when you shouted, and she was just getting to her feet then.”

“You’re quite mistaken,” contradicted Miss Stevens. “I say she was standing up when I saw her, and I shouted to stop her. You couldn’t have seen past me.”

“I saw perfectly plainly,” said Miss Edwards. “Miss Vane is quite right. It was when she heard the shout that she got up.”

“I know what I saw,” said the Bursar, obstinately.

“It’s a pity you didn’t take somebody to cox,” said the Dean. “Nobody can see clearly what’s going on behind her back.”

“It is hardly necessary to argue about it,” said the Warden, a little sharply “The tragedy has been prevented, and that is all that matters. I am exceedingly grateful to everybody.”

“I resent the suggestion,” said Miss Stevens, “that I drove the unfortunate girl to destroy herself. And as for saying that we ought not to have gone in search of her-”

“I never said that,” said Harriet, wearily. “I only said that if we had not gone it might not have happened. But of course we had to go.”

“What does Newland say herself?” demanded the Dean.

“Says, why couldn’t we leave her alone?” replied Miss Edwards. “I told her not to be an inconsiderate little ass.”

“Poor child!” said Miss Shaw.

“If I were you,” said Miss Edwards, “I shouldn’t be too soft with these people. Bracing up is what does them good. You let them talk too much about themselves-”

“But she didn’t talk to me,” said Miss Shaw. “I tried very hard to make her.”

“They’d talk much more if you’d only leave them alone.”

“I think we’d better all go to bed,” said Miss Martin.

“What a night,” said Harriet, as she rolled, dog-weary, between the sheets. “What a gaudy night!” Her memory, thrashing round her brain like a cat in a sack, brought up the images of Mr. Pomfret and the pro-Proctor. They seemed to belong to another existence.