by Hugh Walpole
“Oh! no melodrama,” she said, laughing and moving towards the door. “Only, we understand each other, Garrie. Things won’t do as they are — or, as they promise to be.”
Garrett returned, with a sigh of relief, to his papers.
For Harry the week had been a series of bitter disappointments. He woke gradually from his dreams and saw that everything was changed. He was in a new world and he was out of place. Those dreams had been coloured, fantastically, beautifully. In the white pebbles, the golden sand, the curling grey smoke of the Cove, he had formed pictures that had lightened many dreary and lonely hours in Auckland. He was to come back; away from that huge unwieldy life in which comfort had no place and rest was impossible, back to all the old things, the wonderful glorious things that meant home and tradition and, above all, love. He was a sentimentalist, he knew that now. It had not been so in those old days; the life had been too adventurous and exciting, and he had despised the quiet comforts of a stay-at-home existence. But now he knew its value; he would come home and take his place as head of the family, as father, as citizen — he had learnt his lesson, and at last it was time for the reward.
But now that he had come home he found that the lesson was not learnt, or, perhaps, that the learning had been wasted; he must begin all over again. Garrett and Clare had not changed; they had made no advances and had shown him quite plainly, in the courteous Trojan fashion, that they considered his presence an intrusion, that they had no place in their ranks that he could fill. He was, he saw it plainly, no more in line with them than he had been twenty years before. Indeed, matters were worse. There was no possibility of agreement — they were poles apart.
With the town, too, he was an “outsider.” The men at the Club thought him a bore — a person of strange enthusiasms and alarming heresies. By the ladies he was considered rough: as Mrs. le Terry had put it to Miss Ponsonby, he was a kind of too terrible bushranger without the romance! He was gauche, he knew, and he hated the tea-parties. They talked about things of which he knew nothing; he was too sincere to cover his convictions with the fatuous chatter that passed, in Fallacy Street society, for brilliant wit. That it was fatuous he was convinced, but his conviction made matters no easier for him.
But his attitude to the town had been, it must be confessed, from the very first a challenge. He had expected things that were not there; he had thought that his dreams were realities, and when he had demanded golden colours and had been shown stuff of sombre grey, there had been wild rebellion and impatient discontent with the world. He had thought Pendragon amazing in its utter disregard of the things that were to him necessities, but he had forgotten that he himself despised so completely things that were to Pendragon essentials. He had asked for beauty and they had given him an Esplanade; he had searched for romance and had discovered the new hotel; he dreamed of the sand and blue water of the Cove and had awaked to find the place despised and contemned — a site for future boarding-houses.
The town had thought him at first entertaining; they had made allowances for a certain rather picturesque absurdity consequent on backwoods and the friendship of Maories — men had laughed at the Club and detailed Harry Trojan’s latest with added circumstances and incident, and for a while this was amusing. But his vehemence knew no pause, and he stated his disgust at the practical spirit of the new Pendragon with what seemed to the choice spirits at the Club effrontery. They smiled and then they sneered, and at last they left him alone.
So Harry found himself, at the end of the first week after his return, alone in Pendragon.
He had not, perhaps, cared for their rejection. He had come, like Gottwalt in Flegejahre, “loving every dog, and wishing that every dog should love him” — but he had seen, at once, that his way must be apart from theirs, and in that knowledge he had tried to find the comfort of a minority certain of its own strength and disdainful of common opinion. He had marvelled at their narrow vision and was unaware that his own point of view was equally narrow.
And, after all, there was Robin. Robin and he would defy Pendragon and laugh at its stupid little theories and short-sighted plans. And then, slowly, irresistibly, he had seen that he was alone — that Robin was on the side of Pendragon. He refused to admit it even now, and told himself again and again that the boy was naturally a little awkward at first — careless perhaps — certainly constrained. But gradually a wall had been built up between them; they were greater strangers now than they had been on that first evening of the return. Ah! how he had tried! He had thought that, perhaps, the boy hated sentiment and he had held himself back, watching eagerly for any sign of affection, ready humbly to take part in anything, to help in any difficulty, to laugh, to sympathise, to take his place as he had been waiting to do for so many years.
But Robin had made no advances, showed no sign. He had almost repulsed him — had at least been absolutely indifferent. They had had a walk together, and Harry had tried his best — but the attempt had been obvious, and at last there had come a terrible silence; they had walked back through the streets of Pendragon without a word.
Everything that Harry had said had been unfortunate. He had praised the Cove enthusiastically, and Robin had been contemptuous. He had never heard of Pater and had confounded Ibsen with Jerome K. Jerome. He had praised cricket and met with no reply. Twice he had seen Robin’s mouth curl contemptuously, and it had cut him to the heart.
Poor Harry! he was very lonely. During the last two days he had been down in the Cove; he had found his way into the little inn and got in touch with some of the fishermen. But they scarcely solaced his loneliness. He had met Mary Bethel on the downs, and for a moment they had talked. There was no stiffness there; she had looked at him simply as a friend, with no hostility, and he had been grateful.
At last he had begun to look forward to the coming of Robin’s friend, Randal. He was, evidently, a person to whom Robin looked up with great admiration. Perhaps he would form in some way a link, would understand the difficulties of both, and would help them. Harry waited, eagerly, and formed a picture of Randal in his mind that gave him much encouragement.
He was in his room now; it was half-past four, and the carriage had just passed up the drive. He looked anxiously at his ties and hesitated between light green, brown, and black. He had learnt the importance of these things in his son’s eyes. He was going next week to London to buy clothes; meanwhile he must not offend their sense of decency, and he hesitated in front of his tie-box like a girl before her first dance. The green was terribly light. It was a good tie, but perhaps not quite the thing. Nothing seemed to go properly with his blue suit — the brown was dull and uninteresting — it lacked character; any one might have worn it, and he flung it back almost scornfully into the box. The black was really best, but how dismal! He seemed to see all his miserable loneliness and disappointment in its dark, sombre colour. No, that would never do! He must be bright, amusing, cheerful — anything but dull and dismal. So he put on the green again, and went down to the drawing-room. Randal was a young man of twenty-four — dark, tall, and slight, with a rather weary look in the eyes, as of one who had discovered the hollow mockery of the world and wondered at the pleasures of simple people. He was perfectly dressed, and had arrived, after much thought and a University education, at that excellent result when everything is right, as it were, by accident — as though no thought had been taken at all. As soon as a man appears to have laboured for effect, then he is badly dressed. Randal was good-looking. He had very dark eyes and thin, rather curling lips, and hair brushed straight back from his forehead.
The room was in twilight. It was Clare’s morning-room, chosen because it was cosy and favoured intimacy. She was fond of Randal and liked to mother him; she also respected his opinions. The windows looked over the sea and the blinds were not drawn. The twilight, like a floating veil, hovered over sea and land; the last faint colours of the sunset, gold and rose and grey, trembled over the town.
Harry was introduced. Randal smile
d, but his hand was limp; Harry felt a little ashamed of his own hearty grasp and wished that he had been less effusive. Randal’s suit was dark blue and he wore a black tie; Harry became suddenly conscious of his daring green and, taking his tea, went and sat in the window and watched the town. The first white colours of the young moon, slipping from the rosy-grey cloud, touched faintly the towers of the ruined church on the moor; he fancied that he could just see the four stones shining darkly grey against the horizon, but it was difficult to tell in that mysterious half-light. Robin was sitting under the lamp by the door. The light caught his hair, but his face was in shadow. Harry watched him eagerly, hungrily. Oh! how he loved him, his son!
Randal was discussing some people with whom he had been staying — a little languidly and without any very active interest. “Rather a nice girl, though,” he said. “Only such a dreadful mother. Young Page-Rellison would have had a shot, I do believe, if it hadn’t been for the mother — wore a wig and talked Cockney, and fairly grabbed the shekels in bridge.”
“And what about the book?” Clare asked.
“Oh! going on,” said Randal. “I showed Cressel a chapter the other day — you know the New Argus man; and he was very nice about it. Of course, some of the older men won’t like it, you know. It fairly goes for their methods, and I flatter myself hits them pretty hard once or twice. You know, Miss Trojan, it’s the young school you’ve got to look to nowadays; it’s no use going back to those mid-Victorians — all very well for the schoolroom — cause and effect and all that kind of thing — but we must look ahead — be modern and you will be progressive, Miss Trojan.”
“That’s just what I’m always saying, Mr. Randal,” said Clare, smiling. “We’re fighting a regular battle over it down here, but I think we will win the day.”
Randal turned to Harry. “And you, sir,” he said, “are with us, too?”
Harry laughed. He knew that Robin was looking at him. “I have been away,” he said, “and perhaps I have been a little surprised at the strides that things have made. Twenty years is a long time, and I was romantic and perhaps foolish enough to expect that Pendragon would be very much the same when I came back. It has changed greatly, and I am a little disappointed.”
Clare looked up. “My brother has lost touch a little, Mr. Randal,” she said, “and I don’t think quite sees what is good for the place — indeed, necessary. At any rate, he scarcely thinks with us.”
“With us.” There was emphasis on the word. That meant Robin too. Randal glanced at him for a moment and then he turned to Robin — father and son! A swift drawing of contrasts, perhaps with an inevitable conclusion in favour of his own kind. It was suddenly as though the elder man was shut out of the conversation; they had, in a moment, forgotten his very presence. He sat in the dusk by the window, his head in his hands, and terrible loneliness at his heart; it hurt as he had never known before that anything could hurt. He had never known that he was sensitive; in Auckland it had not been so. He had never felt things then, and had a little despised people that had minded. But there had been ever, in the back of his mind, the thought of those days that were coming when, with his son at his side, he could face all things. Well, now he had his son — there, with him in the room. The irony of it made him clench his hands, there in the dark, whilst they talked in the lighted room behind him.
“Oh! King’s is going to pot,” Randal was saying. “I was down in the Mays and they were actually running with the boats — they seemed quite keen on going up. The decent men seem to have all gone.”
Robin was paying very little attention. He was looking worried, and Clare watched him a little anxiously. “I hope you will be able to stay with us some days, Mr. Randal,” she said. “There are several new people in Pendragon whom I should like you to meet.”
Randal was charmed. He would love to stop, but he must get back to London almost immediately. He was going over to Germany next week and there were many arrangements to be made.
“Germany!” It was Robin who spoke, but the voice was not his usual one. It was alive, vibrating, startling. “Germany! By Jove! Randal — are you really going?”
“Why, of course,” a little wearily; “I have been before, you know. Rather a bore, but the Rainers — you remember them, Miss Trojan — are going over to the Beethoven Festival at Bonn and are keen on my going with them. I wasn’t especially anxious, but one must do these things, you know.”
“Robin was there a year ago — Germany, I mean — and loved it. Didn’t you, Robin?”
“Germany? It was Paradise, Heaven — what you will. Rügen, the Harz, Heidelberg, Worms — —” He stopped and his voice broke. “I’m a little absurd about it still,” he said, as though in apology for such unnecessary enthusiasm.
“Oh! you’re young, Robin,” said Randal, laughing. “When you’ve seen as much as I have you’ll be blasé. Not that one ought to be, but Germany — well, it hardly lasts, I think. Rügen — why, it rained and there were mists round the Studenkammer, and how those people eat at the Jagdschloss! Heidelberg! picture postcards and shocking hotels — Oh! No, Robin, you’ll see all that later. I wish you were going instead of me, though.”
Harry had looked up at the sound of Robin’s voice. It had been a new note. There had been an eagerness, an enthusiasm, that meant life and something genuine.
Hope that had been slowly dying revived again. If Robin really cared for Germany like that, then they had something in common. With that spark a fire might be kindled. A red-gold haze as of fire burnt in the night sky, over the town. Stars danced overhead, a little wind, beating fitfully at the window, seemed to carry the light of the moon in its tempestuous track, blowing it lightly in silver mists and clouds over the moor. The Wise Men were there, strong and dark and sombre, watching over the lighted town and listening patiently to the ripple and murmur and life of the sea at their feet. In the little inn at the Cove men were sitting over the roaring fire, telling tales — strange, weird stories of a life that these others did not know. Harry had heard them when he was a boy — those stories — and he had felt the spell and the magic. There had been life in them and romance.
Perhaps they were there again to-night, just as they had been twenty years before. The stars called to him, the lighted town, the dusky, softly breathing sea, the loneliness of the moor. He must get out and away. He must have sympathy and warmth and friendship; he had come back to his own people with open arms and they had no place for him. His own son had repulsed him. But Cornwall, the country of his dreams, the mother of his faith, the guardian of his honour, was there — the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. He would search for her and would find her — even though it were on the red-brick floor of the tavern in the Cove.
He turned round and found that the room was empty. They had forgotten him and left him — without a word. The light of the lamp caught the silver of the tea-things, and flashed and sparkled like a flame.
Harry Trojan softly opened the door, passed into the dim twilight of the hall, picked up his hat, and stepped into the garden.
CHAPTER V
As he felt the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet he was possessed with the spirit of adventure. The dark house behind him had been holding him captive. It had held him against his will, imprisoning him, tormenting him, and the tortures that he had endured were many and severe. He had not known that he could have felt it so much — that absolute rejection of him by everything in which he had trusted; but he would mind these things no longer — he would even try not to mind Robin! That would be hard, and as he thought of it even now for a moment tears had filled his eyes. That, however, was cowardice. He must fling away the hopes of twenty years and start afresh, with the knowledge won of his experience and the strength that he had snatched from his wounds.
And after all a man was a fool to mope and whine when that wind from the sea was beating in his ears and the sea scents of clover and poppies and salt stinging foam were brought to his nostrils, and the trees rustled like t
he beating of birds’ wings in the velvety star-lighted sky.
A garden was wonderful at night — a place of strange silences and yet stranger sound: trees darkly guarding mysterious paths that ran into caverns of darkness; the scents of flowers rising from damp earth heavy with dew; flowers that were weary with the dust and noise of the day and slept gently, gratefully, with their heads drooping to the soil, their petals closed by the tender hands of the spirits of the garden. The night-sounds were strangely musical. Cries that were discordant in the day mingled now with the running of distant water, the last notes of some bird before it slept, the measured harmony of a far-away bell, the gentle rustle of some arrival in the thickets; the voice that could not be heard in the noisy chatter of the day rose softly now in a little song of the night and the dark trees and the silver firelight of the stars.
And it was all very romantic, of course. Harry Trojan had flung his cares behind him and stepped over the soft turf of the lawns, a free adventurer. It was not really very late, and there was an hour before dinner; but he was not sure that he minded about that — they would be glad to dine without him. There crossed his mind the memory of a night in New Zealand. He had been walking down to the harbour in Auckland, and the moon had shone in the crooked water-side streets, its white, cold light crossed with dark black shadows of roofs and gables. Suddenly a woman’s voice called for help across the silence, and he had turned and listened. It had called again, and, thinking that he might help some one in distress, he had burst a dark, silent door, stumbled up crooked wooden stairs, and entered an empty room. As he passed the door there was a sound of skirts, and a door at the other end of the room had closed. There was no one there, only a candle guttering on the table, the remains of a meal, a woman’s hat on the back of a chair; he had waited for some time in silence, he had called and asked if there was any one there, he had tried the farther door and found it shut — and so, cursing himself for a fool, he had passed down into the street again and the episode had ended. There was really nothing in it — nothing at all; but it was the atmosphere, the atmosphere of romantic adventure shot suddenly across a rather drab and colourless existence, and he had liked to dwell on the possibilities of the affair and ask himself about it. Who was the woman, and why had she cried out? Why was there no one in the room? And why had no one answered him?