Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “10 Seaview Terrace,” she answered. “A little dingy street past the church and Breadwater Place — it faces the sea.”

  “And the girl — what is she like?”

  “I’ve only seen her about twice. I should say tall, thin, dark — rather wonderful eyes in a very pale face; dresses rather well in an aesthetic kind of way.”

  He said very little more, and she did not interrupt his thoughts. She was surprised to find that she was a little jealous of Robin, the interest in her own affairs had been very sweet to her, the remembrance of it now sent the blood to her cheeks, but this news seemed to have driven his thought for her entirely out of his head.

  Suddenly, at the bend of the little lane leading up to the town, they came upon her father, flying a huge blue kite. The kite soared above his head; he watched it, his body bent back, his arm straining at the cord. He saw them and pulled it in.

  “Hullo! Trojan, how are you? You ought to do this. It’s the most splendid fun — you’ve no idea. This wind is glorious. I shan’t be home till dark, Mary — —” and they left him, laughing like a boy. She gave him further directions as to the house, and they parted. She felt a little lonely as she watched him hurrying down the street. He seemed to have forgotten her completely. “Mary Bethel, you’re a selfish pig,” she said, as she climbed the stairs to her room. “Of course, he cares more about his son — why not?” But nevertheless she sighed, and then went down to make tea for her mother, who was tired and on the verge of tears.

  CHAPTER X

  As he passed through the town all his thoughts were of his splendid fortune. This was the very thing for which he had been hoping, the key to all his difficulties.

  The dusk was creeping down the streets. A silver star hung over the roofs silhouetted black against the faint blue of the night sky. The lamps seemed to wage war with the departing daylight; the after-glow of the setting sun fluttered valiantly for a little, and then, yielding its place to the stronger golden circles stretching like hanging moons down the street, vanished.

  The shops were closing. Worthley’s Hosiery was putting up the shutters and a boy stood in the doorway, yawning; there had been a sale and the shop was tired. Midgett’s Bookshop at the corner of the High Street was still open and an old man with spectacles and a flowing beard stood poring over the odd-lot box at 2d. a volume by the door.

  The young man who advised ladies as to the purchase of six-shilling novels waited impatiently. He had hoped to be off by six to-night. He had an appointment at seven — and now this old man.... “We close at six, sir,” he said. But the old gentleman did not hear. He bent lower and lower until his beard almost swept the pavement. Harry passed on.

  All these things passed like shadows before Harry; he noticed them, but they fitted into the pattern of his thoughts, forming a frame round his great central idea — that at last he had his chance.

  There was no fear in his mind that he would not get the letters. There was, of course, the chance that Clare had been before him, but then, as Mary had said, she had scarcely had time, and it was not likely that the girl would give them up easily. It was just possible, too, that the whole affair was a mistake, that Mrs. Feverel had merely boasted for the sake of impressing old Mrs. Bethel, that there was little or nothing behind it, but that was unlikely.

  He had formed no definite decision as to the method of his attack; he must wait and see how the land lay. A great deal depended on the presence of the mother — the girl, too, might be so many different things; he was not even certain of her age. If there was nothing in it, he would look a fool, but he must risk that. A wild idea came into his head that he might, perhaps, find Clare there — that would be amusing. He imagined them bidding for the letters, and that brought him to the point that money would be necessary — well, he was ready to pay a good deal, for it was Robin for whom he was bidding.

  He found the street without any difficulty. Its dinginess was obvious, and now, with a little wind whistling round its corners and whirling eddies of dust in the road, its three lamps at long distances down the street, the monotonous beat of the sea beyond the walls, it was depressing and sad.

  It reminded him of the street in Auckland where he had heard the strange voice; it was just such another moment now — the silence bred expectancy and the sea was menacing.

  “I shall get the shivers if I don’t move,” he said, and rang the bell.

  The slatternly servant that he had expected to see answered the bell, and the tap-tap of her down-at-heels slippers sounded along the passage as she departed to see if Mrs. Feverel would see him.

  He waited in the draughty hall; it was so dark that coats and hats loomed, ghostly shapes, by the farther wall. A door opened, there was sound of voices — a moment’s pause, then the door closed and the maid appeared at the head of the stairs.

  “The missis says you can come up,” she said ungraciously.

  She eyed him curiously as he passed her, and scented drama in the set of his shoulders and the twitch of his fingers.

  “A military!” she concluded, and tap-tapped down again into the kitchen.

  A low fire was burning in the grate and the blind napped against the window. The draught blew the everlastings on the mantelpiece together with a little dry, dusty sound like the rustle of a breeze in dried twigs.

  Mrs. Feverel sat bending over the fire, and he thought as he saw her that it would need a very great fire indeed to put any warmth into her. Her black hair, parted in the middle, was bound back tightly over her head and confined by a net.

  She shook hands with him solemnly, and then waited as though she expected an explanation.

  Harry smiled. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Feverel,” he said, “that you may think this extraordinary. I can only offer as apology your acquaintance with my son.”

  “Ah yes — Mr. Robert Trojan.”

  Her mouth closed with a snap and she waited, with her hands folded on her lap, for him to say something further.

  “You knew him, I think, at Cambridge in the summer?”

  “Yes, my daughter and I were there in the summer.”

  Harry paused. It would be harder than he expected, and where was the daughter?

  “Cambridge is very pleasant in the summer?” he asked, his resolution weakening rapidly before her impassivity.

  “My daughter and I found it so. But, of course, it depends — —”

  It depended, he reflected, on such people as his son — boys whom they could cheat at their ease. He had no doubt at all now that the mother was an adventuress of the common, melodrama type. He suspected the girl of being the same. It made things in some ways much simpler, because money would, probably, settle everything; there would be no question of fine feelings. He knew exactly how to deal with such women, he had known them in New Zealand; but he was amused as he contemplated Clare’s certain failure — such a woman was entirely outside her experience.

  He came to the point at once.

  “My being here is easily explained. I learn, Mrs. Feverel, that my son formed an attachment for your daughter during last summer. He wrote some letters now in your daughter’s possession. His family are naturally anxious that those letters should be returned. I have come to see what can be done about the matter.” He paused — but she said nothing, and remained motionless by the fire.

  “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “you would prefer, Mrs. Feverel, to name a possible price yourself?”

  Afterwards, on looking back, he felt that his expectations had been perfectly justified; she had, up to that point, given him every reason to take the line that he adopted. She had listened to the first part of his speech without remark; she must, he reflected afterwards, have known what was coming, yet she had given no sign that she heard.

  And so the change in her was startling and took him utterly by surprise.

  She looked up at him from her chair, and the thin ghost of a smile that crept round the corners of her mouth, faced him for a moment, and then vanished suddenly, was the
strangest thing that he had ever seen.

  “Don’t you think, Mr. Trojan, that that is a little insulting?”

  It made him feel utterly ashamed. In her own house, in her drawing-room, he had offered her money.

  “I beg your pardon,” he stammered.

  “Yes,” she answered slowly. “You had rather misconceived the situation.”

  Harry felt that her silences were the most eloquent that he had ever known. He began to be very frightened, and, for the first time, conceived the possibility of not securing the letters at all. The thought that his hopes might be dashed to the ground, that he might be no nearer his goal at the end of the interview than before, sharpened his wits. It was to be a deal in subtlety rather than the obvious thing that he had expected — well, he would play it to the end.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said again. “I have been extremely rude. I am only recently returned from abroad, and my knowledge of the whole affair is necessarily very limited. I came here with a very vague idea both as to yourself and your intentions. In drawing the conclusions that I did I have done both you and your daughter a grave injustice, for which I humbly apologise. I may say that, before coming here, I had had no interview with my son. I am, therefore, quite ignorant as regards facts.”

  He did not feel that his apology had done much good. He felt that she had accepted both his insult and apology quite calmly, as though she had regarded them inevitably.

  “The facts,” she said, looking down again at the fire, “are quite simple. My daughter and your son became acquainted at Cambridge in May last. They saw a great deal of each other during the next few months. At the end of that time they were engaged. Mr. Robert Trojan gave us to understand that he was about to acquaint his family with the fact. They corresponded continually during the summer — letters, I believe, of the kind common to young people in love. Mr. Robert Trojan spoke continually of the marriage and suggested dates. We then came down here, and, soon after our arrival, I perceived a change in your son’s attitude. He came to see us very rarely, and at last ceased his visits altogether. My daughter was naturally extremely upset, and there were several rather painful interviews. He then wrote returning her letters and demanding the return of his own. This she definitely refused. Those are the facts, Mr. Trojan.”

  She had spoken without any emotion, and evidently expected that he should do the same.

  “I have come,” he said, “on behalf of my son to demand the return of those letters.”

  “Demand?”

  “Naturally. Letters, Mrs. Feverel, of that kind are dangerous things to leave about.”

  “Yes?” She smiled. “Dangerous for whom? I think you forget a little, Mr. Trojan, in your anxiety for your son’s welfare, my daughter’s side of the question. She naturally treasures what represents to her the happiest months of her existence. You must remember that your son’s conduct — shall I call it desertion? — was a terrible blow. She loved him, Mr. Trojan, with all her heart. Is it not right that he should suffer a little as well?”

  “I refuse to believe,” he answered sharply, “that this is all a matter of sentiment. I regret extremely that my son should have behaved in such a cowardly and dastardly manner — it has hurt and surprised me more than I can say — but, were that all, it were surely better to bury the whole affair as soon as may be. I cannot believe that you are keeping the letters with no intention of making public use of them.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Feverel, “I wonder.”

  “Hadn’t we better come to a clear understanding, Mrs. Feverel?” he asked. “We are neither of us children, and this beating about the bush serves no purpose whatever. If you refuse to return the letters, I have at least the right to ask what you mean to do with them.”

  “Here is my daughter,” she answered, “she shall speak for herself.”

  He turned round at the sound of the opening door, and watched her as she came in. She was very much as he had imagined — thin and tall, walking straight from the hips, giving a little the impression that she was standing on her toes. Her eyes seemed amazingly dark in the whiteness of her face. She seemed a little older than he had expected — perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.

  She looked at him sharply as she entered and then came forward to her mother. He could see that she was agitated — her breath came quickly, and her hands folded and unfolded as though she were tearing something to pieces.

  “This,” said Mrs. Feverel, “is my daughter, Mr. Trojan. My dear, Mr. Henry Trojan.”

  She bowed and sat down opposite her mother. He thought she looked rather pathetic as she faced him; here was no adventuress, no schemer. He began to feel that his son had behaved brutally, outrageously.

  Mrs. Feverel rose. “I will leave you, my dear. Mr. Trojan will tell you for what he has come.”

  She moved slowly from the room and Harry drew a breath of relief at her absence. There was a moment’s pause. “I hope you will forgive me, Miss Feverel,” he said gently. “I’m afraid that both your mother and yourself must regard this as impertinent, but, at the same time, I think you will understand.”

  She seemed to have regained her composure. “It is about Robin, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Could you tell me exactly what the relations between you were?”

  “We were engaged,” she answered simply, “last summer at Cambridge. He broke off the engagement.”

  “Yes — but I understand that you intend to keep his letters?”

  “That is quite true.”

  “I have come to ask you to restore them.”

  “I am sorry. I am afraid that it is a waste of time. I shall not go back on my word.”

  He could not understand what her game was — he was not sure that she had a game at all; she seemed very helpless, and, at the same time, he felt that there was strength behind her answers. He was at a loss; his experience was of no value to him at all.

  “I am going to beg you to alter your decision. I am pleading with you in a matter that is of the utmost importance to me. Robin is my only son. He has behaved abominably, and you can understand that it has been rather a blow to me to return after twenty years’ absence and find him engaged in such an affair. But he is very young, and — pardon me — so are you. I am an older man and my experience of the world is greater than yours; believe me when I say that you will regret persistence in your refusal most bitterly in later years. It seems to me a crisis — a crisis, perhaps, for all of us. Take an older man’s word for it; there is only one possible course for you to adopt.”

  “Really, Mr. Trojan,” she said, laughing, “you are intensely serious. Last week I thought that my heart was broken; but now — well, it takes a lot to break a heart. I am sure that you will be glad to hear that my appetite has returned. As to the letters — why, think how pleasant it will be for me to sentimentalise over them in my old age! Surely, that is sufficient motive.”

  She was trying to speak lightly, but her lip quivered.

  “You are running a serious risk, Miss Feverel,” he answered gravely. “Your intention is, I imagine, to punish Robin. I can assure you that in a few years’ time he will be punished enough. He scarcely realises as yet what he has done. That knowledge will come to him later.”

  “Poor Robin!” she said. “Yes, he ought to feel rather a worm now; he has written me several very agitated letters. But really I cannot help it. The affair is over — done with. I regard the letters as my personal property. I cannot see that it is any one else’s business at all.”

  “Of course it is our business,” he answered seriously. “Those letters must be destroyed. I do not accuse you of any deliberate malicious intentions, but there is, as far as I can see, only one motive in your keeping them. I have not seen them, but from what I have heard I gather that they contain definite promise of marriage. Your case is a strong one.”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Poor Robin’s enthusiasm led him to some very violent expressions of affection. But, Mr. Trojan, revenge is sweet. Every woman,
I think, likes it, and I am no exception to my sex. Aren’t you a little unfair in claiming all the pleasure and none of the pain?”

  “No,” he answered firmly. “I am not. It is as much for your own sake as for his that I am making my claim. You cannot see things in fair proportion now; you will bitterly regret the step you contemplate taking.”

  “Well, I am sure,” she replied, “it is very good of you to think of me like that. I am deeply touched — you seem to take quite a fatherly interest.” She lay back in her chair and watched him with eyes half closed.

  He was beginning to believe that it was no pose after all, and his anger rose.

  “Come, Miss Feverel,” he said, “let’s have done with playing — let us come to terms. It is a matter of vital importance that I should receive the letters. I am ready to go some lengths to obtain them. What are your terms?”

  She flushed a little.

  “Isn’t that a little rude, Mr. Trojan?” she said. “It is of course the melodramatic attitude. It was not long ago that I saw a play in which letters figured. Pistols were fired, and the heroine wore red plush. Is that to be our style now? I am sorry that I cannot oblige you. There are no pistols, but I will tell you frankly that it is no question of terms. I refuse, under any circumstances whatever, to return the letters.”

  “That is your absolute decision?”

  “My absolute decision.”

  He got up and stood, for a moment, by her chair.

  “My dear,” he said, “you do not know what you are doing. You are disappointed, you are insulted — you think that you will have your revenge at all costs. You do not know now, but you will discover later, that it has been no revenge at all. It will be the most regretted action of your life. You have a great chance; you are going to throw it away. I am sorry, because you are not, I think, at all that sort of girl.” He paused a moment. “Well, there is no more to be said. I am sorry as much for your sake as my own. Good-bye.”

  He moved to the door. The disappointment was almost more than he could bear. He did not know how strong his hopes had been; and now he must return with things as they were before, with the added knowledge that his son had behaved like a cad, and that the world would soon know.