Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Sir Jeremy was perfectly still. Death had come to him very gently and had laid its hand quietly upon him, with no violence or harshness. It was only old age that had greeted him as a friend, and then with a smile had persuaded him to go. He was unconscious now, but at any moment his senses might return, and then he would ask for Harry. The crisis might come at any time, and Harry must be there.

  He felt no weariness; his brain was extraordinarily active and he passed every incident since his return in review. It all seemed so clear to him now; the inevitability of it all; and his own blindness in escaping the meaning of it. It seemed now that he had known nothing of the world at all three weeks ago. Then he had judged it from his own knowledge — now he saw it in many lights; the point of view of Robin, of Dahlia Feverel, of Clare, of Sir Jeremy, of Bethel, of Mary — he had arrived at the great knowledge that Life could be absolutely right for many different sorts of people — that the same life, like a globe of flashing colours, could shine into every corner of obscurity, gleaming differently in every different place and yet be unchangeable. Murderer, robber, violator, saint, priest, king, beggar — they were all parts of a wonderful, inevitable world, and, he saw it now, were all of them essential. He had been tolerant before from a wide-embracing charity; he was tolerant now from a wide-embracing knowledge: “Er liebte jeden Hund, und wünschte von jedem Hund geliebt zu sein.”

  They had all learnt in that last three weeks. Dahlia Feverel would pass into the world with that struggle at her heart and the strength of her victory — his father would solve the greatest question of all — Robin! Mary! Clare! — they had all been learning too, but what it was that they had learnt he could not yet tell; the conclusion of the matter was to come. But it had all been, for him at least, only a prelude; he was to stand for the world as head of the House, he had his life before him and his work to do, he had only, like Robin, just “come of age.”

  He did not know why, but he had no longer any doubt. He knew that he would win Robin, he knew that he would win Mary; up to that day he had been uncertain, vacillating, miserable — but now he had no longer any hesitation. The work of his life was to fit Robin for his due succession, and, please God, he would do it with all his heart and soul and strength; there was to be no false sentiment, no shifting of difficult questions, no hiding from danger, no sheltering blindly under unquestioned creeds, no false bids for popularity.

  Robin was to be clean, straight, and sane, with all the sturdy cleanliness and strength and sanity that his father’s love and knowledge could give him.

  Oh! he loved his son! — but no longer blindly, as he had loved him three weeks ago ... and so he faced his future.

  And of Mary, too, he was sure. He knew that she loved him; he had seen her face in the mirror as her lips had said “No,” and he saw that her heart had said “Yes.” With the new strength that had come to him he vowed to force her defences and carry her away.... Oh! he could be any knight and fight for any lady.

  But as he sat by the bed, watching the dawn struggle through the blinds and listening to the faint, clear twittering of birds in the grey, dew-swept garden — he wished that he could tell his father of his engagement. He wondered if there would be time. That it would please the old man he knew, and it would seal the compact, and place a secret blessing on their married life together. Yes, he would like to tell him.

  The clocks struck five — he heard their voices echo through the house; and, at the last, the tiny voice of the cuckoo clock sounded and the little wild flap of his wings came quite clearly through the silence; his voice was answered by a chorus from the garden, the voices of the birds seemed to grow ever louder and louder; in that strange dark room, with its shaded lights and heavy airs, it was clear and fresh like the falling of water on cold, shining stone.

  Harry went softly to the window and drew back a corner of the blind. The dawn was gradually revealing the forms and colours of the garden, and in the grey, misty light things were mysterious and uncertain; like white lights in a dusky room the two white statues shone through the mist. At that strange hour they seemed in their right atmosphere; they seemed to move and turn and bend — he could have fancied that they sailed on the mist — that, for a moment, they had vanished and then that they had grown enormous, monstrous. He watched them eagerly, and as the light grew clearer he made them out more plainly — the straight, eager beauty of the man, the dim, mysterious grace of the woman. Perhaps they talked in those early hours when they were alone in the garden; perhaps they might speak to him if he were to join them then. Then he fancied that the mist formed into figures of men and women; to his excited fancy the garden seemed peopled with shapes that increased and dwindled and vanished. Round the statues many shapes gathered; one in especial seemed to walk to and fro with its face turned to the house. It was a woman — her grey dress floated in the air, and he saw her form outlined against the statue. Then the mist seemed to sweep down again and catch the statues in its eddies and hide them from his gaze. The dawn was breaking very slowly. From the window the sweep of the sea was, in daylight, perfectly visible: now in the dim grey of the sky it was hidden — but Harry knew where it must be and watched for its appearance. The first lights were creeping over the sky, breaking in delicate tints and ripples of silver and curving, arc-shaped, from the west to the east.

  Where sky and sea divided a faint pale line of grey hovered and broke, turning into other paler lights of the most delicate blue. The dawn had come.

  He turned back again to the garden and started with surprise: in the more certain light there was no doubt that it was a woman who stood there by the statues, guarding the first early beauties of the garden. Everything was pearl-grey, save where, high above the water of the fountain that stood in the centre of the lawn, the sky had broken into a little lake of the palest blue and this was reflected in the still mirror of the fountain — but it was a woman. He could see the outline of her form — the bend of her neck as she turned with her face to the house, the straight line of her arms as they tell at her sides. And, as he looked, his heart began to beat thickly. He seemed to recognise that carriage of the body from the hips, the fling-back of the head as she stared towards the windows.

  The light of the dawn was breaking over the garden, the chorus of the birds was loud in the trees, and he knew that it was no dream.

  He glanced for a moment at his father, and then crept softly from the room. He found one of the nurses making tea over a spirit-lamp in the dressing-room and asked her to take his place.

  The house was perfectly silent as he opened the French window of the drawing-room and stepped on to the lawn. The grass was heavy with dew and the fresh air beat about his face; he had never known anything quite so fresh — the air, the grass, the trees, the birds’ song like the sound of hidden waters tumbling on to some unseen rock.

  Her face was turned away from him and his feet made no sound on the grass. He came perfectly silently towards her, and then when he saw that it had indeed been no imagination but that it was reality, and when he knew all that her coming there meant and what it implied, for moment his limbs shook so that he could scarcely stand. Then he laughed a little and said “Mary!”

  She turned with a little cry, and when she saw who it was the crimson flooded her face, changing it as the rising sun was soon to change the grey of the sea and the garden.

  “Oh!” she cried, “I didn’t know — I didn’t mean. I — —”

  “It is going to be a lovely day,” he said quietly, “the sun will be up in a moment. I have been watching you from my father’s window.”

  “Oh! You mustn’t!” she cried eagerly. “I thought that I was safe — absolutely; I was here quite by chance — really I was — I couldn’t sleep, and I thought that I would watch the sunrise over the sea — and I went down to the beach — and then — well, there was the little wood by your garden, and it was so wonderfully still and silent, and I saw those statues gleaming through the trees, and they looked so beautiful that I ca
me nearer. I meant to come only for a moment and then go away again — but — I — stayed — —”

  But he could scarcely hear what she said; he only saw her standing there with her dress trembling a little in the breeze.

  “Mary,” he said, “you did not mean what you told me the other day?”

  She looked at him for a moment and then suddenly flung out her hands and touched his coat. “No,” she answered.

  For a moment they were utterly silent. Then he took her into his arms.

  “I love you! How I love you!”

  Her hair was about his face, for a moment her face was buried in his coat, then she lifted it and their lips met.

  He shook from head to foot, he crushed her to him, then he released her.

  She glanced up at him with her hand still touching his coat and looked into his eyes.

  “I will love you and serve you and honour you always,” she said. She took his arm and they passed down the lawn and watched the light breaking over the sea. The sky was broken into thousands of fleecy clouds of mother-of-pearl — the sea was trembling as though the sun had whispered that it was near at hand, and, on the horizon, the first bars of pale gold heralded its coming.

  “I have loved you,” he said, “since the first moment that I saw you — I gave you tea and muffins; I deserted the Miss Ponsonbys in order to serve you.”

  “And I too!” she answered, laughing. “I could not eat the muffin for love of you, and I was jealous of the Miss Ponsonbys!”

  “Why did you turn me out the other day?”

  “They had been talking — mother and the others; and I was hurt terribly, and I thought that you would hear what they had said and would think, perhaps, that it was true and would despise me. And then after you had gone, I knew that nothing in the world could make any difference — that they could say what they pleased, but that I could not live without you — you see I am very young!”

  “Oh, and I am so old, dear! You mustn’t forget that! Do you think that you could ever put up with any one as old as I am?”

  She laughed. “You are just the same age as myself,” she cried. “You will always be the same age, and I am not sure but I think that you are younger — —”

  And suddenly the sun had risen — a great ball of fire changing all the blue of the sky to red and gold, and they watched as the gods had watched the flaming ruin of Valhalla.

  But the daylight drove them to other thoughts.

  “I must go back,” she said. “I will go down to the shore and perhaps will meet father. Oh! you don’t know what I have suffered during these last few days. I thought that perhaps I had driven you away and that you would never come back — and then I had a silly idea that I would watch your windows — and so I came — —”

  “Why! I have watched yours!” he cried— “often! Oh! we will have some times!”

  “But you must remember that there will be three of us,” she answered. “There is Robin!”

  “Robin! Why, it will be splendid! You and Robin and I!”

  “Poor Robin — —” She laughed. “You don’t know how I scolded him last night. It was about you and I was unhappy. He is changing fast, and it is because of you. He has come round — —”

  “We have all come round!” cried Harry. “He and you and I! Oh! this is the beginning of the world for all of us — and I am forty-five! Will you write to me later in the day? I cannot get down until to-night. My father is very ill — I must be here. But write to me — a long letter — it will be as though you were talking.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I’ll write,” she cried; then she looked at him again— “I love you,” she said, as though she were reciting her faith, “because you are good, because you are strong, because — oh! for no reason at all — just because you are you.”

  For a moment they watched the sea, and then again he took her in his arms and held her as though he would never let her go — then she vanished through the trees.

  The house was waking into life as he re-entered it; servants were astir at an early hour: he had been away such a little time, but the world was another place. Every detail of the house — the stairs, the hall, the windows, the clocks, the pot-pourri scent from the bowls of dried roses, the dance of the dust in the light of the rising sun, was presented to him now with a new meaning. He was glad that she had stayed with him such a little while — it made it more precious, her coming with the shadows in that grey of breaking skies and a mysterious plunging sea, and then vanishing with the rising sun. Oh! they would come down to earth soon enough! — let him keep that kiss, those few words, her last smile as she vanished into the wood, like the visible signs of the other world that had, at last, been allowed to him. The vision of the Grail had passed from his eyes, but the memory of it was to be his most sacred possession.

  He went to his room, had a bath, and then returned to his father; of course, he could not sleep.

  Clare, Garrett, and Robin met at breakfast with the sense of approaching calamity heavy upon them. As far as Sir Jeremy himself was concerned there was little real regret — how could there be? Of course, there was the sentiment of separation, the breaking of a great many ties that had been strong and traditional; but it was better that the old man should go — of that there was no question. Sir Jeremy himself would rather. No, “Le roi est mort” was easy enough to say, but how “Vive le roi” stuck in their throats.

  Garrett hinted at a wretched night, and quoted Benham on the dangers of an arm-chair at night-time.

  “Of course, one had been thinking,” he said vaguely, after a melancholy survey of eggs and bacon that developed into resignation over dry toast— “there was a good deal to think about. But I certainly had intended to go to bed — I can’t imagine what — —”

  Robin said nothing. His mind was busy with Mary’s speech of the night before; his world lay crumbled about him, and, like Cato, he was finding a certain melancholy satisfaction in its ruins. His thoughts were scarcely with his grandfather; he felt vaguely that there was Death in the house and that its immediate presence was one of the things that had helped to bring his self-content about his ears. But it was of his father that he was thinking, and of a certain morning when he had refused a walk. If he got a chance again!

  Clare looked wretched. Robin thought that she had never seemed so ill before; there was, for the first time, an air of carelessness about her, as though she had flung on her clothes anyhow — something utterly unlike her.

  “I am going to speak to Harry this morning,” she said.

  Garrett looked up peevishly. “Scarcely the time, Clare. I should say that it were better for us to wait until — well, afterwards. There is, perhaps, something a little indecent — —”

  “I have considered the matter carefully,” interrupted Clare decisively. “This is the best time — —”

  “Oh, well, of course. Only I should have thought that I might have had just a little say in the matter. I was, after all, originally consulted as well as yourself. I saw the girl, and was even, I might venture to suggest, with her for some time. But, of course, a mere man’s opinion — —”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd, Garrett. It is I that have to ask him — it is pretty obvious that I have every right to choose my own time.”

  “Oh! Please, don’t let me interfere — only I should scarcely have thought that this was quite the moment when Harry would be most inclined to listen to you.”

  “If we don’t ask him now,” she answered, “there’s no knowing when we shall have the opportunity. When poor father is gone he will have a great deal to settle and decide; he will have no time for anything at all for months ahead. This morning is our last chance.”

  But she had another thought. Her great desire now was that he should try and fail; that he would fail she was sure. She was eagerly impatient for that day when he must come to them and admit his failure. She looked ahead and fashioned that scene for herself — that scene when Robin should know and confess that his father was o
nly as the rest of them; that their failure was his failure, their incapacity his incapacity — and then the balance would be restored and Robin would see as he had seen before.

  “Coffee, Robin? It’s quite hot still. I saw Dr. Brady just now. He says that there is no change, nor is there likely to be one for some hours. You’re looking tired, Robin, old boy. Have you been sleeping on the floor, too?”

  “No!” He looked up and smiled. “But I was awake a good bit. The house is different somehow, when — —”

  “Oh yes, I know. One feels it, of course. But eating’s much the best thing for keeping one’s spirits up. I suppose Harry is coming down. Just find out from Benham, will you, Wilder, whether Mr. Henry is coming down?”

  The footman left the room, returning in a moment with the answer that Mr. Henry was about to come down.

  Garrett moved to the door, but Clare stopped him.

  “I want you, Garrett — you can bear me out!”

  “I thought that my opinion was of so little importance,” he answered sulkily, “that I might as well go.”

  But he sat down again and buried himself in his paper.

  They waited, and Robin made mental comparisons with a similar scene a week before; there were still the silver teapot, the toast, the ham — they were all there, and it was only he himself who had altered. Only a week, and what a difference! What a cad he had been! a howling cad! Not only to his father, but to Dahlia, to every one with whom he had had to do. He did not spare himself; he had at least the pluck to go through with it — that was Trojan.

  At Harry’s entrance there was an involuntary raising of eyebrows to see, if possible, how he took it; it being his own immediate succession rather than his father’s death. He was grave, of course, but there was a light in his eyes that Clare could not understand. Had he some premonition of her request? He apologised for being late.

  “I have been up most of the night. There is no immediate danger of a change, but we ought, I think, to be ready. Yes, the toast, Robin, please — I hope you’ve slept all right, Clare?”