by Hugh Walpole
There were voices in the hall. Beldam’s superlatively courteous tones as of one who is ready to die to serve you, and then another voice — rather loud and sharp, but pleasant, with the sound of a laugh in it.
“They are in the blue drawing-room, sir — Mr. Henry,” Beldam’s voice was heard on the stairs, and, in a moment, Beldam himself appeared— “Mr. Henry, Sir Jeremy.” Then he stood aside, and Henry Trojan entered the room.
Clare made a step forward.
“Harry — old boy — at last —— —”
Both her hands were outstretched, but he disregarded them, and, stepping forward, crushed her in his arms, crushed her dress, crushed the beautiful rose at her breast, and, bending down, kissed her again and again.
“Clare — after twenty years!”
He let her go and she stepped back, still smiling, but she touched the rose for a moment and her hair. He was very strong.
And then there was a little pause. Harry Trojan turned and faced his father. The old man made no movement and gave no sign, but he said, his lips stirring very slightly, “I am glad to see you here again, Harry.”
The man flushed, and with a little stammer answered, “I am gladder to be back than you can know, father.”
Sir Jeremy’s wrinkled hand appeared from behind the rugs, and the two men shook in silence.
Then Garrett came forward. “You’re not much changed, Harry,” he said with a laugh, “in spite of the twenty years.”
“Why, Garrie!” His brother stepped towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s splendid to see you again. I’d almost forgotten what you were like — I only had that old photo, you know — of us both at Rugby.”
Robin had stood aside, in a corner by the fireplace, watching his father. It was very much as he had expected, only he couldn’t, try as he might, think of him as his father at all. The man there who had kissed Aunt Clare and shaken hands with Sir Jeremy was, in some unexplained way, a little odd and out of place. He was big and strong; his hair curled a little and was dark brown, like Robin’s, and his eyes were blue, but, in other respects, there was very little of the Trojan about him. His mouth was large, and he had a brown, slightly curling moustache. Indeed the general impression was brown in spite of the blue, badly fitting suit. He was deeply tanned by the sun and was slightly freckled.
He would have looked splendid in New Zealand or Klondyke, or, indeed, anywhere where you worked with your coat off and your shirt open at the neck; but here, in that drawing-room, it was a pity, Robin thought, that his father had not stopped for two or three days in town and gone to a West End tailor.
But, after all, it was a very nice little scene. It really had been quite moving to see him kiss Clare like that, but, at the same time, for his part, kissing...!
“And Robin?” said Harry.
“Here’s the son and heir,” said Garrett, laughing, and pushing Robin forward.
Now that the moment had really come, Robin was most unpleasantly embarrassed. How foolish of Uncle Garrett to try and be funny at a time like that, and what a pity it was that his tie was sticking out at one end so much farther than at the other. He felt his hand seized and crushed in the grip of a giant; he murmured something about his being pleased, and then, suddenly, his father bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
They were both blushing, Robin furiously. How he hated sentiment! He felt sure that Uncle Garrett was laughing at him.
“By Jove, you’re splendid!” said Harry, holding him back with both his hands on his shoulders. “Pretty different from the nipper that I sent over to England eighteen years ago. Oh, you’ll do, Robin.”
“And now, Harry,” said Clare, laughing, “you’ll go and dress, won’t you? Father’s terribly hungry and the train was late.”
“Right,” said Harry; “I won’t be long. It’s good to be back again.”
When the door had closed behind him, there was silence. He gave the impression of some one filled with overwhelming, rapturous joy. There was a light in his eyes that told of dreams at length fulfilled, and hopes, long and wearily postponed, at last realised. He had filled that stiff, solemn room with a spirit of life and strength and sheer animal good health — it was even, as Clare afterwards privately confessed, a little exhausting.
Now she stood by the fireplace, smiling a little. “My poor rose,” she said, looking at some of the petals that had fallen to the ground. “Harry is strong!”
“He is looking well,” said Garrett. It sounded almost sarcastic.
Robin went up to his room to change his tie — he had said nothing about his father.
As Harry Trojan passed down the well-remembered passages where the pictures hung in the same odd familiar places, past staircases vanishing into dark abysses that had frightened him as a child, windows deep-set in the thick stone walls, corners round which he had crept in the dark on his way to his room, it seemed to him that those long, dreary years of patient waiting in New Zealand were as nothing, and that it was only yesterday that he had passed down that same way, his heart full of rage against his father, his one longing to get out and away to other countries where he should be his own master and win his own freedom. And now that he was back again, now that he had seen what that freedom meant, now that he had tasted that same will-o’-the-wisp liberty, how thankful he was to rest here quietly, peacefully, for the remainder of his days; at last he knew what were the things that were alone, in this world, worth striving for — not money, ambition, success, but love for one’s own little bit of country that one called home, the patient resting in the heritage of all those accumulating traditions that ancestors had been making, slowly, gradually, for centuries of years.
He had hoped that he would have the same old rooms at the top of the West Towers that he had had when a boy; he remembered the view of the sea from their windows — the great sweep of the Cornish coast far out to Land’s End itself, and the gulls whirring with hoarse cries over his head as he leant out to view the little cove nestling at the foot of the Hall. That view, then, had meant to him distant wonderful lands in which he was to make his name and his fortune: now it spoke of home and peace, and, beyond all, of Cornwall.
They had put him in one of the big spare rooms that faced inland. As he entered the sense of its luxury filled him with a delicious feeling of comfort: the log-fire burning in the open brown-tiled fireplace, the softness of the carpets, the electric light, shaded to a soft glow — ah! these were the things for which he had waited, and they had, indeed, been worth waiting for.
His man was laying his dress-clothes on his bed.
“What is your name?” he said, feeling almost a little shy; it was so long since he had had things done for him.
“James Treduggan, sir,” the man answered, smiling. “You won’t remember me, sir, I expect. I was quite a youngster when you went away. But I’ve been in service here ever since I was ten.”
When Harry was left alone, he stood by the fire, thinking. He had been preparing for this moment for so long that now that it was actually here he was frightened, nervous. He had so often imagined that first arrival in England, the first glimpse of London; then the first meeting and the first evening at home. Of course, all his thoughts had centred on Robin — everything else had been secondary, but he had, in some unaccountable way, never been able to realise exactly what Robin would be. He had had photographs, but they had been unsatisfactory and had told him nothing; and now that he had seen him, he was at rest; he was all that he had hoped — straight, strong, manly, with that clear steady look in the eyes that meant so much; yes, there was no doubt about his son. He remembered Robin’s mother with affectionate tenderness; she had been the daughter of a doctor in Auckland — he had fallen in love with her at once and married her, although his prospects had been so bad. They had been very happy, and then, when Robin was two years old, she had died; the boy had been sent home, and he had been alone again — for eighteen years he had been alone. There had been other women, of course; he did not pretend to
have been a saint, and women had liked him and been rather sorry for him in those early years; but they had none of them been very much to him, only episodes — the central fact of his existence had always been his son. He had had a friend there, a Colonel Durand, who had three sons of his own, and had given him much advice as to his treatment of Robin. He had talked a great deal about the young generation, about its impatience of older theories and manners, its dislike of authority and restraint; and Harry, remembering his own early hatred of restriction and longing for freedom, was determined that he would be no fetter on his son’s liberty, that he would be to him a friend, a companion rather than a father. After all, he felt no more than twenty-five — there was really no space of years between them — he was as young to-day as he had been twenty years ago.
As to the others, he had never cared very much for Clare and Garrett in the old days; they had been stiff, cold, lacking all sense of family affection. But that had been twenty years ago. There had been a time, in New Zealand, when he had hated Garrett. When he had been away from home for some ten years, the longing to see his boy had grown too strong to be resisted, and he had written to his father asking for permission to return. He had received a cold answer from Garrett, saying that Sir Jeremy thought that, as he was so successful there, it would be perhaps better if he remained there a little while longer; that he would find little to do at home and would only weary of the monotony — four closely written pages to the same effect. So Harry had remained.
But that was ten years ago. At last, a letter had come, saying that Sir Jeremy was now very old and feeble, that he desired to see his son before he died, and that all the past was forgotten and forgiven. And now there was but one thought in his heart — love for all the world, one overwhelming desire to take his place amongst them decently, worthily, so that they might see that the wastrel of twenty years ago had developed into a man, able to take his place, in due time, at the head of the Trojan family. Oh! how he would try to please them all! how he would watch and study and work so that that long twenty years’ exile might be forgotten both by himself and by them.
He bathed and dressed slowly by the fire. As he saw his clothes on the bed he fancied, for a moment, that they might be a little worn, a little old. They had seemed very good and smart in Auckland, but in England it was rather different. He almost wished that he had stayed in London for two days and been properly fitted by a tailor. But then he had been so eager to arrive, he had not thought of clothes; his one idea had been to rush down as soon as possible and see them all, and the place, and the town.
Then he remembered that Clare had asked him to be quick. He finished his dressing hurriedly, turned out the electric light, and left the room.
He was pleased to find that he had not forgotten the turns and twists of the house. He threaded the dark passages easily, humming a little tune, and smelling that same sweet scent of dried rose leaves that he had known so well when he was a small boy. He could see, in imagination, the great white-and-pink china pot-pourri bowls standing at the corner of the stairs — nothing was changed.
The blue drawing-room was deserted when he entered it — only the blaze of the electric light, the golden flame of the log-fire in the great open fireplace, and the solemn ticking of the gold clock that had stood there, in the same place of honour, for the last hundred years. He passed over to the windows and flung them open; the hum of the town came, with the cold night air, into the room. The stars were brilliant to-night and the golden haze of the lamplight hung over the streets like a magic curtain. Ah! how good it was! The peace of it, the comfort, the homeliness!
Above all, it was Cornwall — the lights of the herring fleet, the distant rhythmical beat of the mining-stamps, that peculiar scent as of precious spices coming with the wind of the sea, as though borne from distant magical lands, all told him that he was, at last, again in Cornwall.
He drank in the night air, bending his eyes on the town as though he were saluting it again, tenderly, joyously, with the greeting of an old familiar friend.
Robin closed the door behind him and shivered a little. The windows were open — how annoying when Aunt Clare had especially asked that they should be closed. Oh! it was his father! Of course, he did not know!
He had not been noticed, so he coughed. Harry turned round.
“Hullo, Robin, my boy!” He passed his arm through his son’s and drew him to the window. “Isn’t it splendid?” he said. “Oh! I don’t suppose you see it now, after having been here all this time; you want to go away for twenty years, then you’d know how much it’s worth. Oh! it’s splendid — what times we’ll have here, you and I!”
“Yes,” said Robin, a little coldly. It was very chilly with the window open, and there was something in all that enthusiasm that was almost a little vulgar. Of course, it was natural, after being away so long ... but still.... Also his father’s clothes were really very old — the back of the coat was quite shiny.
Sir Jeremy entered in his chair, followed by Clare and Garrett.
Clare gave a little scream.
“Oh! How cold!” she cried. “Now whoever —— !”
“I’m afraid I was guilty,” said Harry, laughing. “The town looked so splendid and I hadn’t seen it for so long. I — —”
“Of course, I forgot,” said Clare. “I don’t suppose you notice open windows in New Zealand, because you’re always outside in the Bush or something. But here we’re as shivery as you make them. Dinner’s getting shivery too. The sooner we go down the better.”
She passed back through the door and down the hall. There was no doubt that she was a magnificent woman.
As Sir Jeremy was wheeled through the doors he gripped Harry’s hand. “I’m damned glad that you’re back,” he whispered.
Robin, who was the last to leave the room, closed the windows and turned out the lights. The room was in darkness save for the golden light of the leaping fire.
CHAPTER II
It had been called the “House of the Flutes” since the beginning of time. People had said that the name was absurd, and Harry’s grandfather, a prosaic gentleman of rather violent radical opinions, had made a definite attempt at a change — but he had failed. Trojans had appeared from every part of the country, angry Trojans, tearful Trojans, indignant Trojans, important Trojans, poor-relation Trojans, and had, one and all, demanded that the name should remain, and that the headquarters of the Trojan tradition, of the Trojan power, should continue to be the “House of the Flutes.”
Of course, it had its origin in tradition. In the early days when might was right, and the stronger seized the worldly goods of the weaker and nobody said him nay, there had been a Sir Jeremy Trojan whose wife had been the talk of the country-side both because of her beauty and also because of her easy morals. Sir Jeremy having departed on a journey, the lovely Lady Clare entertained a neighbouring baron at her husband’s bed and board, and for two days all was well. But Sir Jeremy unexpectedly returned, and, being a gentleman of a pleasant fancy, walled up the room in which he had found the erring couple and left them inside. He then sat outside, and listened with a gentle pleasure to their cries, and, being a musician of no mean quality, played on the flute from time to time to prevent the hours from being wearisome. For three days he sat there, until there came no more sounds from that room; then he pursued his ordinary affairs, but sought no other wife — a grim little man with a certain sense of humour.
There are many other legends connected with the house; you will find them in Baedeker, where it also says: “Kind permission is accorded by Sir Henry Trojan to visitors who desire to see the rooms during the residence of the family in London. Special attention should be paid to the gold Drawing-room with its magnificent carving, the Library with its fine collection of old prints, and the Long Gallery with the family portraits, noticing especially the Vandyke of Sir Hilary Trojan (temp. Ch. I.), and a little sketch by Turner of the view from the West Tower. The gardens, too, are well worth a short inspection
, special mention being made of the Long Terrace with its magnificent sea-view.
“A small charge is made by Sir Henry for admittance (adults sixpence, children half-price), with a view to benefiting the church, a building recently restored and sadly in need of funds.”
So far Baedeker (Cornwall, new ed., 1908). The house is astonishingly beautiful, seen from any point of view. Added to from time to time, it has that air of surprise, as of a building containing endless secrets, only some of which it intends to reveal. It is full of corners and angles, and at the same time preserves a symmetry and grandeur of style that is surprising, if one considers its haphazard construction and random additions.
Part of its beauty is undoubtedly owing to its superb position. It rises from the rock, over the grey town at its feet, like a protecting deity, its two towers to west and east, raised like giant hands, its grey walls rising sheer from the steep, shelving rock; behind it the gentle rise of hills, bending towards the inland valleys; in front of it an unbroken stretch of sea.
It strikes the exact note that is in harmony with its colour and surroundings: the emblem of some wild survival from dark ages when that spot had been one of the most uncivilised in the whole of Britain — a land of wild, uncouth people, living in a state of perpetual watch and guard, fearing the sea, fearing the land, cringingly superstitious because of their crying need of supernatural defence; and, indeed, there is nothing more curious in the Cornwall of to-day than this perpetual reminder of past superstitions, dead gods, strange pathetic survival of heathen ancestry.
The town of Pendragon, lying at the foot of the “House of the Flutes,” had little of this survival of former custom about it; it was rapidly developing into that temple of British middle-class mediocrity, a modern watering-place. It had, in the months of June, July, and August, nigger minstrels, a café chantant, and a promenade, with six bathing-machines and two donkeys; two new hotels had sprung up within the last two years, a sufficient sign of its prosperity. No, Pendragon was doing its best to forget its ancient superstitions, and even seemed to regard the “House of the Flutes” a little resentfully because of its reminder of a time when men scaled the rocks and stormed the walls, and fell back dying and cursing into their ships riding at anchor in the little bay.