Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “Good-bye,” he said again and turned round towards her.

  She rose from her chair and tried to smile. She said something that he could not catch, and then, suddenly, to his intense astonishment, she flung herself back into her chair again, hid her face in her hands, and burst into uncontrollable tears. He stood irresolute, and then came back and waited by the fireplace. He thought it was the most desolate thing that he had ever known — the flapping of the blind against the window, the dry rustling of the leaves on the mantel-piece, only accentuated the sound of her sobbing. He let her cry and then, at last— “I am a brute,” he said. “I am sorry — I will go away.”

  “No.” She sat up and began to dry her eyes with her handkerchief. “Don’t go — it was absurd of me to give way like that; I thought that I had got over all that, but one is so silly — one never can tell — —”

  He sat down again and waited.

  “You see,” she went on, “I had liked you, always, from the first moment that I saw you. You were different from the others — quite different — and after Robin had behaved — as he did — I distrusted every one. I thought they were all like that, except you. You do not know what people have done to us here. We have had no friends; they have all despised us, especially your family. And Robin said — well, lots of things that hurt. That I was not good enough and that his aunt would not like me. And then, of course, when I saw that, if I kept the letters, I could make them all unhappy — why, of course, I kept them. It was natural, wasn’t it? But I didn’t want to hurt you — I felt that all the time; and when I saw you here when I came in, I was afraid, because I hardly knew what to do. I thought I would show you that I wasn’t weak and foolish as you thought me — the kind of girl that Robin could throw over so easily without thinking twice about it — and so I meant to hold out. There — and now, of course, you think me hateful.”

  He sat down by her and took her hand. “It’s all rather ridiculous, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m old enough to be your father, but I’m just where you are, really. We’ve all been learning this last fortnight — you and Robin, and I — and all learning the same thing. It’s been a case,” he hesitated for a word, “of calf-love, for all three of us. Don’t regret Robin; he’s not worth it. Why, you are worth twenty of him, and he’ll know that later on. I’m afraid that sounds patronising,” he added, laughing. “But I’m humble really. Never mind the letters. You shall do what you like with them and I will trust you. You are not,” he repeated, “that sort of girl. Why, dash it!” he suddenly added, “Robin doesn’t know what he has lost.”

  “Ah!” she said, blushing, “it wouldn’t have done. I can see that now — but I can see so many things that I couldn’t see before. I wish I had known a man like you — then I might have learnt earlier; but I had nobody, nobody at all, and I nearly made a mess of things. But it isn’t too late!”

  “Too late! Why, no!” he answered. “I’m only beginning now, and I’m forty-five. I, too, have learned a lot in this fortnight.”

  She looked at him anxiously for a moment. “They don’t like you, do they? Robin and the others?”

  “No,” he answered; “I don’t think they do.”

  “I know,” she said quickly; “I heard from Robin, and I’m sorry. You must have had a bad time. But why, if they have been like that, do you want the letters? They have treated us both in the same way.”

  “Why, yes,” he answered. “Only Robin is my son. That, you see, is my great affair. I care for him more than for anything in the world, and if I had the letters — —”

  “Why, of course,” she cried, “I see — it gives you the pull. Why, how blind I’ve been! It’s splendid!” She sprang up, and went to a small writing-desk by the window; she unlocked a drawer and returned with a small packet in her hand. “There,” she said, “there they are. They are not many, are they, for such a big fuss? But I think that I meant you to have them all the time — from the first moment that I saw you. I had hoped that you would ask for them — —”

  He took the letters, held them in his hand for a moment, and then slipped them into his pocket.

  “Thank you,” he said, “I shall not forget.”

  “Nor I,” she answered. “We are, I suppose, ships that pass in the night. We have just shared for a moment an experience, and it has changed both of us a little. But sometimes remember me, will you? Perhaps you would write?”

  “Why, of course,” he answered, “I shall want to know how things turn out. What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. We will go away from here, of course. Go back to London, I expect — and I will get some work. There are lots of things to do, and I shall be happy.”

  “I hope,” he said, “that the real thing is just beginning for both of us.”

  She stood by the window looking out into the street. “It makes things different if you believe in me,” she said. “It will give one courage. I had begun to think that there was no one in the world who cared.”

  “Be plucky,” he said. “Work’s the only thing. It is because we’ve both been idle here that we’re worried. Don’t think any more of Robin. He isn’t good enough for you yet; he’ll learn, like the rest of us; but he’ll have to go through something first. You’ll find a better man.”

  “Poor Robin,” she said. “Be kind to him!”

  He took her hand for a moment, smiled, and was gone. She watched him from the window.

  He looked back at her and smiled again. Then he passed the corner of the street.

  “So that’s the end!” She turned back from the window. “Now for a beginning!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Garrett Trojan had considered the matter for two days and had come to no conclusion. His manner of considering anything was peculiar. He loved procrastination and coloured future events with such beautiful radiancy that, when they actually came, the shock of finding them only drab was so terrible that he avoided them altogether. He was, however, saved from any lasting pain and disappointment because he had been given, from early childhood, that splendid gift of discovering himself to be the continual hero of a continual play. It was not only that he could make no move in life at all without being its hero — that, of course, was pleasant enough; but that it was always a fresh discovery was truly the amazing thing. He was able to wake up, as it were, and discover afresh, every day of his life, what a hero he was; this was never monotonous, never wearisome. He played the game anew from day to day — and the best part of the game was not knowing that it was a game at all.

  It must be admitted that he only maintained the illusion by keeping somewhat apart from his fellow-men — too frequent contact must have destroyed his dreams. But his aloofness was termed preserving his individuality, and in the well-curtained library, in carpet-slippers and a smoking-jacket, he built his own monument with infinite care before an imaginary crowd in an imaginary city of dreams.

  There were times, of course, when he was a little uneasy. He had heard men titter at the Club: Clare had, occasionally, spoken plain words as to his true position in the House, and he had even, at times, doubts as to the permanent value of the book on which he was engaged. During these awful moments he gazed through the rent curtain into a valley of dead men’s bones ruled by a dreary god who had no knowledge of Garrett Trojan and cared very little for the fortunes of the Trojan House.

  But a diligent application to the storehouses of his memory produced testimonials dragged, for the most part, from reluctant adherents which served to prove that Garrett Trojan was a great man and the head of a great family.

  He would, however, like some definite act to prove conclusively that he was head. He had, at times, the unhappy suspicion that an outsider, regarding the matter superficially, might be led to conclude that Clare held command. He found that if he interfered at all in family matters this suspicion was immediately strengthened, and so he confined himself to his room and watered diligently the somewhat stinted crop of Illusions.

  Nevertheless he felt th
e necessity of some prominent action that would still for ever his suspicions of incompetence, and would afford him a sure foundation on which to build his palace of self-complacency and personal appreciation. During his latter years he had regarded himself as his father’s probable successor. Harry had seemed a very long way off in New Zealand, and became, eventually, an improbable myth, for Garrett had that happy quality bestowed on the ostrich of sticking his head into the sand of imagination and boastfully concluding that facts were not there. Harry was a fact, but by continuously asserting that New Zealand was a long way off and that Harry would never come back, Harry’s existence became a very pleasant fairy-story, like nautical tales of the sea-serpent and the Bewitching Mermaid. They might be there, and it was very pleasant to listen to stories about them, but they had no real bearing on life as he knew it.

  Harry’s return had, of course, shattered this bubble, and Garrett had had to yield all hopes of eventual succession. He had, on the whole, borne it very well, and had come to the conclusion that succeeding his father would have entailed the performance of many wearisome duties; but that future being denied him, it was more than ever necessary to seize some opportunity of personal distinction.

  The discussion as to the destruction of the Cove had seemed to offer him every chance of attaining a prominent position. The matter had grown in importance every day. Pendragon had divided into two separate and sharply-distinguished camps, one standing valiantly by its standard of picturesque tradition and its hatred of modern noise and materialism, the other asserting loudly its love of utility and progress, derisively pointing the finger of scorn at old-world Conservatism run mad and an incredible affection for defective drainage. Garrett had flung himself heart and soul (as he said) into the latter of these parties, and, feeling that this was a chance of distinction that fortune was not likely to offer him again in the near future, appeared frequently at discussions and even on one occasion in the Town Hall spoke.

  But he was surprised and disappointed; he found that he had nothing to say, the truth being that he was much more interested in Garrett than in the Cove, and that his audience had come to listen to the second of these two subjects rather than the first. He found himself shelved; he was most politely told that he was not wanted, and he retired into his carpet-slippers again after one of those terrible quarters of an hour when he peeped past the curtain and saw a miserable, naked puppet shivering in a grey world, and that puppet was Garrett Trojan.

  Then suddenly a second opportunity presented itself. Robin’s trouble was unexpectedly reassuring. This, he told himself, was the very thing. If he could only prove to the world that he had dealt successfully with practical matters in a practical way, he need never worry again. Let him deal with this affair promptly and resourcefully, as a man of the world and a true Trojan, and his position was assured. He must obtain the letters and at once. He spent several pleasant hours picturing the scene in which he returned the letters to Robin. He knew precisely the moment, the room, the audience that he would choose — he had decided on the words that he would speak, but he was not sure yet as to how he would obtain the letters.

  He thought over it for three days and came to no conclusion. It ought not to be difficult; the girl was probably one of those common adventuresses of whom one heard so often. He had never actually met one — they did not suit carpet-slippers — but one knew how to deal with them. It was merely a matter of tact and savoir-faire.

  Yes, it would be fun when he flourished the letters in the face of the family; how amazed Clare would be and how it would please Robin! — and then he suddenly awoke to the fact that time was getting on, and that he had done nothing. And, after all, there were only two possible lines of action — to write or to seek a personal interview. Of these he infinitely preferred the first. He need not leave his room, he could direct operations from his arm-chair, and he could preserve that courtesy and decorum that truly befitted a Trojan. But he had grave fears that the letter would not be accepted; Robin’s had been scorned and his own might suffer the same fate — no, he was afraid that it must be a personal interview.

  He had come to this conclusion reluctantly, and now he hesitated to act on it; she might be violent, and he felt that he could not deal with melodrama. But the thought of ultimate victory supported him. The delicious surprise of it, the gratitude, the security of his authority from all attack for the rest of his days! Ah yes, it was worth it.

  He dressed carefully in a suit of delicate grey, wearing, as he did on all public occasions, an eyeglass. He took some time over his preparations and drank a whisky and soda before starting; he had secured the address from Robin, without, he flattered himself, any discovery as to the reason of his request. 10 Seaview Terrace! Ah yes, he knew where that was — a gloomy back street, quite a fitting place for such an affair.

  He was still uncertain as to the plan of campaign, but he could not conceive it credible that any young woman in any part of the British Empire would stand up long against a Trojan — it would, he felt certain, prove easy.

  He noticed with pleasure the attention paid to him by the down-at-heels servant — it was good augury for the success of the interview. He lowered his voice to a deep bass whilst asking for Miss Feverel, and he fixed his eyeglass at a more strikingly impressive angle. He looked at women from four points of view, and he had, as it were, a sliding scale of manners on which he might mark delicately his perception of their position. There was firstly the Countess, or Titled Nobility. Here his manner was slightly deferential, and at the same time a little familiar — proof of his own good breeding.

  Secondly, there was the Trojan, or the lady of Assured Position. Here he was quite familiar, and at the same time just a little patronising — proof of his sense of Trojan superiority.

  Thirdly, there was the Governess, or Poor Gentility Position. To members of this class he was affably kind, conveying his sense of their merits and sympathy with their struggle against poverty, but nevertheless marking quite plainly the gulf fixed between him and them.

  Fourthly, there were the Impossibles, or the Rest — ranging from the wives of successful Brewers to that class known as Unfortunate. Here there was no alteration in his manner; he was stern, and short, and stiff with all of them, and the reason of their existence was one of the unsolved problems that had always puzzled him. This woman would, of course, belong to this latter class — he drew himself up haughtily as he entered the drawing-room.

  Dahlia Feverel was alone, seated working in the window. Life was beginning to offer attractions to her again. The thought of work was pleasing; she had decided to train as a nurse, and she began to see Robin in a clear, true light; she was even beginning to admit that he had been right, that their marriage would have been a great mistake. The announcement of Garrett Trojan took her by surprise — she gathered her work together and rose, her brain refusing to act consecutively. He wanted, of course, the letters — well, she had not got them.... It promised to be rather amusing.

  And he on his side was surprised. He had expected a woman with frizzled hair and a dress of violent colours; he saw a slender, pale girl in black, and she looked rather more of a lady than he had supposed. He was, in spite of himself, confused. He began hurriedly —

  “I am Mr. Garrett Trojan — I dare say you have heard of me from my nephew — Robin — Robert — with whom, I believe, you are acquainted, Miss — ah — Feverel. I have come on his behalf to request the return of some letters that he wrote to you during the summer.”

  He drew a breath and paused. Well, that was all right anyhow, and quite sufficiently business-like.

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Trojan?” she said, smiling at him. “It is good of you to have taken so much trouble simply about a few letters — and you really might have written, mightn’t you, and saved yourself a personal visit?”

  He refused to sit down and drew himself up. “Now I warn you, Miss Feverel,” he said, “that this is no laughing matter. You are doing a very foolish thing
in keeping the letters — very foolish — ah! um! You must, of course, see that — exceedingly foolish!”

  He came to a pause. It was really rather difficult to know what to say next.

  “Ah, Mr. Trojan,” she answered, “you must leave me to judge about the foolishness of it. After all, they are my letters.”

  “Pure waste of time,” he answered, his voice getting a little shrill. “After all, there can be no question about it. We must have the letters — we are ready to go to some lengths to obtain them — even — ah, um — money — —”

  “Now, Mr. Trojan,” she said quickly, “you are scarcely polite. But I am sure that you will see no reason for prolonging this interview when I say that, under no circumstances whatever, can I return the letters. That is my unchanging decision.”

  He had no words; he stared at her, dumb with astonishment. This open defiance was the very last thing that he had expected. Then, at last —

  “You refuse?” he said with a little gasp.

  “Yes,” she answered lightly, “and I cannot see anything very astonishing in my refusal. They are my property, and it is nobody else’s business at all.”

  “But it is,” he almost screamed. “Business! Why, I should think it was! Do you think we want to have a scandal throughout the kingdom? Do you imagine that it would be pleasant for us to have our name in all the papers — our name that has never known disgrace since the days of William the Conqueror? You can have,” he added solemnly, “very little idea of the value of a name if you imagine that we are going to tolerate its abuse in this fashion. Dear me, no!”

  He was growing quite red at the thought of his possible failure. The things in the room annoyed him — the everlasting rustling on the mantelpiece — a staring photograph of Mr. Feverel, deceased, that seemed to follow him, protestingly, round and round the room — a corner of a dusty grey road seen dimly through dirty window-panes; why did people live in such a place — or, rather, why did such people live at all? — and to think that it was people like that who dared to threaten Trojan honour! How could Robin have been such a fool!