Watersprings | Page 8

the fire; then he gave a
laugh, got up, stretched himself, and went out for a walk.
Even so quiet a thing as a walk was not unattended by a certain amount
of ceremonial. Howard passed some six or seven men of his
acquaintance, some of whom presented a stick or raised a stiff hand
without a smile or indeed any sign of recognition; one went so far as to
say, "Hullo, Kennedy!" and one eager conversationalist went so far as
to say, "Out for a walk?" Howard pushed on, walking lightly and
rapidly, and found himself at last at Barton, one of those entirely
delightful pastoral villages that push up so close to Cambridge on every
side; a vague collection of quaint irregular cottages, whitewashed and
thatched, with bits of green common interspersed, an old manorial farm
with its byres and ricks, surrounded by a moat fringed with little
pollarded elms. The plain ancient tower of the church looked gravely
out over all. In the distance, over pastoral country, rose low wolds,
pleasantly shaped, skirted with little hamlets, surrounded by orchards;
the old untroubled necessary work of the world flows on in these fields
and villages, peopled with lives hardly conscious of themselves, with
no aims or theories, just toiling, multiplying, dying, existing, it would
seem, merely to feed and clothe the more active part of the world.
Howard loved such little interludes of silence, out in the fresh country,
when the calm life of tree and herb, the delicate whisper of dry,
evenly-blowing breezes, tranquillised and hushed his restless thoughts.
He lost himself in a formless reverie, exercising no control over his
trivial thoughts.
By four o'clock he was back, made himself some tea, put on a cap and
gown, and walked out to a meeting. In a high bare room in the
University offices the Committee sat. The Vice-Chancellor, a big,
grave, solid man, Master of St. Benedict's, sat in courteous state. Half a
dozen dons sat round the great tables, ranged in a square. The business
was mostly formal. The Vice-Chancellor read the points from a paper
in his resonant voice, comments and suggestions were made, and the

Secretary noted down conclusions. Howard was struck, as he often had
been before, to see how the larger questions of principle passed almost
unnoticed, while the smaller points, such as the wording of a notice,
were eagerly and humorously debated by men of acute minds and easy
speech. It was over in half an hour. Howard strolled off with one of the
members, and then, returning to his rooms, wrote some letters, and
looked up a lecture for the next day, till the bell rang for Hall.
Beaufort was a hospitable and sociable College, and guests often
appeared at dinner. On this night Mr. Redmayne was in the chair, at the
end of a long table; eight or ten dons were present. A gong was struck;
an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin Grace from a
board which he held in his hand. The tables filled rapidly with lively
young men full of talk and appetite. Howard found himself sitting next
one of his colleagues, on the other side of him being an ancient crony
of Mr. Redmayne's, the Dean of a neighbouring College. The talk was
mainly local and personal, diverging at times into politics. It was brisk,
sensible, good- natured conversation, by no means unamusing. Mr.
Redmayne was an unashamed Tory, and growled denunciations at a
democratic Government, whom he credited with every political vice
under the sun, depicting the Cabinet as men fishing in troubled seas
with philanthropic baits to catch votes. One of the younger dons, an
ardent Liberal, made a mild protest. "Ah," said Mr. Redmayne, "you
are still the prey of idealistic illusions. Politics are all based, not on
principles or programmes, but on the instinctive hatred of opponents."
There was a laugh at this. "You may laugh," said Mr. Redmayne, "but
you will find it to be true. Peace and goodwill are pretty words to play
with, but it is combativeness which helps the world along; not the
desire to be at peace, but the wish to maul your adversary!"
It was the talk of busy men who met together, not to discuss, but to eat,
and conversed only to pass the time. But it was all good- humoured
enough, and even the verbal sharpness which was employed was
evidence of much mutual confidence and esteem.
Howard thought, looking down the Hall, when the meal was in full
fling, what a picturesque, cheerful, lively affair it all was. The Hall was

lighted only by candles in heavy silver candlesticks, which flared away
all down the tables. In the dark gallery a couple of sconces burned still
and clear. The dusty rafters,