VI
He decided that night that he would write a story about Millstead; that he would do for Millstead what other people had already done for Eton and Harrow and Rugby. He would put down all the magic that he had seen and felt; he would transfer to paper the subtle enchantment of the golden summer days, the moonlit nights, the steamy warmth of the bathrooms, the shouting in the dormitories, the buzz of movement and conversation in the dining hall, the cool gloom of the chapel—everything that came effortlessly into his mind whenever he thought of Millstead. All the beauty and emotion and rapture that he had seen and felt must not, he determined, be locked inside him: it clamoured to be set free, to flow strongly yet purposefully in the channel of some mighty undertaking.
Clanwell asked him in to coffee that night: from half-past ten till half-past eleven Speed lounged in one of Clanwell’s easy chairs and found a great difficulty in paying attention to what Clanwell was saying. In the end his thoughts burst, as it were, their barriers: he said: “D’you know, Clanwell, I’ve had an idea—some time, you know—to write a tale about Millstead?”
“Really?—A school story, you mean?”
“Yes. You see—I feel—oh, well—there’s a sort of atmosphere about the place, if you know what I mean—a rather wonderful sort of atmosphere. If somebody could only manage to express it in words they’d make rather a fine story, I should think.”
Clanwell said: “Yes, I’ve known that atmosphere for a dozen years, but I’m quite certain I could never write about it. And you think you could?”
“I thought of trying, anyway, Millstead in summer-time—” Speed’s voice quivered with rapture—“It’s simply divine!”
“But you haven’t seen it in winter-time yet. You can’t write a story about one summer-term.”
“No.” Speed pondered, and said doubtfully: “No, I suppose not. It does sound rather arrogant, doesn’t it, for me to talk of writing a school-story about Millstead after a few weeks at it, while you, after a dozen years, don’t feel equal to the task?”
“When one is young and in love,” declared Clanwell slowly, “one feels arrogant.”
Speed laughed uproariously: it was as if Clanwell’s remark had let loose a cataract of emotion in him. “You despise my condition a little, don’t you?” he said.
“No,” answered Clanwell, “I don’t despise it at all: I just recognize it, that’s all.” He paused and began again: “I wonder if you’ll let me speak to you a trifle seriously, Speed, without getting offended with me?”
“Of course I will. Fire away!”
Clanwell knocked out his pipe on the bars of the empty firegrate and said, rather curtly: “Don’t see too much of Miss Ervine.”
“What!”
Speed jerked forward in his chair and a sharp light entered his eyes. Clanwell continued, unmoved: “You said you weren’t going to get offended, Speed. I hope you’ll keep your promise. Understand, I’ve nothing to say against Miss Ervine at all, and if I had, I shouldn’t take on the job of telling you about it. All that concerns me is just the matter of—of expediency, if you like to put it that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this. It doesn’t do you any good in the school to be seen continually meeting her. The Common-Room, which liked you immensely at first when you came, is just beginning to be slightly amused at you. And the boys have noticed it, you may be sure. Probably you’ll find yourself beginning to be ragged about it soon.”
“But I’m not frightened of being ragged.”
“Oh no, I daresay not.... Still, I’ve said all I wanted to say. Don’t forget, Speed, that you’re pledged not to take offence.”
“Oh, I’ll not do that.”
Just before Speed left Clanwell said: “I wouldn’t start that tale of Millstead life just yet if I were you, Speed. Better wait till you’re out of love, at any rate. After all, it’s rather a highly coloured Millstead that you see at present, isn’t it?”
“You think I’m sentimental, eh?”
“My dear fellow, I think you’re by far the most sentimental chap I’ve ever come across!—Don’t be hurt: it’s not a crime. But it’s just a bit of a danger, especially in writing a school-story. That atmosphere you talk about certainly does exist, and if I had the gift of self-expression I might try to write about it. I can see it clearly enough, even though I’m not a scrap in love, and even on the dreariest of days in the winter term. My advice to you is to wait and see if you can do the same.... Good night, Speed!”
“Good night,” Speed called out, laughing.
Down Clanwell’s corridor and up the stone flight of stairs and along his own corridor to the door of his own room his heart was thumping violently, for he knew that as soon as he was alone he would be drenched in the wild, tumultuous rapture of his own thoughts. Clanwell’s advice, hazily remembered, faded before the splendour of that coming onrush; the whole interview with Clanwell vanished as if it had never happened, as if there had been a sort of cataleptic vacuum intervening between that scene by the Head’s gateway and the climb upstairs to his room.
When he got to bed he could hardly sleep for joy.