Books: Kathleen
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Christopher Morley >> Kathleen
It was decided at the dinner that during the ensuing Easter
vacation the Scorpions should make a trip to Wolverhampton, en
masse, for the purpose of picketing Bancroft Road and finding out
what Kathleen was really like. And then, after singing "langers
and godders" (Auld Lang Syne and God Save the King) the meeting
broke up and the members dispersed darkly in various directions
to avoid the proctors.
IV
Friday the fifteenth of March was the last day of term. The
Scorpions, busy in their various ways with the hundred details
that have to be attended to before "going down," were all
pleasantly excited by the anticipation of their quest, which was
to begin on the morrow. Carter, shaking hands with the warden of
New College in the college hall (a pleasant little formality
performed at the end of each term) absent-mindedly replied
"Wolverhampton" when the warden asked him where he was going to
spend the vacation. He was then hard put to it to avoid a letter
of introduction to the vicar of St. Philip's in that city, an old
pupil of the warden. King, bicycling rapidly down the greasy Turl
with an armful of books, collided vigorously with another cyclist
at the corner of the High. They both sprawled on the curb, bikes
interlocked. "My god, sir!" cried the Goblin; "Why not watch
where you're going?" Then he saw it was Johnny Blair. "Sorry,
Goblin," said the latter; "I--I was thinking about Kathleen." "So
was I," said King, picking up his books. And in defiance of the
University statute of 1636 (still unrepealed) which warns
students against "frequenting dicing houses, taverns, or booths
where the nicotian herb is sold," they went into Hedderly's
together to buy tobacco.
After breakfast the next morning they were all in cabs on their
way to the Great Western Station. It was a mild and sunny day,
with puffs of spring in the air. Who can ever forget the Saturday
morning at the end of term when the men "go down"? Long lines of
hansoms spinning briskly toward the station, with bulging
portmanteaus on the roof; the wide sunny sweep of the Broad with
the 'bus trundling past Trinity gates; a knot of tall youths in
the 'varsity uniform of gray "bags" and brown tweed norfolk,
smoking and talking at the Balliol lodge--and over it all the
clang of a hundred chimes, the gray fingers of a thousand spires
and pinnacles, the moist blue sky of England.... Ah, it is the
palace of youth, or it was once.
The Scorpions met on the dingy north-bound platform. Graham,
Keith, and Twiston had been obliged to scratch owing to other
more imperative plans; but five members boarded the 10 o'clock
train in high spirits. Forbes, Carter, King, Blair, and Whitney--
they filled a third-class smoker with tobacco and jest.
"Now, Goblin," cried Falstaff, as the train ran past the Port
Meadow, and the Radcliffe dome dropped from view; "Open those
sealed orders! You promised to draw up the rules of the game."
King pulled a paper from his pocket.
"I jotted down some points," he said. "This is the time to
discuss them."
_"Rules to be Observed by the Scorpions on the Great Kathleen
Excursion_
"1. The headquarters of the expedition will be the Blue Boar Inn
at Wolverhampton. (I've written to them to engage rooms.)
"2. The Kriegspiel will begin to-day at 2 P.M., and manoeuvres
will continue without intermission until someone is declared the
winner, or until time is called.
"3. The object of the contest is to make the acquaintance of
Kathleen; to engage her in friendly conversation; to win her
confidence, and to induce her to accept an invitation to Commem,
or Eights Week.
"4. Any deception, strategy, or tactics which are not calculated
to give intolerable distress or embarrassment to Kathleen and her
family, are allowable.
"5. If by noon on Tuesday no one shall have succeeded in making
friends with Kathleen, the game shall be declared off."
"Suppose she's not at home?" said Whitney.
"We'll have to chance that."
"What time do we get there?"
"I've ordered lunch at the Blue Boar at one o'clock. This train
gets to Wolvers at 12:30."
It was a merry ride. The story of Kathleen as they had written it
was discussed pro and con.; the usual protests were launched at
Carter for having in his chapter lowered the theme to the level
of burlesque; praise was accorded to the Goblin for the dexterity
with which he had rescued the plot. Blair's chapter had been full
of American slang which had to be explained to the others.
"Joe," the Rhodes Scholar hero, had shown a vein of fine gold
under Blair's hands: he bade fair to win the charming Kathleen,
although the story had not been finished owing to the examinations
which had fallen upon the brotherhood toward the end of term.
The game, begun in pure jest, had taken on something of romantic
earnest: there was not one of these young men who did not see
in Kathleen his own ideal of slender, bright-cheeked girlhood.
And when the train pulled into Wolverhampton, they tumbled
out of their smoking carriage with keen expectation.
V
Perhaps the best way to pursue the next episodes in the quest is
in the words of Johnny Blair, the Rhodes Scholar, who jotted down
some notes in a journal he kept:
We got to Wolverhampton 12:25, Ingersoll time. Had a jolly trip
on the train, all the Scorps laying bets as to who would be first
to meet Kathleen. I lay low, but did some planning. Didn't want
to let these English blighters get ahead of me, especially after
all the ragging Indiana Joe got in the story.
Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had run
empty, and I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand.
Saw the prettiest flapper of my life on the platform--the real
English type; tweed suit, dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks like
almond blossoms. She had on a blue tam-o' shanter. Loveliest
figure I ever saw, perfect ankle, but the usual heavy brogues on
her feet. Why do English girls always wear woollen stockings? Was
so taken with her I almost missed the train. She got into a
third-class compartment farther up the train. The others were all
bickering in the smoking carriage, so they didn't see her.
I scored over the rest of the crowd when we got to Wolvers. They
had all brought heavy portmanteaus, containing all their vacation
baggage. My idea was, go light when chasing the Grail. Had only
my rucksack, left rest of my stuff at coll., to be forwarded
later. While the other chaps were getting their stuff out of the
goods van I spotted Miss Flapper getting off the train. She got
into a hansom. Just by dumb luck I was standing near. I heard her
say to cabby: "318, Bancroft Road!" Lord, was I tickled? I kept
mum.
Most of the fellows took cabs, on account of their luggage, but
Goblin and I hoofed it. Wolverhampton seems a dingy place for
Kathleen to live! Fine old church, though, and lovely market
place. We kept our eyes open for Bancroft Road, but saw no sign.
When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in the
coffee room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderful
cheddar cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony of
it--all drank Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we got
up from the table.
All the others beat it off immediately in different directions--
looking for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that more
finesse would be needed. I started off with the others, then
pretended I had left my pipe, and came back to the Boar. I was
going to look up the town directory, to find Kathleen's name--
knowing the address, that would be easy. But there was Goblin
doing the same thing! We both laughed and looked it up together.
The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip Kent, F.S.A.,
Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book put him
down as an "antiquarian." Kathleen's father, evidently.
Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipe
and pondered.
The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what they
would do when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to be
a book agent and get into the house that way. Another said he
would be the grocer's man and make friends with the cook. Someone
else suggested dressing up as a plumber or gas-man, and going
there to fix some imaginary leak. Knowing that the Kents were not
fools, I imagined it wouldn't be long before they'd get wise to
the fact that that bunch of dreadnoughts was picketing the house.
Probably they'd put the police on them. Also, there's nobody
harder to disguise than an English 'varsity man. He gives himself
away at every turn. If "Fred" was around he'd be sure to smell a
rat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake himself up as a
plumber, and get in the house on some pretext or other--still
wearing his wrist-watch!
I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from Bancroft
Road for a while and try to pull wires from a distance:
The Blue Boar Inn--a very nice old house, by the way--looks out
over the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of the
square I had noticed a little post office. You can send a
telegram from any post office in England, and I thought that
would be my best entering wedge. The word "antiquarian" in the
directory had given me a notion. On a blank I composed the
following message, after some revisions:
MISS KATHLEEN KENT,
318, Bancroft Road,
WOLVERHAMPTON.
My friend John Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for
historical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American may he
call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand
playing soccer love to all.
JOE.
This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I could
think of. I asked the lady behind the counter to mark the
telegram as though it came from Oxford. She said she could not do
so, but I happened to have a five-bob piece in my pocket and that
persuaded her. I convinced her that it was a harmless joke.
I didn't see that there was anything further to be done
immediately. If the telegram brought no word I should have to
think up something else. In the meantime, if I was to pose as
an antiquarian investigator I had better get up some dope on
the history of Wolverhampton. I poked about until I found a
bookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about the town,
and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the northern
suburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me the
information that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, a
pleasant and simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose only
hobby was the history of the region. He had written a book
called "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," but unfortunately I
couldn't get a copy. The bookseller said it was out of print.
Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine old
Norman pile with some lovely brasses and crusaders' tombs. Here I
had a piece of luck--fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly old
port-wine and knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as it
happened. I pumped him a little about the history of the church,
and in his delight at finding an American who cared for such
matters he talked freely. "Why," he kept on saying, with a kind
of pathetic enthusiasm, "I thought all you Americans were
interested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef." Finally he
invited me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire and
ate toasted muffins I couldn't help chuckling to think how
different this was from the other Scorpions' plan of attack. They
were probably all biting their nails up and down Bancroft Road
trying to carry the fort by direct assault. It's amazing how
things turn out: just as I was wondering how to give the
conversation a twist in the right direction, the vicar said:
"If you're really interested in the history of this region you
should certainly have a talk with old Mr. Kent. He's our leading
antiquarian, and knows more about the Stour Valley than any one
else. He says there was a skirmish fought here in 1645 that all
the books have overlooked. The Battle of Wolverhampton, he calls
it. He wrote a little pamphlet about it once."
I assured the good parson that my eagerness to know more about
the Battle of Wolverhampton was unbounded. I nearly spilled my
tea in my excitement.
"Is that Mr. Kent of 318, Bancroft Road?" I asked.
"Yes," answered the vicar. "How did you know?"
"They told me about him at the bookshop."
I explained that I was in Wolverhampton for a day or so only, and
finally the excellent man came across with the suggestion I was
panting for.
"Well," he said, "as it happens, I have one or two calls to make
in that direction this evening. If you care to have me do so,
I'll speak to Mr. Kent about you, and he can make an appointment.
You said you were stopping at the Blue Boar?"
I thanked him with such warmth that his eyes twinkled.
"My dear fellow," he said, "your enthusiasm does you great
credit. I wish you all success in your thesis."
I got back to the Boar feeling that I had done a very good
afternoon's work indeed.
VI
The Scorpions (continues Blair's diary) were all very merry at
dinner that night--particularly at my expense. I was the only one
who had not been out to Bancroft Road to look over the ground.
Apparently they had had a very cheery time.
"Well, Falstaff, what luck?" I asked Carter.
"Splendid!" he replied. "The local butcher has given me a job and
I'm going to call there for a meat order tomorrow morning."
"What!" shouted someone. "On Sunday? Not likely!"
I knew mighty well that Carter would not concoct anything as
crude as that, and wondered what deviltry he had devised.
"I noticed that two telegrams were delivered at the house this
afternoon," said Forbes, in a quiet, non-committal kind of way.
"Perhaps Joe is on his way here," said I. "If so, Good-Night!" As
I spoke, I wondered rather anxiously what the _other_ telegram
could be.
"Well, we saw her, anyway!" said Whitney, "and she's marvellous!
She wears a blue tam-o' shanter and has an ankle like a fairy
tale. We saw her walk down the street."
"That's nothing," I retorted, "I saw her hours ago. She was on
the train with us from Birmingham this morning."
This started a furious wrangle. They said I hadn't played fair,
as the contest didn't begin until two o'clock. My point was that
I had not transgressed the rules as I had done nothing to profit
by my accident in seeing her first.
"I couldn't help seeing her, could I?" I asked. "You could have,
too, if you hadn't been all frowsting over _Tit-Bits_ in the
train. And after all, I didn't _know_ it was Kathleen. I only
suspected it."
I changed the conversation by asking where the Goblin was.
No one had noticed before that he hadn't turned up. This was a
bit disconcerting. I secretly thought him the most dangerous
competitor. He has a quiet, impish twinkle in his eye, and an
unobtrusive way of getting what he wants. However, the others
scoffed at my fears.
Although they all talked a great deal about the amusing time they
had had, I could not gather that they had really accomplished
much. Forbes claimed to have seen Fred, and said he looked like a
rotter. We drank Kathleen's health a couple of times, and then
the other three sat down to dummy bridge. I slipped away to the
Public Library, partly to get some more of my antiquarian
information about Wolverhampton, and partly because I knew my
absence would disquiet them.
I found the Library after some difficulty. In the large
reading-room I hunted up some books of reference, but to my
disappointment Mr. Kent's volume was out. Looking round for a
place to sit, the first person I saw was the Goblin, bent very
busily over a book and making notes on a pad of paper. I leaned
over him.
"Hello, Goblin," I whispered. "Getting ready for a First?"
He started, and tried to cover his volume with a newspaper, but I
had seen it. It was a cook book.
"That's a queer kind of fiction you're mulling over," I remarked.
"I'm looking up a recipe for stuffed eggs," said the Goblin,
without a quiver. "Our Common Room steward does them so poorly."
"Well, don't let me interrupt you," I said. I sat down in a
corner of the room with a volume of the Britannica. When I next
looked up the Goblin was gone.
As usual, I wasted my time with the encyclopedia. I got
interested in the articles on Wages, Warts, Weather, Wordsworth,
and Worms. By the time I got to Wolverhampton it was closing
time. I did just seize the information that the town was founded
in 996 by Wulfruna, widow of the Earl of Northampton. Then I had
to leave.
I got back to the Boar about ten-thirty. The coffee-room was
empty. The landlord said that Whitney and Forbes were out, but
that Mr. Carter had gone upstairs.
Falstaff and I were rooming together, and when I went up I found
him reading in bed.
"Hello, Wulfruna!" he said, as I came in.
Evidently he, too, had been reading up some history. Just as I
got into bed he fell asleep and his book dropped to the floor
with a thump. I crept quietly across the room and picked it up.
It was "Memorials of Old Staffordshire," by Philip Kent, F.S.A.,
the very copy that I had looked for at the Library. I skimmed
over it and then put it carefully back by Falstaff's bedside. Was
he on the antiquarian trail, too? I began to realize that these
rivals of mine would take some beating.
The next morning (Sunday) I found a note waiting for me on the
breakfast table. Three indignant Scorpions were weighing it,
studying the handwriting, and examining the stationery like three
broken-hearted detectives.
"It's not Kathleen's hand, but I'll swear it's the same
notepaper," Forbes was saying.
Under a venomous gaze from all three I took the letter out of the
room before opening it. Forbes was right: it was the well-known
Bancroft Road notepaper. It ran thus:
318, BANCROFT ROAD,
WOLVERHAMPTON
Saturday Evening.
DEAR MR. BLAIR,
Mr. Dunton, the vicar of S. Philip's, has just told me of your
visit to him. I am so glad to know that you take an antiquarian
interest in this region. Curiously enough, only this afternoon we
had two wires from our cousin Joe in Oxford, one of which
mentioned your being here. That gives us additional reason for
looking forward to making your acquaintance.
Mrs. Kent wants you to come to lunch with us to-morrow, at one
o'clock. Unfortunately I myself am laid up with rheumatism, but
some of the family will be delighted to take you to see the quite
surprising relics in this vicinity. Joe has probably told you all
about Fred, who is really quite one of the family. The poor
fellow needs exercise dreadfully; you must take him with you if
you go tramping. Charlie and Oliver, my boys, are away at school.
Don't attempt to reply to this, but just turn up at one o'clock.
Sincerely yours,
PHILIP KENT.
This gave me several reasons for thought, and disregarding the
appeals from the coffee-room to come in and tell them all about
it, I walked into the courtyard of the Inn to consider.
First, what was the _other_ wire from Joe? Heavens, was he on his
way from Oxford to Wolverhampton? If my fake telegram were
discovered too soon I should be in a very embarrassing position.
Second, Joe was a cousin, was he! One of those annoying second
cousins, probably, who are close enough to the family to be a
familiar figure, and yet far enough away in blood to marry the
daughter! And then there was this sinister person, Fred, who was
"really quite one of the family." Another cousin, perhaps? What
was the matter with the devil, anyway? If he needed exercise why
didn't he go and get it? Certainly I didn't want to spend an
afternoon antiquarianizing with him. How was I to get him out of
the way, so that I could get a tete-a-tete with K.?
I could see that if this game was to be played through
successfully it must be played with some daring. _Toujours de
l'audace_! I thought, and let breakfast go hang. Moreover, my
sudden disappearance would help to demoralize my rivals. I stuck
my head into the breakfast-room where Priapus was just dishing
out the bacon and eggs. In that instant it struck me again that
the Goblin was not there. I cried "Ye Gods!" in a loud voice, and
slammed the door behind me. As I ran out of the front door I
laughed at the picture of their disconcerted faces.
My idea was to lure Fred away from Bancroft Road at all hazards.
This could only be done by another telegram. And as it was Sunday,
the railway station was the only place to send one from. It was
a beautiful, clear morning, and I hurried through the streets with
exultation, but also with a good deal of nervousness as to the
outcome of this shameless hoaxing. At any rate, I thought, I may
as well live up to my privileges as an irresponsible American.
The Great Kathleen Excursion was beginning to take on in my
mind the character of an international joust or tourney.
At the station (or at the depot as one would say at home), I sent
the following message:
FREDERICK KENT,
318, Bancroft Road,
WOLVERHAMPTON.
Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playing soccer wish you
could join me at once urgent.
JOE.
I got back to the Boar in time for a cold breakfast. None of
the others was there. I ate with my antiquarian notes on
Wolverhampton propped against the coffee pot. I was determined
that Mr. Kent should find me as intelligent as possible.
There was nothing to be done before lunch time. I read Mr. Kent's
letter over several times, and I must confess that the mention of
that other wire from Joe worried me a good deal. Just how far the
telegram I had just sent might conflict with the facts as known
to the Kents, I could not surmise. I could only trust to luck and
pray for the best. I learned from the chambermaid that the Goblin
had come in very late the night before, and had gone out at six
A.M. That bothered me almost more than anything else.
Finally, after hanging round the empty coffee-room for a while, I
got nervous, and determined to go to morning service at St.
Philip's. There would be plenty of time to get out to Bancroft
Road afterward, and perhaps Kathleen would be at church and I
could get a distant view of her. I walked round to the church.
Service had begun, but I went in and sat down at the back. During
a hymn I took a good look round. To my horror I saw in a pew a
few feet in front of me a young person whose robust outline
seemed familiar. I looked again. It was Falstaff Carter in the
get-up of a curate. Trembling with indignation, I crept out of
the church. I hardly dared speculate on what low device he had
planned for winning his way into the sanctum.
At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, I
guess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran over
my antiquarian data another time.
It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for the
third time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when the
chambermaid came to the bedroom door. "This note was just left
for you, sir." I tore it open.
BANCROFT ROAD,
Sunday Morning.
MY DEAR MR. BLAIR,
I am afraid you will think it very strange, but, owing to a
sudden domestic disarrangement, will you come to _supper_, this
evening, instead of to luncheon? I am exceedingly embarrassed to
have to make this change, but (to be quite frank) one of our
maids has been taken ill, and our luncheon to-day will have to be
a haphazard affair. We are also rather distressed by strange news
from our cousin at Oxford.
But we shall be very happy to see you at supper time, seven
o'clock.
Cordially yours,
PHILIP KENT.
It came over me that this was pretty dirty work we were putting
up on the poor gentleman, and I suddenly felt thoroughly ashamed
of myself. I don't know whether any of the others came back to
the Boar for lunch, or not. I put on my cap and went for a long
walk in the country, out toward Tettenhall Wood. I didn't come
back until tea time.
VII
As Johnny Blair approached number 318, Bancroft Road, a little
before seven o'clock that bland March evening, he bore within
his hardy breast certain delicacies, remorses, doubts, and
revulsions. But all these were transcended by his overmastering
determination to see this superb and long-worshipped maiden near
at hand.
Bancroft Road proved to be a docile suburban thoroughfare,
lined with comfortable villas and double houses, each standing a
little back from the street with a small garden in front. A
primrose-coloured afterglow lingered in the sky, and the gas
lights along the pavement still burned pale and white. Just as
the Rhodes Scholar passed number 302 he saw a feminine figure run
down the steps of a house fifty yards farther on, cross the
pavement, and drop a letter into the red pillar box standing
there. Even at that distance, he distinguished a lively slimness
in the girlish outline that could belong to no other than the
Incomparable Kathleen. He hastened his step, casting hesitance to
the wind. But she had already run back into the house.
It would have added to the problems Mr. Blair was pondering could
he have read the letter which had just dropped into the post-box.
Perhaps it will somewhat advance the course of the narrative to
give the reader a glimpse of it.