by Hugh Walpole
“Oh! the Miss Ponsonbys!” said Harry carelessly, and Robin stood amazed.
CHAPTER III
Robin’s rooms, charming as they were, with their wide windows opening on to tossing sea and the sharp bend of the grey cliffs stretching to distant horizons, suffered from overcrowding.
His sitting-room, with its dark red wallpaper and several good prints framed in dark oak — Burne-Jones’ “Study for Cupid’s Masque,” Hunt’s “Hireling Shepherd,” and Whistler’s “Battersea Bridge” were the best — might have been delightful had he learned to select; but at the present stage in his development he hated rejecting anything as long as it reached a certain standard. His appreciations were wide and generous, and his knowledge was just now too superficial to permit of discerning criticism. The room, again, suffered from a rather effeminate prettiness. There were too many essentially trivial knick-knacks — some fans, silver ornaments, a charming little ebony clock, and a generous assortment of gay, elegantly worked cushions. The books, too, were all in handsome editions — Meredith in green leather with a gold-worked monogram, Pater in red half-morocco, Swinburne in light-blue with red and gold tooling — rich and to some extent unobtrusive, but reiterating unmistakably the first impression that the room had given, the mark of something superficial.
Robin was there now, dressing for dinner. He often dressed in his sitting-room, because his books were there. He liked to open a book for a moment before fitting his studs into his shirt, and how charming to read a verse of Swinburne before brushing his hair — not so much because of the Swinburne, but rather because one went down to dinner with a pleasant feeling of culture and education. To-night he was in a hurry. People had stayed so late for tea (it was still the day after his father’s arrival), and he had to be at the other end of the town by half-past seven. What a nuisance going out to dinner was, and how he wished he wasn’t going to-night.
The fact that the dinner promised, in all probability, to afford something of a situation did not, as was often the case, give him very much satisfaction. Indeed it was the reverse. The situation was going to be extremely unpleasant, and there was every likelihood that Robin would look a fool. Robin’s education had been a continuous insistence on the importance of superficiality. It had been enforced while he was still in the cradle, when a desire to kick and fight had been always checked by the quiet reiteration that it was not a thing that a Trojan did. Temper was not a fault of itself, but an exhibition of it was; simply because self-control was a Trojan virtue. At his private school he was taught the great code of brushing one’s hair and leaving the bottom button of one’s waistcoat undone. Robbery, murder, rape — well, they had all played their part in the Trojan history; but the art of shaking hands and the correct method of snubbing a poor relation, if properly acquired, covered the crimes of the Decalogue.
It was not that Robin, either then or afterwards, was a snob. He thought no more of a duke or a viscount than of a plain commoner, but he learnt at once the lesson of “Us — and the Others.” If you were one of the others — if there was a hesitation about your aspirates, if you wore a tail-coat and brown boots — then you were non-existent, you simply did not count.
When he left Eton for Cambridge, this Code of the Quite Correct Thing advanced beyond the art of Perfect Manners; it extended to literature and politics, and, in fact, everything of any importance. He soon discovered what were the things for “Us” to read, whom were the painters for “Us” to admire, and what were the politics for “Us” to applaud. He read Pater and Swinburne and Meredith, Bernard Shaw and Galsworthy and Joseph Conrad, and had quite definite ideas about all of them. He admired Rickett’s stage effects, and thought Sholto Douglas’s portraits awfully clever, and, of course, Max’s Caricatures were masterly. I’m not saying that he did not really admire these things — in many things his appreciation was genuine enough — but if it should happen that he cared for “The Christian” or “God’s Good Man,” he speedily smothered his admiration and wondered how he could be such a fool. To do him justice, he never had any doubt that those whose judgment he followed were absolutely right; but he followed them blindly, often praising books or pictures that he had never read or seen because it was the thing to do. He read quite clever papers to “The Gracchi” at Cambridge, but the most successful of all, “The Philosophy of Nine-pins according to Bernard Shaw,” was written before he had either seen or read any of that gentleman’s plays. He was, in fact, in great danger of developing into a kind of walking Rapid Review of other people’s judgments and opinions. He examined nothing for himself; his standard of the things to be attained in this world was fixed and unalterable; to have an unalterable standard at twenty-one is to condemn oneself to folly for life.
And now, as he was dressing for dinner, two things occupied his mind: firstly, his father; in the second place, the situation that he was to face in half-an-hour’s time.
With regard to his father, Robin was terribly afraid that he was one of the Others. He had had his suspicions from the first — that violent entry, the loud voice and the hearty laugh, the bad-fitting clothes, and the perpetual chatter at dinner; it had all been noisy, unusual, even a little vulgar. But his behaviour at tea that afternoon had grieved Robin very much. How could he be so rude to the light and leading of Fallacy Street? It could only have been through ignorance; it could only have been because he really did not know how truly great the Miss Ponsonbys were. But then, to spend all his time with the Bethels, strange, odd people, with the queerest manners and an uncertain history, whom Fallacy Street had decided to cut!
No, Robin was very much afraid that his father must be ranked with the Others. He had not expected very much after all; New Zealand must be a strange place on all accounts; but his father seemed to show no desire to improve, he seemed quite happy and contented, and scarcely realised, apparently, the seriousness of his mistakes.
But, after all, the question of his father was a very minor affair as compared with the real problem that he must answer that evening. Robin had met Dahlia Feverel in the summer of the preceding year at Cambridge. He had thought her extremely beautiful and very fascinating. Most of his college friends had ladies whom they adored; it was considered quite a thing to do — and so Robin adored Dahlia.
No one knew anything about the Feverels. The mother was kept in the background and the father was dead — there was really only Dahlia; and when Robin was with her he never thought of questioning her as to antecedents of earlier history. For two months he loved her passionately, chiefly because he saw her very seldom. When he went down at the end of the summer term he felt that she was the only thing in the world worth living for. He became Byronic, scowled at Aunt Clare, and treated Garrett’s cynicism with contempt. He wrote letters to her every day full of the deepest sentiments and a great deal of amazingly bad poetry. Clare wondered what was the matter, but asked no questions, and was indeed far too firmly convinced of the efficacy of the Trojan system to have any fears of mental or moral danger.
Then Miss Feverel made a mistake; she came with her mother to stay at Pendragon. For the first week Robin was blissfully happy — then he began to wonder. The best people in Pendragon would have nothing to do with the Feverels. Aunt Clare, unaware that they were friends of Robin’s, pronounced them “commonly vulgar.” The mother was more in evidence than she had been at Cambridge, and Robin passed from dislike to horror and from horror to hatred. Dahlia, too, seemed to have changed. Robin had loved her too passionately hitherto to think of the great Division. But soon he began to wonder. There were certain things — little unimportant trifles, of course — that made him rather uneasy; he began to have a horrible suspicion that she was one of the Others; and then, once the suspicion was admitted, proof after proof came forward to turn it into certainty.
How horrible, and what an escape! His visits to the little lodging-house overlooking the sea where Dahlia played the piano so enchantingly, and Mrs. Feverel, a solemn, rather menacing figure, played silently
and mournfully continuous Patience, were less and less frequent. He was determined to break the matter off; it haunted his dreams, it troubled him all day; he was forced to keep his acquaintanceship with them secret, and was in perpetual terror lest Aunt Clare should discover it. He had that most depressing of unwished-for possessions, a skeleton; its cupboard-door swung creakingly in the wind, and its bones rattled in his ears.
No, the thing must come to an end at once, and completely. They had invited him to dinner and he had accepted, meaning to use the occasion for the contemplated separation. He had thought often enough of what he would say — words that had served others many times before in similar situations. He would refer to their youth, the affair should be a midsummer episode, pleasant to look back upon when they were both older and married to more worthy partners; he would be a brother to her and she should be a sister to him — but, thank God for his escape!
He believed that the Trojan traditions would carry him through. He was not quite sure what she would do — cry probably, and remonstrate; but it would soon be over and he would be at peace once more.
He dressed slowly and with his usual care. It would be easier to speak with authority if there was no doubt about his appearance. He decided to walk, and he passed through the garden into the town, his head a buzzing repetition of the words that he meant to say. It was a beautiful evening; a soft mist hid the moon’s sharper outline, but she shone, a vague circlet of light through a little fleet of fleecy white cloud. Although it was early in September, some of the trees were beginning to change their dark green into faint gold, and the sharp outline of their leaves stood out against the grey pearl light of the sky. As he passed into the principal street of Pendragon, Robin drew his coat closer about him, like some ancient conspirator. He had no wish to be stopped by an inquisitive friend; his destination demanded secrecy. Soon the lights and asphalt of the High Street gave place to dark, twisting paths and cobbled stones. These obscure and narrow ways were rather pathetic survivals of the old Pendragon. At night they had an almost sinister appearance; the lamps were at very long intervals and the old houses leaned over the road with a certain crazy picturesqueness that was, at the same time, exceedingly dangerous. There were few lights in the windows and very few pedestrians on the cobbles; the muffled roar of the sea sounded close at hand. And, indeed, it sprang upon you quite magnificently at a turn of the road. To-night it scarcely moved; a ripple as the waves licked the sand, a gentle rustle as of trees in the wind when the pebbles were dragged back with the ebb — that was all. It seemed strangely mysterious under the misty, uncertain light of the moon.
The houses facing the sea loomed up darkly against the horizon — a black contrast with the grey of sea and sky. It was No. 4 where the Feverels lived. There was a light in the upper window and some one was playing the piano. Robin hesitated for some minutes before ringing the bell. When it had rung he heard the piano stop. For a few seconds there was no sound; then there were steps in the passage and the door was opened by the very dowdy little maid-of-all-work whose hands were always dirty and whose eyes were always red, as though with perpetual weeping.
With what different eyes he saw the house now! On his first visit, the sun had dazzled his eyes; there had been flowers in the drawing-room and she had come to meet him in some charming dress; he had stood enraptured at the foot of the stairs, deeming it Paradise. Now the lamp in the hall flared with the wind from the door, and he was acutely conscious of a large rent in the dirty, faded carpet. The house was perfectly still — it might have been a place of ghosts, with the moon shining mistily through the window on the stairs and the strange, insistent murmur of the sea beating mysteriously through the closed doors!
There was no one in the drawing-room, and its appalling bad taste struck him as it had never done before. How could he have been blind to it? The glaring yellow carpet, the bright purple lamp-shades, the gilt looking-glass over the fireplace, and, above all, dusty, drooping paper flowers in bright china vases ranged in a row by the window. Of course, it might be merely the lodgings. Lodgings always were like that — but to live with them for months! To attempt no change, to leave the flowers, and the terrible oil-painting “Lost in the Snow” — an obvious British Public appeal to a pathos that simply shrieked at you, with its hideous colours and very material snow-storm. No, Robin could only repeat once more, What an escape!
But had he, after all, escaped? He was not quite sure, as he stood by the window waiting. It might be difficult, and he was unmistakably nervous.
Dahlia closed the door, and stood there for a moment before coming forward.
“Robin — at last!” and she held out both hands to him. They were the same words that his aunt had used to his father last night, he remembered foolishly, and at once they seemed strained, false, ridiculous!
He took her hand and said something about being in time; then, as she seemed to expect it, he bent down and kissed her.
She was pretty in a rather obvious way. If there had been less artificiality there would have been more charm; of middle height, she was slim and dark, and her hair, parted in the middle, fell in waves over her temples. She affected a rather simple, aesthetic manner that suited her dark eyes and rather pale complexion. You said that she was intense until you knew her. To-night she wore a rather pretty dress of some dark-brown stuff, cut low at the neck, and with her long white arms bare. She had obviously taken a good deal of trouble this evening, and had undoubtedly succeeded.
“And so Sir Robert has deigned to come and see his humble dependants at last!” she said, laughing. “A whole fortnight, Robin, and you’ve not been near us.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, “but I’ve really been too terribly busy. The Governor coming home and one thing and another — —”
He felt gauche and awkward, the consciousness of what he must say after dinner weighed on him heavily. He could hardly believe that there had ever been a time when he had talked eagerly, passionately — he cursed himself for a fool.
“Yes, we’ve been very lonely and you’re a naughty boy,” said Dahlia. “But now you are here I won’t scold you if you promise to tell me everything you’ve done since last time — —”
“Oh! done?” said Robin vaguely; “I really don’t know — the usual sort of thing, I suppose — not much to do in Pendragon at any time.”
She had been looking at him curiously while he was speaking. Now she suddenly changed her voice. “I’ve been so lonely without you, dear,” she said, speaking almost in a whisper; “I fancied — of course it was silly of me — that perhaps there was some one else — that you were getting a little tired of me. I was — very unhappy. I nearly wrote, but I was afraid that — some one might see it. Letters are always dangerous. But it’s very lonely here all day — with only mother. If you could come a little oftener, dear — it means everything to me.”
Her voice was a little husky as though tears were not far away, and she spoke in little short sentences — she seemed to find it hard to say the words.
Robin suddenly felt a brute. How could he ever tell her of what was in his mind? If it was really so much to her he could never leave her — not at once like that; he must do it gradually.
She was sitting by him on the sofa and looked rather delightful. She had the pathetic expression that always attracted him, and he felt very sorry indeed. How blank her days would be without him! Part of the romance had always been his rôle of King Cophetua, and tears sprang to his eyes as he thought of the poor beggar-maid, alone, forlornly weeping, when he had finally withdrawn his presence.
“I think it is partly the sea,” she said, putting her hand gently on his sleeve. “When one is sitting quite alone here in the evening with nothing to do and no one to talk to, one hears it so plainly — it is almost frightening. You know, Robin, old boy, I don’t care for Pendragon very much. I only came here because of you — and now — if you never come to see us — —”
She stopped with a little catch in her
voice. Her hand fastened on his sleeve; their heads were very close together and her hair almost brushed his cheek.
He really was an awful brute, but at the same time it was rather nice — that she should care so much. It would be terrible for her when he told her what was in his mind. She might even get very ill — he had read of broken hearts often enough; and she was extraordinarily nice just now — he didn’t want to hurt her. But still a fellow must think of his career, his future, and that sort of thing.
Mrs. Feverel entered — ponderous, solemn, dressed in a black silk that trails behind her in funereal folds. Her hands were clammy to the touch and her voice was a deep bass. She said very little, but sat down silently by the window, forming, as she always did, a dark and extremely solid background. Robin hated and feared her. There was something sinister in her silence — something ominous in her perpetual black. He had never heard her laugh.
Dahlia was laughing now. “I’m a selfish brute, Bobby,” she said, “to bother you with my silly little complaints when we want to be cheerful. We’ll have a good time this evening, won’t we? We’ll sing some of those Rubinstein’s duets after dinner, and I’ve got a new song that I’ve been learning especially for you. And then there’s your father; I do want to hear all about him so much — he must be so interesting, coming from New Zealand. Mother and I saw a gentleman in the town this morning that we thought must be him. Tall and brown, with a light brown moustache and a dark blue suit. It must be splendid to have a father again after twenty years without him.”
Her voice dropped a little, as though to refer gently to her own fatherless condition.
Mrs. Feverel, a dark shadow in the window, sighed heavily.
“Oh! the Governor!” said Robin, a little irritably. “No! It’s rather difficult — he doesn’t seem to know what to do and say. I suppose it’s being in New Zealand so long! It makes it rather difficult for me.”