some thought, Dr Hawtrey agreed. We shook hands, without speaking, and my school days were over. Worse than this, there was now no chance that I would proceed to Cambridge, and my dream of a Fellowship there would remain forever unrealized.
As I was making my way to Le Grice’s boarding-house, I came upon Daunt in School Yard, standing with one of his new companions – none other than Shillito, whose fat head I had once shut in the door. (You will observe that, in his published recollections, Daunt stated, quite categorically, that he never saw me again after the evening we returned from attending Evensong in St George’s Chapel. That was a deliberate falsehood, as I shall now reveal.)
‘Been to see the Head Master again?’ he called. Shillito gave a little sneer, and I saw straightaway how things were. Daunt had contrived to take the key from Le Grice’s boarding-house and remove the book from the Library; he had then come forward as an unwilling witness – I expect that he put on a good show, playing also, no doubt, on his father’s acquaintance with the Head Master – before enlisting the help of Shillito in his plot. It was also clear why Dr Hawtrey had been so confident in the probity of his main witness. He thought that we were still friends, you see; that we were still the inseparable companions we had once been. He was not aware that I had broken away from Daunt, and so of course he could not believe that my best friend in the School could possibly bear false witness against me.
‘Glyver’s a great one for getting his nose into old books,’ I heard Daunt say to Shillito, as if he were speaking on my behalf. ‘My pa’s the same. He and the Head belong to a club for such people.* I expect Glyver’s been talking to the Head about some old book or other. Isn’t that right, Glyver?’
He looked at me, coolly, insolently, and in that look was concentrated all the petty envy that he harboured against me, and the spiteful desire to make me pay for turning my back on him in favour of other, more congenial, companions. It was all written on his face, and in the attitude of casual defiance that he had adopted, like one who believes that he has unequivocally demonstrated his power over another.
‘Care for a walk up town?’ he then asked. Shillito threw me another contemptuous grin.
‘Not today,’ I replied, with a smile. ‘I have work to do.’
My apparent collectedness appeared to unsettle him, and I saw that his mouth had tightened.
‘Is that all you can say?’ he asked, blinking a little.
‘Nothing else occurs to me. But wait. There
In a moment, I had gone. I did not need to look back. I knew that I would see him again.
When I recounted this episode to Le Grice, over twenty years later in the comfort of Mivart’s, I experienced again the maddening anger that had consumed me on that day.
‘So it was Daunt,’ said Le Grice, after giving a little whistle of surprise. ‘You’ve kept that damned close. Why did you never tell me?’ He seemed rather put out that I had not confided in him; and, in truth, it now seemed absurd to me that I had never thought to do so.
‘I should have done,’ I conceded. ‘I see that now. I’d lost everything: my scholarship, my reputation; above all, my future. And it was all because of Daunt. I wished to make him pay, but in my own time and in my own way. But then one thing happened, then another, and the opportunity never came. And once you get into the habit of secrecy, it becomes harder and harder to break it – even for your closest friend.’
‘But why the devil is he trying so hard to find you now?’ asked Le Grice, a little pacified by my words. ‘Unless, perhaps, he wishes to make amends …’
I gave a hollow little laugh.
‘A little dinner
‘In that case,’ said Le Grice, ‘let’s settle up and decamp to Albany. We can put our feet up, and you can talk away till dawn if you want.’
Once ensconced in Le Grice’s comfortable sitting-room, before a blazing fire, I continued with my story.
The journey home to Sandchurch was made in the company of Tom Grexby, who had travelled up to Eton instantly on receipt of my letter. I met him at the Christopher, but, before I had a chance to speak, he had taken me aside to give me grave news: my mother had been taken ill, and it was not expected that she would recover.
Shock had been piled on shock, heaping Pelion on Ossa.* To lose so much, in so brief a space! I did not weep – I could not weep. I could only stare, wordlessly, as if I had suddenly found myself in some strange desert landscape, devoid of any familiar landmark. Taking my arm, Tom led me out into the yard, from where we walked slowly down the High Street to Barnes Pool Bridge.
In my letter to him, I had held back the circumstances that had necessitated my leaving Eton; but as we reached the bridge, having walked most of the way from the Christopher in silence, I laid the matter out before him, though without revealing that I knew the name of the person who had betrayed me.
‘My dear fellow!’ he cried. ‘This cannot stand. You are innocent. No, no, this must not be allowed.’
‘But I cannot prove my innocence,’ I said, still in a kind of daze, ‘and both circumstance and testimony appear to prove my guilt. No, Tom. I must accept it, and I beg you to do the same.’
At last he reluctantly agreed that he would take no steps on my behalf, and we walked back to prepare for our journey to Sandchurch. To my relief, Le Grice was on the river, and so I was able to remove my belongings from his boarding-house without the need to lie about why I was leaving so suddenly, or why I would not be returning. When all was safely aboard, Tom climbed up beside me and the coach drove off towards Barnes Pool Bridge, taking me away from Eton for ever.
When we arrived at the little house on the cliff-top, late that evening, we were met by the village doctor. ‘I’m afraid you’ve come too late, Edward,’ said Dr Penny. ‘She’s gone.’
