Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “It has been nice for us too,” Mary answered. “I don’t know that Pendragon is exactly thronging our door night and day — and a new friend is worth having. You see I’ve claimed you as a friend because you listened so patiently to my sermon — that’s a sure test.”

  She had spoken lightly but he had felt the bitterness in her voice. Life was hard for her too, then? He knew that he was glad.

  “I shall come back,” he said.

  “Please,” she answered.

  He said good-bye to Mrs. Bethel and she pressed his hand very warmly. “You are very kind to take pity on us,” she said, ogling him under the gas in the hall; “I hope you will come often.”

  Bethel said very little. He walked with him to the gate and laughed. “We’re absurd, aren’t we, Trojan?” he said. “But don’t neglect us altogether. Even absurdity is refreshing sometimes.”

  But Harry went up the hill with a happier heart than he had had since he entered Pendragon.

  That promise of adventure had been fulfilled.

  CHAPTER VI

  Randal was only at “The Flutes” two days, but he effected a good deal in that time. He did nothing very active — called on Mrs. le Terry and rode over the Downs once with Robin — but he managed to leave a flock of very active impressions behind him. That, as he knew well, was his strong point. He could not be with you a day without vaguely, almost indistinctly, but nevertheless quite certainly, influencing your opinions. He never said anything very definite, and, on looking back, you could never assert that he had positively taken any one point of view; but he had left, as it were, atmosphere — an assurance that this was the really right thing to do, this the proper attitude for correct breeding to adopt. It was always, with him, a case of correct breeding, and that was why the Trojans liked him so very much. “Randal,” as Clare said, “knew so precisely who were sheep and who were goats, and he showed you the difference so clearly.”

  Whenever he came to stay some former acquaintances were dropped as being, perhaps, not quite the right people. He never said that any one was not the right person, that would be bad breeding, but you realised, of your own accord, that they were not quite right. That was why the impression was so strong — it seemed to come from yourself; your eyes were suddenly opened and you wondered that you hadn’t seen it before.

  He said very little of Trojan people this time; the main result of his visit was its effect on Harry’s position.

  Had you been a stranger you would have noticed nothing; the motto of the gentleman of good breeding is, “The end and aim of all true opinions is the concealing of them from the wrong person.”

  Randal was exceedingly polite to Harry, so polite that Robin and Clare knew immediately that he disapproved, but Harry was pleased. Randal spoke warmly to Robin. “You are lucky to have such a father, Bob; it’s what we all want, you and I especially, a little fresh air let into our Cambridge dust and confusion; it’s most refreshing to find some one who cares nothing about all those things that have seemed to us, quite erroneously probably, so valuable. You should copy him, Robin.”

  But Robin made no reply. He understood perfectly. There had been some qualities in his father that he had, deep down in his nature, admired. He had seemed to be without doubt a man on whom one could rely in a tight corner, and in spite of himself he had liked his father’s frankness. It was unusual. There was always another meaning in everything that Robin’s friends said, but there was never any doubt about Harry. He missed the fine shades, of course, and was lamentably lacking in discrimination, but you did know where you were. Robin had, almost reluctantly, admired this before the coming of Randal. But now there could be no question. When Randal was there you had displayed before you the complete art of successful allusion. Nothing was ever directly stated, but everything was hinted, and you were compelled to believe that this really was the perfection of good breeding. Robin admired Randal exceedingly. He took his dicta very seriously and accepted his criticism. The judgment of his father completed the impression that he had begun to receive. He was impossible. Randal was going by the 10.45, and he would walk to the station.

  “A whiff of fresh air, Robin, is absolutely essential. You must walk down with me. I hate to go, Miss Trojan.”

  “Very soon to return, I hope, Mr. Randal,” answered Clare. She liked him, and thought him an excellent influence for Robin.

  “Thank you — it’s very kind — but one’s busy, you know. It’s been hard enough to snatch these few days. Besides, Robin isn’t alone in the same way now. He has his father.”

  Clare made no reply, but her silence was eloquent.

  “I’m sorry for him, Miss Trojan,” he said. “He is, I’m afraid, a little out of it. Twenty years, you know, is a long time.”

  Clare smiled. “He is unchanged,” she said. “What he was as a boy, he is now.”

  “He is fortunate,” Randal said gravely. “For most of us experience has a jostling series of shocks ready. Life hurts.”

  He said good-bye with that air of courtly melancholy that Clare admired so much. He shook Harry warmly by the hand and expressed a hope of another meeting.

  “I should be delighted,” Harry said. “What sort of time am I likely to catch you in town?”

  But Randal, alarmed at this serious acceptance of an entirely ironical proposal, was immediately vague and gave no definite promise. Harry watched them pass down the drive, then he turned back slowly into the house.

  It was one of those blue and gold days that are only to be realised perfectly in Cornwall — blue of the sky and the sea, gold on the roofs and the rich background of red and brown in the autumn-tinted trees, whilst the deep green of the lawns in front of the house seemed to hold both blues and golds in its lights and shadows. The air was perfectly still and the smoke from a distant bonfire hung in strange wreaths of grey-blue in the light against the trees, as though carved delicately in marble.

  Randal discussed his prospects. He spoke, as he invariably did with regard to his past and future, airily and yet impressively: “I don’t like to make myself too cheap,” he said. “There are things any sort of fellow can do, and I must say that I shrink from taking bread out of the mouths of some of them. But of course there are things that one must do — where special knowledge is wanted — not that I’m any good, you know, but I’ve had chances. Besides, one must work slowly. Style’s the thing — Flaubert and Pater for ever — the doctrine of the one word.”

  Robin looked at him with admiration.

  “By Jove, Randal, I wish I could write; I sometimes feel quite — well, it sounds silly — but inspired, you know — as if one saw things quite differently. It was very like that in Germany once or twice.”

  “Ah, we’re all like that at times,” Randal spoke encouragingly. “But don’t you trust it — an ignis fatuus if ever there was one. That is why we have bank clerks at Peckham and governesses in Bloomsbury writing their reminiscences. It’s those moments of inspiration that are responsible for all our over-crowded literature.”

  They had chosen the path over the fields to the station, and suddenly at the bend of the hill the sea sprang before them, a curving mirror that reflected the blue of the sky and was clouded mistily with the gold of the sun. That sudden springing forward of the sea was always very wonderful, even when it had been seen again and again, and Robin stopped and shaded his eyes with his hand.

  “It’s fine, isn’t it, Randal?” he said. “One gets fond of the place.”

  He was a little ashamed to have betrayed such feeling and spoke apologetically. He went on hurriedly. “There was an old chap in Germany — at Worms — who was most awfully interesting. He kept a little bookshop, and I used to go down and talk to him, and he said once that the sea was the most beautiful dream that the world contained, but you must never get too near or the dream broke, and from that moment you had no peace.”

  Randal looked at Robin anxiously. “I say, old chap, this place is getting on your nerves; always being here is ba
d for you. Why don’t you come up to town or go abroad? You’re seedy.”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Robin said, rather irritably. “Only one wonders sometimes if—” he broke off suddenly. “I’m a bit worried about something,” he said.

  He was immediately aware that he had said nothing to Randal about the Feverel affair and he wondered why. Randal would have been the natural person to talk to about it; his advice would have been worth having. But Robin felt vaguely that it would be better not. For some strange reason, as yet unanalysed, he scarcely trusted him as he had done in the old days. He was still wondering why, when they arrived at the station.

  They said good-bye affectionately — rather more affectionately than usual. There was a little sense of strain, and Robin felt relieved when the train had gone. As he hurried from the platform he puzzled over it. He could hold no clue, but he knew that their friendship had changed a little. He was sorry.

  As he turned down the station road he decided that life was becoming very complicated. There was first his father; that oughtn’t in the nature of things to have complicated matters at all — but it was complicated, because there was no knowing what a man like that would do. He might let the family down so badly; it was almost like having gunpowder in your cellar. Randal had thought him absurd. Robin saw that clearly, and Randal’s opinion was that of all truly sensible people. But, after all, the real complication was the Feverel affair. It was now nearly ten days since that terrible evening and nothing had happened. Robin wasn’t sure what could have happened, but he had expected something. He had waited for a note; she would most assuredly write and her letter would serve as a hint, he would know how to act; but there had been no sign. On the day following the interview he had felt, for the most part, relief. He was suddenly aware of the burden that the affair had been, he was a free man; but with this there had been compunction. He had acted like a brute; he was surprised that he could have been so hard, and he was a little ashamed of meeting the public gaze. If people only realised, he thought, what a cad he was, they would assuredly have nothing to do with him. As the days passed, this feeling increased and he was extremely uncomfortable. He had never before doubted that he was a very decent fellow — nothing, perhaps, exceptional in any way, but, judged by every standard, he passed muster. Now he wasn’t so sure, he had done something that he would have entirely condemned in another man, and this showed him plainly and most painfully the importance that he placed on the other man’s opinion. He was beginning to grow his crop of ideas and he was already afraid of the probable harvest.

  That his affection for Dahlia was dead there could be no question, but that it was buried, either for himself or the public, was, most unfortunately, not the case. He was afraid of discovery for the first time in his life, and it was unpleasant. Dahlia herself would be quiet; at least, he was almost sure, although her outbreak the other evening had surprised him. But he was afraid of Mrs. Feverel. He felt now that she had never liked him; he saw her as some grim dragon waiting for his inevitable surrender. He did not know what she would do; he was beginning to realise his inexperience, but he knew that she would never allow the affair to pass quietly away. To do him justice, it was not so much the fear of personal exposure that frightened him; that, of course, would be unpleasant — he would have to face the derision of his enemies and the contempt of those people whom formerly he had himself despised. But it was not personal contempt, it was the disgrace to the family; the house was suddenly threatened on two sides — his father, the Feverels — and he was frightened. He saw his name in the papers; the Trojan name dragged through the mud because of his own folly — Oh! it must be stopped at all costs. But the uncertainty of it was worrying him. Ten days had passed and nothing was done. Ten days, and he had been able to speak of it to no one; it had haunted him all day and had spoiled his sleep; first, because he had done something of which he was ashamed, and secondly, because he was afraid that people might know.

  There were the letters. He remembered some of the sentences now and bit his lip. How could he have been such a fool? She must give them back — of course she would; but there was Mrs. Feverel.

  The uncertainty was torturing him — he must find out how matters were, and suddenly, on the inspiration of the moment, he decided to go and see Dahlia at once. Things could not be worse, and at least the uncertainty would be ended. The golden day irritated him, and he found the dark gloom of the Feverels’ street a relief. A man was playing an organ at the corner, and three dirty, tattered children were dancing noisily in the middle of the road. He watched them for a moment before ringing the bell, and wondered how they could seem so unconcerned, and he thought them abandoned.

  He found Dahlia alone in the gaudy drawing-room. She gave a little cry when she saw who it was, and her cheeks flushed red, and then the colour faded. He noticed that she was looking ill and rather untidy. There were dark lines under her eyes and her mouth was drawn. There was an awkward pause; he had sat down with his hat in his hand and he was painfully ill at ease.

  “I knew you would come back, Robin,” she began at last. “Only you have been a long time — ten days. I have never gone out, because I was afraid that I would miss you. But I knew that you would be sorry after the other night, because you know, dear, you hurt me terribly, and for a time I really thought you meant it.”

  “But I do mean it,” Robin broke in. “I did and I do. I’m sorry, Dahlia, for having hurt you, but I thought that you would see it as I do — that it must, I mean, stop. I had hoped that you would understand.”

  But she came over and stood by him, smiling rather timidly. “I don’t want to start it all over again,” she said. “It was silly of me to have made such a fuss the other night. I have been thinking all these ten days, and it has been my fault all along. I have bothered you by coming here and interfering when I wasn’t really wanted. Mother and I will go away again and then you shall come and stay, and we shall be all alone — like we were at Cambridge. I have learnt a good deal during these last few days, and if you will only be patient with me I will try very hard to improve.”

  She stood by his chair and laid her hand on his arm. He would have thrilled at her touch six months before — now he was merely impatient. It was so annoying that the affair should have to be reopened when they had decided it finally the other night. He felt again the blind, unreasoning fear of exposure. He had never before doubted his bravery, but there had never been any question of attack — the House had been, it seemed, founded on a rock, he had never doubted its stability before. Now, with all the cruelty of a man who was afraid for the first time, he had no mercy.

  “It is over, Dahlia — there is no other possibility. We had both made a mistake; I am sorry and regret extremely if I had led you to think that it could ever have been otherwise. I see it more clearly than I saw it ten days ago — quite plainly now — and there’s no purpose served in keeping the matter open; here’s an end. We will both forget. Heroics are no good; after all, we are man and woman — it’s better to leave it at that and accept the future quietly.”

  He spoke coldly and calmly, indeed he was surprised that he could face it like that, but his one thought was for peace, to put this spectre that had haunted him these ten days behind him and watch the world again with a straight gaze — he must have no secrets.

  She had moved away and stood by the fireplace, looking straight before her. She was holding herself together with a terrible effort; she must quiet her brain and beat back her thoughts. If she thought for a moment she would break down, and during these ten days she had been schooling herself to face whatever might come — shame, exposure, anything — she would not cry and beg for pity as she had done before. But it was the end, the end, the end! The end of so much that had given her a new soul during the last few months. She must go back to those dreary years that had had no meaning in them, all those purposeless grey days that had stretched in endless succession on to a dismal future in which there shone no sun. Oh! he couldn’t kn
ow what it had all meant to her — it could be flung aside by him without regret. For him it was a foolish memory, for her it was death.

  The tears were coming, her lips were quivering, but she clenched her hands until the nails dug into the flesh. The sun poured in a great flood of colour through the window, and meanwhile her heart was broken. She had read of it often enough and had laughed — she had not known that it meant that terrible dull throbbing pain and no joy or hope or light anywhere. But she spoke to him quietly.

  “I had thought that you were braver, Robin. That you had cared enough not to mind what they said. You are right: it has all been a mistake.”

  “Yes,” he said doggedly, without looking at her. “We’ve been foolish. I hadn’t thought enough about others. You see after all one owes something to one’s people. It would never do, Dahlia, it wouldn’t really. You’d never like it either — you see we’re different. At Cambridge one couldn’t see it so clearly, but here — well, there are things one owes to one’s people, tradition, and, oh! lots of things! You have got your customs, we have ours — it doesn’t do to mix.”

  He hadn’t meant to put it so clearly. He scarcely realised what he had said because he was not thinking of her at all; it was only that one thing that he saw in front of him, how to get out, away, clear of the whole entanglement, where there was no question of suspicion and possible revelation of secrets. He was not thinking of her.

  But the cruelty of it, the naked, unhesitating truth of it, stung her as nothing had ever hurt her before — it was as though he had struck her in the face. She was not good enough, she was not fit. He had said it before, but then he had been angry. She had not believed it; but now he was speaking calmly, coldly — she was not good enough!