THE COMPLETE DAVID BLAIZE TRILOGY (Illustrated Edition). Эдвард Бенсон

I can be of any use.”

      “Good old Bags, but you can’t; thanks awfully. Don’t ask me anything about it, if you don’t mind.”

      Suddenly the fact of the parcel at the lodge which he had forgotten to bring down for Maddox presented itself. He felt that he couldn’t see Maddox again just at once.

      “I say, there is one thing you might do,” he said. “I wish you’d come up to college with me, and get that parcel of Maddox’s. I should be frightfully obliged if you would. I’m going to tea with a fellow there, and I should have to go up and down twice.”

      Bags felt that, if David offered this as an explanation of his ill-humour, it was a pretty thin one.

      “Oh, is that all you’re so sick about?” he asked.

      David’s irritability returned.

      “All right, don’t come then,” he said.

      David was ready by now, and without another word he marched to the door. He would have to bring the parcel up himself, but he was determined to get somebody else to take it to Maddox’s study.

      “Wait a second,” said Bags in a slightly injured tone. “Of course I’ll come up with you.”

      David took his arm.

      “You are a brick,” he said. “But don’t ask me anything more. It isn’t anything. I expect I’ve made a fool of myself.”

      “Shouldn’t wonder a bit,” said Bags pacifically.

      “Funny fellow! Don’t strain yourself.”

       Maddox had gone straight back from the bath-room to his study, without filling his kettle. He sat for ten momentous minutes in front of his fire without doing anything, without thinking even, but looking with open eyes, so to speak, on himself. All these weeks that intense friendship which was springing up between himself and David had been splendidly growing, and till now his influence over him had been exerted entirely for David’s good. He had constantly shielded him, as on the night when he had found Hughes sitting on his bed, from all that could sully him, he had checked any hint of foul talk in David’s presence, for, of all his lovable qualities, there was none so nobly potent to the elder boy than David’s white innocence, his utter want of curiosity about all that was filthy. It didn’t exist for him, but the danger of it (though, thank God, it was passed) he knew that he himself had brought near to him. . . . Then he got up and looked at himself in the mirror above his mantel-piece, hating himself.

      “You damned beast,” he said. “You deserve to be shot.”

       Presently there came a tap at his door, and he remembered that he had told David to bring up a parcel for him. Probably this was not David, for he usually whistled and hardly ever tapped. On his answer Bags entered.

      “Oh, it’s your parcel, Maddox,” he said. “Blaize forgot to bring it down after we finished playing squash, and so I went back with him and brought it.”

      Maddox held out his hand for it.

      “Thanks,” he said. “Did—did Blazes ask you to bring it me?”

      “Yes, he was having tea in college.”

      “Has he gone there?”

      “Yes, we went up together.”

      Maddox got up.

      “Right,” he said. “But he’s forgotten to fill my kettle. Would you mind, please?”

      That was exactly like Maddox. He always thanked fags who did things for him, and treated them politely. Bags, in consequence, retired with pleased alacrity, and returned.

      “Getting on all right, Crabtree?” asked Maddox. “No troubles?”

      “Oh no, thanks. I like it all awfully.”

      “That’s right. I forget who your fag-master is.”

      “Cruikshank.”

      “Oh, yes. He’ll look after you. Thanks for filling my kettle.”

      Bags went delicately and rather proudly away. Cruikshank never thanked him.

      Maddox put his heel into the fire to make a level place for his kettle, and sat down again to work. But other thoughts kept interposing themselves between him and his books, claiming precedence. He knew from David’s abrupt exit just now that he scented danger, or, if that was too strong an image, just turned his back on the miry road that had been in Maddox’s mind, and his getting Bags to do the forgotten errand confirmed that. Vaguely, perhaps, David had guessed something of the nature of that muddy place, and had gone clean-footed from it. With much greater sureness Maddox saw that, if their friendship was to continue, he must turn his back on it too, and convince David that he had done so. He was ashamed: he hated himself.

      The kettle boiled over, sending a puff of steam and light ash into the grate, and he took it off and put it in the fender. And still he sat there, looking backwards into his life and finding no comfort there; and then looking forwards, seeing a gleam of saving hope. At last outside his study there came a familiar step, but there was no whistling, and after the step paused there came a tap at his door. David entered, looking shy and frightened.

      “Oh, I came to clear your things away and wash up,” he said hurriedly.

      Maddox did not want to shirk what lay before him. The friendship that had become so intimately dear to him was at stake.

      “Will you shut the door a minute, David?” he said, rising and standing by the mantel-piece, with his face turned away.

      David did so, and remained by the door.

      “I want to say just one thing,” said Maddox. “I’m damned sorry, and I apologise. You needn’t be frightened of me. It shan’t happen again. That’s all. There’s nothing to wash up: I haven’t had tea.”

      Some subconscious horror still lingered in David’s mind. He had been obliged to come back here, to see to Maddox’s washing-up, else perhaps Maddox would have sent for him, and that would have been worse. At the moment he had no other desire, in spite of what Maddox had said, but to get away.

      “I’ll go then,” he said quickly.

      “All right.”

      David left the room, but he had gone only a little way down the passage outside, when his feet simply refused to carry him any farther, or to allow him to leave Maddox like this. All his love and his loyalty insisted that he was wrong not to trust the regret and the assurance that had been given him, that he was doing a mean and cowardly thing to retreat like that. But the talk that he had had with the Head on his last day at Helmsworth was very vivid in his mind; the Head had told him there was no use in arguing about certain things, and his instinct, in spite of his innocence, told him that such, vaguely and distantly, were the things about which the Head had spoken. But the Head had never told him to turn his back on a friend, or to refuse to trust that which his heart knew was sincere. And so once more from inside Maddox heard a familiar step return and once more David tapped and entered.

      “I don’t know why I went away,” he said, “or why I was frightened when you said I needn’t be. So—so I came back. Sorry.”

      Then he had the instant reward of his confidence. He saw Maddox look up at him with unshadowed eyes of affection. He came and stood close to him.

      “It’s bang all right,” he said. “I’m—I’m awfully glad it’s all right.”

      Then a positive inspiration seized him. There was nothing more to be said on this subject, and the sooner it was dismissed the better. He instantly became Maddox’s fag again.

      “I say, you’re awfully late having tea,” he said. “Why, your kettle’s not boiling any longer.”

      Maddox followed his lead.

      “No, I took it off and forgot,” he said. “Put it on again.