Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Well, he must speak to them and ask them what was to be done, and the sooner it was over the better. He put the Beddoes back into the shelf, and went to the windows. It was already dark; light twinkled in the bay, and a line of white breakers flashed and vanished, keeping time, it seemed, with the changing gleam of the lighthouse far out to sea. His own room was dark, save for the glow of the fire. They would be at tea; probably his father would not be there — the present would be a good time to choose. He pulled his courage together and went downstairs.

  As he had expected, Garrett was having tea with Clare in her own room — the Castle of Intimacy, as Randal had once called it. Garrett was reading; Clare was sitting by the fire, thinking.

  “She will soon have more to think about,” thought Robin wretchedly.

  She looked up as he came in. “Ah, Robin, that’s splendid! I was just going to send up for you. Come and sit here and talk to me. I’ve hardly seen you to-day.”

  She had been very affectionate during the last three days — rather too affectionate, Robin thought. He liked her better when she was less demonstrative.

  “Where have you been all the afternoon?”

  “In my room. I’ve been busy.”

  “Tea? You don’t mind it strong, do you, because it’s been here a good long time? Gingerbread cake especially for you.”

  But gingerbread cake wasn’t in the least attractive. Beddoes suited him much better: —

  Is that the wind dying? Oh no;

  It’s only two devils, that blow

  Through a murderer’s bones, to and fro,

  In the ghost’s moonshine.

  “Do you know Beddoes, aunt?”

  “No, dear. What kind of thing is it? Poetry?”

  “Yes. You wouldn’t like it, though —— only I’ve been reading him this afternoon. He suited my mood.”

  “Boys of your age shouldn’t have moods.” This from Garrett. “I never had.”

  Robin took his tea without answering, and sat down on the opposite side of the fire to his aunt. How was he to begin? What was he to say? There followed an awful pause — life seemed to have been full of pauses lately.

  Clare was watching him anxiously. How had his father’s outbreak affected him? She was afraid, from little things that she had seen, that he had been influenced. Harry had been so different those last three days — she could not understand it. She watched him eagerly, hungrily. Why was he not still the baby that she could take on her knees and kiss and sentimentalise over? He, too, she fancied, had been different during these last days.

  “More tea, Robin? You’d better — it’s a long while before dinner.”

  “No, thanks, aunt. I — that is — well, I’ve something I wanted to say.”

  He turned round in his chair and faced the fire. He would rather not look at her whilst he was speaking. Garrett put down his book and looked up. Was there going to be more worry? What had happened lately to the world? It seemed to have lost all proper respect for the Trojan position. He could not understand it. Clare drew her breath sharply. Her fears thronged about her, like shadows in the firelight — what was it? ... Was it Harry?

  “What about, Robin? Is anything the matter?”

  “Why, no — nothing really — it’s only — that is — Oh, dash it all — it’s awfully difficult.”

  There was another silence. The ticking of the clock drove Robin into further speech.

  “Well — I’ve made a bit of a mess. I’ve been rather a fool and I want your advice.”

  Another pause, but no assistance save a cold “Well?” from Garrett.

  “You see it was at Cambridge, last summer. I was an awful fool, I know, but I really didn’t know how far it was going until — well, until afterwards — —”

  “Until — after what?” said Garrett. “Would you mind being a little clearer, Robin?”

  “Well, it was a girl.” Robin stopped. It sounded so horrible, spoken like that in cold blood. He did not dare to look at his aunt, but he wondered what her face was like. He pulled desperately at his tie, and hurried on. “Nothing very bad, you know. I meant, at first, anyhow — I met her at another man’s — Grant of Clare — quite a good chap, and he gave a picnic — canaders and things up the river. We had a jolly afternoon and she seemed awfully nice and — her mother wasn’t there. Then — after that — I saw a lot of her. Every one does at Cambridge — I mean see girls and all that kind of thing — and I didn’t think anything of it — and she really seemed awfully nice then. There isn’t much to do at Cambridge, except that sort of thing — really. Then, after term, I came down here, and I began to write. I’m afraid I was a bit silly, but I didn’t know it then, and I used to write her letters pretty often, and she answered them. And — well, you know the sort of thing, Uncle Garrett — I thought I loved her — —”

  At this climax, Robin came to a pause, and hoped that they would help him, but they said no word until, at last, Garrett said impatiently, “Go on.”

  “Well,” continued Robin desperately, “that’s really all—” knowing, however, that he had not yet arrived at the point of the story. “She — and her mother — came down to live here — and then, somehow, I didn’t like her quite so much. It seemed different down here, and her mother was horrid. I began to see it differently, and at last, one night, I told her so. Of course, I thought, naturally, that she would understand. But she didn’t — her mother was horrid — and she made a scene — it was all very unpleasant.” Robin was dragging his handkerchief between his fingers, and looking imploringly at the fire. “Then I went and saw her again and asked her for — my letters — she said she’d keep them — and I’m afraid she may use them — and — well, that’s all,” he finished lamely.

  He thought that hours of terrible silence followed his speech. He sat motionless in his chair waiting for their words. He was rather glad now that he had spoken. It had been a relief to unburden himself; for so many days he had only had his own thoughts and suggestions to apply to the situation. But he was afraid to look at his aunt.

  “You young fool,” at last from Garrett. “Who is the girl?”

  “A Miss Feverel — she lives with her mother at Sea view Terrace — there is no father.”

  “Miss Feverel? What! That girl! You wrote to her! You — —”

  At last his aunt had spoken. He had never heard her speak like that before — the “You!” was a cry of horror. She suddenly got up and went over to him. She bent over him where he sat, with head lowered, and shook him by the shoulder.

  “Robin! It can’t be true — you haven’t written to that girl! Not love-letters! It is incredible!”

  “It is true—” he said, looking up. “Don’t look at me like that, Aunt Clare. It isn’t so bad — other fellows — —” but then he was ashamed and stopped. He would leave his defence alone.

  “Is that all?” said Garrett. “All you have done, I mean? You haven’t injured the girl?”

  “I swear that’s all,” Robin said eagerly. “I meant no harm by it. I wrote the letters without thinking I — —”

  Clare stood leaning on the mantelpiece, her head between her hands.

  “I can’t understand it. I can’t understand it,” she said. “It isn’t like you — not a bit. That girl and you — why, it’s incredible!”

  “That’s only because you had your fancy idea of him, Clare,” said Garrett. “We’d better pass the lamentation stage and decide what’s to be done.”

  For once Garrett seemed practical; he was pleased with himself for being so. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was the only person who could really deal with the situation. Clare was a woman, Harry was out of the question, Robin was a boy.

  “Have you spoken to your father?” he asked.

  “No. Of course not!” Robin answered, rather fiercely. “How could I?”

  Clare went back to her chair. “That girl! But, Robin, she’s plain — quite — and her manners, her mother — everything impossible!”

&
nbsp; It was still incredible that Robin, the work of her hands as it were, into whom she had poured all things that were lovely and of good report, could have made love to an ordinary girl of the middle classes — a vulgar girl with a still more vulgar mother.

  But in spite of her vulgarity she was jealous of her. “You don’t care for her any longer, Robin?”

  “Now? — oh no — not for a long time — I don’t think I ever did really. I can’t think how I was ever such a fool.”

  “She still threatens Breach of Promise,” said Garrett, whose mind was slowly working as to the best means of proving his practical utility. “That’s the point, of course. That the letters are there and that we have got to get them back. What kind of letters were they? Did you actually give her hopes?”

  Robin blushed. “Yes, I’m afraid I did — as well as I can remember, and judging by her answers. I said the usual sort of things — —” He paused. It was best, he felt, to leave it vague.

  But Clare had scarcely arrived at the danger of it yet — the danger to the House. Her present thought was of Robin; that she must alter her feelings about him, take him from his pedestal — a Trojan who could make love to any kind of girl!

  “I can’t think of it now,” she said; “it’s confusing. We must see what’s to be done. We’ll talk about it some other time. It’s hard to see just at present.”

  Garrett looked puzzled. “It’s a bit of a mess,” he said. “But we’ll see — —” and left the room with an air of importance.

  Robin turned to go, and then walked over to his aunt, and put his hand on her sleeve.

  “Don’t think me such a rotter,” he said. “I am awfully sorry — it’s about you that I care most — but I’ve learnt a lesson; I’ll never do anything like that again.”

  She smiled up at him, and took his hand in hers.

  “Why, old boy, no. Of course I was a little surprised. But I don’t mind very much if you care for me in the same way. That’s all I have, Robin — your caring; and I don’t think it matters very much what you do, if I still have that.”

  “Of course you have,” he said, and bent down and kissed her. Then he left the room.

  CHAPTER IX

  “I’m worse to-day,” said Sir Jeremy, looking at Harry, “and I’ll be off under a month.”

  He seemed rather pathetic — the brave look had gone from his eyes, and his face and hands were more shrivelled than ever. He gave the impression of cowering in bed as though wishing to avoid a blow. Harry was with him continually now, and the old man was never happy if his son was not there. He rambled at times and fancied himself back in his youth again. Harry had found his father’s room a refuge from the family, and he sat, hour after hour, watching the old man asleep, thinking of his own succession and puzzling over the hopeless tangle that seemed to surround him. How to get out of it! He had no longer any thought of turning his back; he had gone too far for that, and they would think it cowardice, but things couldn’t remain as they were. What would come out of it?

  He had, as Robin had said, changed. The effect of the explosion had been to reveal in him qualities whose very existence he had formerly never expected. He even found, strangely enough, a kind of joy in the affair. It was like playing a game. He had made, he felt, the right move and was in the stronger position. In earlier days he had never been able to quarrel with any one. Whenever such a thing had happened, he had been the first to make overtures; he hated the idea of an enemy, his happiness depended on his friends, and sometimes now, when he saw his own people’s hostility, he was near surrender. But the memory of his sister’s words had held him firm, and now he was beginning to feel in tune with the situation.

  He watched Robin furtively at times and wondered how he was taking it all. Sometimes he fancied that he caught glances that pointed to Robin’s own desire to see how he was taking it. Once they had passed on the stairs, and for a moment they had both paused as though they would speak. It had been all Harry could do to restrain himself from flinging his arms on to his son’s shoulders and shaking him for a fool and then forcing him into surrender, but he had held himself back, and they had passed on without a word.

  After all, what children they all were! That’s what it came to — children playing a game that they did not understand!

  “I wish it would end,” said Sir Jeremy; “I’m getting damned sick of it. Why can’t he take you out straight away, and be done with it? Do you know, Harry, my boy, I think I’m frightened. It’s lying here thinking of it. I never had much imagination — it isn’t a Trojan habit, but it grows on one. I fancy — well, what’s the use o’ talking?” and he sank back into his pillows again.

  The room was dark save for the leaping light of the fire. It was almost time to dress for dinner, but Harry sat there, forgetting time and place in the unchanging question, How would it all work out?

  “By Gad, it’s Tom! Hullo, old man, I was just thinking of you. Comin’ round to Horrocks’ to-night for a game? Supper at Galiani’s — but it’s damned cold. I don’t know where that sun’s got to. I’ve been wandering up and down the street all day and I can’t find the place. I’ve forgotten the number — I can’t remember whether it was 23 or 33, and I keep getting into that passage. There I am again! Bring a light, old man — it’s so dark. What’s that? Who’s there? Can’t you answer? Darn you, come out, you — —” He sat up in bed, quivering all over. Harry put his hand on his arm.

  “It’s all right, father,” he said. “No one’s here — only myself.”

  “Ugh! I was dreaming—” he answered, lying down again. “Let’s have some light — not that electric glare. Candles!”

  Harry was sitting in the corner by the bed away from the fire. He was about to rise and move the candles into a clump on the mantelpiece when there was a tap on the door and some one came in. It was Robin.

  “Grandfather, are you awake? Aunt Clare told me to look in on my way up to dress and see if you wanted anything?”

  The firelight was on his face. He looked very young as he stood there by the bed. His face was flushed in the light of the fire. Harry’s heart beat furiously, but he made no movement and said no word.

  Robin bent over the bed to catch his grandfather’s answer, and he saw his father.

  “I beg your pardon.” he stammered. “I didn’t know — —” He waited for a moment as though he were going to say something, or expected his father to speak. Then he turned and left the room.

  “Let’s have the candles,” said Sir Jeremy, as though he had not noticed the interruption, and Harry lit them.

  The old man sank off to sleep again, and Harry fell back into his own gloomy thoughts once more. They were always meeting like that, and on each occasion there was need for the same severe self-control. He had to remind himself continually of their treatment of him, of Robin’s coldness and reserve. At times he cursed himself for a fool, and then again it seemed the only way out of the labyrinth.

  His love for his son had changed its character. He had no longer that desire for equality of which he had made, at first, so much. No, the two generations could never see in line; he must not expect that. But he thought of Robin as a boy — as a boy who had made blunders and would make others again, and would at last turn to his father as the only person who could help him. He had fancied once or twice that he had already begun to turn.

  Well, he would be there if Robin wanted him. He had decided to speak to Mary about it. Her clear common-sense point of view seemed to drive, like the sun, through the mists of his obscurity; she always saw straight through things — never round them — and her practical mind arrived at a quicker solution than was possible for his rather romantic, quixotic sentiment.

  “You are too fond of discerning pleasant motives,” she had once said to him. “I daresay they are all right, but it takes such a time to see them.”

  He had not seen her since the outbreak, and he was rather anxious as to her opinion; but the main thing was to be with her. Since last Sunday
he had been, he confessed to himself, absurd. He had behaved more in the manner of a boy of nineteen than a middle-aged widower of forty-five. He had been suddenly afraid of the Bethels — going to tea had seemed such an obvious advance on his part that he had shrunk from it, and he had even avoided Bethel lest that gentleman should imagine that he was on the edge of a proposal for his daughter’s hand. He thought that all the world must know of it, and he blushed like a girl at the thought of its being laid bare for Pendragon to laugh and gibe it. It was so precious, so wonderful, that he kept it, like a rich piece of jewellery, deep in a secret drawer, over which he watched delightedly, almost humorously, secure in the delicious knowledge that he alone had the key. He wandered out at night, like a foolish schoolboy, to watch the lamp in her room — that dull circle of golden light against the blind seemed to draw him with it into the intimacy and security of her room.

  On one of his solitary afternoon walks he suddenly came upon her. He had gone, as he so often did, over the moor to the Four Stones; he chose that place partly because of the Stones themselves and partly because of the wonderful view. It seemed to him that the whole heart of Cornwall — its mystery, its eternal sameness, its rejection of everything that was modern and ephemeral, the pathos of old deserted altars and past gods searching for their old-time worshippers — was centred there.

  The Stones themselves stood on the hill, against the sky, gaunt, grey, menacing, a landmark for all the country-side. The moor ran here into a valley between two lines of hill, a cup bounded on three sides by the hills and on the fourth by the sea. In the spring it flamed, a bowl of fire, with the gorse; now it stood grim and naked to all the winds, blue in the distant hills, a deep red to the right, where the plough had been, brown and grey on the moor itself running down to the sea.