Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Was it, he wondered, Robin’s fault or his own that there was that barrier so strangely defined between them even now? He could feel it there in the room with them now. He wondered whether Robin felt it as well.

  “It is about what my aunt said to you this morning — and other things — other things right from the beginning, ever since you came back. I’m not much of a chap at talking, and probably I shan’t say what I mean, but I will try. I’ve been thinking about it all lately, but what made me come and speak to you was this morning — having to ask you a favour after being so rude to you. A chap doesn’t like doing that, and it made me think — besides there being other things.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to thank me about this morning,” Harry said drily; “I shall be very pleased to do what I can.”

  “Oh, it isn’t that,” Robin said quickly. “It isn’t about that somehow that I mind at all now; I have been worrying about it a good bit, but that isn’t what I want to speak about. I’ll go through with it — Breach of Promise — or whatever it is — if only you wouldn’t think me — well, quite an utter rotter.”

  “I wish,” said Harry quietly, “that you would sit down. I’m sure that you would find it easier to talk.”

  Robin looked at him for a moment and then at the chair — then he sat down.

  “You see, somehow grandfather’s dying has made things seem different to one — it has made one younger somehow. I used to think that I was really very old and knew a lot; but his death has shown me that I know nothing at all — really nothing. But there have been a lot of things all happening together — your coming back, that business with Dahlia — Miss Feverel, you know — a dressing down that I got from Miss Bethel the other evening, and then grandfather’s dying — —”

  He paused again and cleared his throat. He looked straight into the fire, and, every now and again, he gave a little choke and a gasp which showed that he was moved.

  “A chap doesn’t like talking about himself,” he went on at last; “no decent chap does; but unless I tell you everything from the beginning it will never be clear — I must tell you everything — —”

  “Please — I want to hear.”

  “Well, you see, before you came back, I suppose that I had really lots of side. I never used to think that I had, but I see now that what Mary said the other night was perfectly right — it wasn’t only that I ‘sided’ about myself, but about my set and my people and everything. And then you came back. You see we didn’t any of us very much think that we wanted you. To begin with, you weren’t exactly like my governor; not having seen you all my life I hadn’t thought much about you at all, and your letters were so unlike anything that I knew that I hadn’t believed them exactly. We were very happy as we were. I thought that I had everything I wanted. And then you didn’t do things as we did; you didn’t like the same books and pictures or anything, and I was angry because I thought that I must know about those things and I couldn’t understand you. And then you know you made things worse by trying to force my liking out of me, and chaps of my sort are awfully afraid of showing their feelings to any one, least of all to a man — —” Robin paused.

  “Yes,” said Harry, “I know.”

  “But all this isn’t an excuse really; I was a most awful cad, and there’s no getting away from it. But I think I began to see almost from the very beginning that I hadn’t any right to behave like that, but I was obstinate.

  “And then I began to get in a fright about Miss Feverel. She wouldn’t give my letters back, although I went to her and Uncle Garrett and Aunt Clare — all of us — but it was no good — she meant to keep them and of course we knew why. And then, too, I saw at last that I’d behaved like an utter cad — it was funny I didn’t see it at the time. But I’d seen other chaps do the same sort of thing and the girls didn’t mind, and I’d thought that she ought to be jolly pleased at getting to know a Trojan — and all that sort of thing.

  “But when I saw that she wasn’t going to give the letters back but meant to use them I was terribly frightened. It wasn’t myself so much, although I hated the idea of my friends knowing about it all and laughing at me — but it was the House too — my letting it down so.

  “I’d been thinking about you a good bit already. You see you changed after Aunt Clare spoke to you that morning and I began to be rather afraid of you — and when a chap begins to be afraid of some one he begins to like him. I got Aunt Clare and Uncle Garrett to go and speak to Dahlia, and they couldn’t get anything out of her at all; so, then, I began to wonder whether you could do anything, and as soon as I began to wonder that I began to want to talk to you. But I never got much chance; you were always in grandfather’s room, and you didn’t give me much encouragement, did you? and then — I began to be awfully miserable. I don’t want to whine — I deserved it all right enough — but I didn’t seem to have a friend anywhere and all my things that I’d believed in seemed to be worth nothing at all. Then I wanted to talk to you awfully, and when grandfather was worse and was dying I began to see things straight — and then I saw Mary and she told me right out what I was, and I saw it all as clear as daylight.

  “And so; well, I’ve come — not to ask you to help me about Dahlia — but whether you’ll help me to play the game better. I wasn’t always slack and rotten like I am now. When I was in Germany I thought I was going to do all sorts of things ... but anyhow I can’t say exactly all that I mean. Only I’m awfully lonely and terribly ashamed; and I want you to forgive me for being so beastly to you — —”

  He looked wretched enough as he sat there facing the fire with his lip quivering. He made a strong effort to control himself, but in a moment he had broken down altogether and hid his head in the arm of the chair, sobbing as if his heart would break.

  Harry waited. The moment for which he had longed so passionately had come at last; all those weary weeks had now received their reward. But he was very tired and he could not remember anything except that his boy was there and that he was crying and wanted some one to help him — which was very sentimental.

  He got up from his chair and put his hand on Robin’s shoulder.

  “Robin, old boy — don’t; it’s all right really. I’ve been waiting for you to come and speak to me; of course, I knew that you would come. Never mind about those other things — we’re going to have a splendid time, you and I.”

  He put his arm round him. There was a moment’s silence, then the boy turned round and gripped his father’s coat — then he buried his head in his father’s knees.

  Benham entered half an hour later with Harry’s evening meal.

  “I will have mine here, too, Benham,” said Robin, “with my father.”

  “There is one thing, Robin,” said Harry a little later, laughing— “what about the letters?”

  “Oh, I know!” Robin looked up at his father appealingly. “I don’t know what you must think of me over that business. But I suppose I believed for a time in it all, and then when I saw that it wouldn’t do I just wanted to get out of it as quickly as I could. I never seem to have thought about it at all — and now I’m more ashamed than I can say. But I think I’ll go through with it; I don’t see that there’s anything else very much for me to do, any other way of making up — I think I’d rather face it.”

  “Would you?” said Harry. “What about your friends and the House?”

  Robin flinched for a moment; then he said resolutely, “Yes, it would be better for them too. You see they know already — the House, I mean. All the chaps in the dining-hall and the picture-gallery, they’ve known about it all day, and I know that they’d rather I didn’t back out of it. Besides—” he hesitated a moment. “There’s another thing — I have the kind of feeling that I can’t have hurt Dahlia so very much if she’s the kind of girl to carry that sort of thing through; if, I mean, she takes it like that she isn’t the sort of girl that would mind very much what I had done — —”

  “Is she,” said Harry, “that sort of girl?�
��

  “No, I don’t think she is. That’s what’s puzzled me about it all. She was worth twenty of me really. But any decent sort of girl would have given them back — —”

  “She has — —”

  “What?”

  “Given them back.”

  “The letters?”

  Harry went to his writing-table and produced the bundle. They lay in his hand with the blue ribbon and the neat handwriting, “For Robert Trojan,” outside.

  Robin stared. “Not the letters?”

  “Yes — the letters; I have had them some days.”

  But still he did not move. “You’ve had them? — several days?”

  “Yes. I went to see Miss Feverel on my own account and she gave me them — —”

  “You had them when we asked you to help us!”

  “Yes — of course. It was a little secret of my own and Miss Feverel’s — our — if you like — revenge.”

  “And we’ve been laughing at you, scorning you; and we tried — all of us — and could do nothing! I say, you’re the cleverest man in England! Score! Why I should think you have!” and then he added, “But I’m ashamed — terribly. You have known all these days and said nothing — and I! I wonder what you’ve thought of me — —”

  He took the letters into his hand and undid the ribbon slowly. “I’m jolly glad you’ve known — it’s as if you’d been looking after the family all this time, while we were plunging around in the dark. What a score! That we should have failed and you so absolutely succeeded—” Then again, “But I’m jolly ashamed — I’ll tell you everything — always. We’ll work together — —”

  He looked them through and then flung them into the fire.

  “I’ve grown up,” he suddenly cried; “come of age at last — at last I know.”

  “Not too fast,” said Harry, smiling; “it’s only a stage. There’s plenty to learn — and we’ll learn it together.” Then, after a pause, “There’s another thing, though, that will astonish you a bit — I’m engaged — —”

  “Engaged!” Robin stared. Quickly before his eyes passed visions of terrible Colonial women — some entanglement that his father had contracted abroad and had been afraid to announce before. Well, whatever it might be, he would stand by him! It was they two against the world whatever happened! — and Robin felt already the anticipatory glow of self-sacrificing heroism.

  Harry smiled. “Yes — Mary Bethel!”

  “Mary! Hurrah!”

  He rushed at his father and seized his hand— “You and Mary! Why, it’s simply splendid! The very thing — I’d rather it were she than any one! — she told me what she thought of me the other night, I can tell you — fairly went for me. By Jove! I’m glad — we’ll have some times, three of us here together. When was it?”

  “Oh! only this morning! I had asked her before, but it was only settled this morning.”

  Then Robin was suddenly grave. “Oh! but, I say, there’s Aunt Clare — and Uncle Garrett!” He had utterly forgotten them. What would they say? The Bethels of all people!

  “Yes. I’ve thought about it. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid Aunt Clare won’t want to stay. I don’t see what’s to be done. I haven’t told her yet — —”

  Robin saw at once that he must choose his future; it was to be his aunt or his father. His aunt with all those twenty years of faithful service behind her, his aunt who had done everything for him — or his father whom he had known for three weeks. But he had no hesitation; there was now no question it was his father for ever against the world!

  “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Perhaps there will be some arrangement. Poor Aunt Clare! Did you — tell grandfather?”

  “No. I wanted to, but I had no opportunity. But he knows — I am sure that he knows.”

  Their thoughts passed to the old man. It was almost as if he had been there in the room with them, and they felt, curiously, as though he had at that moment handed over the keys of the House. For an instant they saw him; his eyes like diamonds, his wrinkled cheeks, his crooked fingers — and then his laugh. “Harry, my boy, you’ll do.”

  “It’s almost as if he was here,” said Robin. He turned round and put his hand in his father’s.

  “I know he’s pleased,” he said.

  And so it was during the next week, through the funeral, and the gathering of relatives and the gradual dispersing of them again, and the final inevitable seclusion when the world and the relations and the dead had all joined in leaving the family alone. The gathering of Trojans had shown, beyond a doubt, that Harry was quite fitted to take his place at the head of the family. He had acted throughout with perfect tact and everything had gone without a hitch. Many a Trojan had arrived for the funeral — mournful, red-eyed Trojans, with black crape and an air of deferential resignation that hinted, also, at curiosity as regards the successor. They watched Harry, ready for anything that might gratify their longing for sensational failure; a man from the backwoods was certain to fail, and their chagrined disappointment was only solaced by their certainty of some little sensation in the announcement of his surprising success.

  Of course, Clare had been useful; it was on such an occasion that she appeared at her best. She was kind to them all, but at the same time impressed the dignity of her position upon them, so that they went away declaring that Clare Trojan knew how to carry herself and was young for her years.

  The funeral was an occasion of great ceremony, and the town attended in crowds. Harry realised in their altered demeanour to himself their appreciation of the value of his succession, and he knew that Sir Henry Trojan was something very different from the plain Harry. But he had, from the beginning, taken matters very quietly. Now that he was assured of the affection of the only two people who were of importance to him he could afford to treat with easy acquiescence anything else that Fate might have in store for him. His diffidence, had, to some extent, left him, and he took everything that came with an ease that had been entirely foreign to him three weeks before.

  Clare might indeed wonder at the change in him, for she had not the key that unlocked the mystery. The week seemed to draw father and son very closely together. Years seemed to have made little difference in their outlook on things, and in some ways Robin was the elder of the two. They said nothing about Mary — that was to wait until after the funeral; but the consciousness of their secret added to the bond between them.

  Clare herself regarded the future complacently. She was, she felt, absolutely essential to the right ruling of the House, and she intended, gradually but surely, to restore her command above and below stairs. The only possible lion in her path was Harry’s marrying, but of that there seemed no fear at all.

  She admired him a little for his conduct during their father’s funeral; he was not such an oaf as she had thought — but she would bide her time.

  At last, however, the thunderbolt fell. It was a week after the funeral, and they had reached dessert. Clare sometimes stayed with them while they smoked, and, as a rule, conversation was not very general. To-night, however, she rose to go. Her black suited her; her dark hair, her dark eyes, the dark trailing clouds of her dress — it was magnificently sombre against the firelight and the shine of the electric lamps on the silver. But Harry’s “Wait a moment, Clare, I want to talk,” called her back, and she stood by the door looking over her shoulder at him.

  Then when she saw from his glance that it was a matter of importance, she came back slowly again towards him.

  “Another family council?” said Garrett rather impatiently. “We have had a generous supply lately.”

  “I’m afraid this is imperative,” said Harry. “I am sorry to bother you, Clare, but this seems to me the best time.”

  “Oh, any time suits me,” she said indifferently, sitting down reluctantly. “But if it’s household affairs, I should think that we need hardly keep Garrett and Robin.”

  “It is something that concerns us all four,” said Harry. “I am going to be marri
ed!”

  It had been from the beginning of things a Trojan dictum that the revealing of emotion was the worst of gaucheries — Clare, Garrett, and Robin himself had been schooled in this matter from their respective cradles; and now the lesson must be put into practice.

  For Robin, of course, it was no revelation at all, but he dared not look at his aunt; he understood a little what it must mean to her. To those that watched her, however, nothing was revealed. She stood by the fire, her hands at her side, her head slightly turned towards her brother.

  “Might I ask,” she said quietly, “the name of the fortunate lady?”

  “Miss Bethel!”

  “Miss Bethel!” Garrett sprang to his feet. “Harry, you must be joking! You can’t mean it! Not the daughter of Bethel at the Point — the madman! — the — —”

  “Please, Garrett,” said Harry, “remember that she has promised to be my wife. I am sorry, Clare — —”

  He turned round to his sister.

  But she had said nothing. She pulled a chair from the table and sat down, quietly, without obvious emotion.

  “It is a little unexpected,” she said. “But really if we had considered things it was obvious enough. It is all of a piece. Robin tried for Breach of Promise, the Bethels in the house before father has been buried for three days — the policy and traditions of the last three hundred years upset in three weeks.”

  “Of course,” said Harry, “I could scarcely expect you to welcome the change. You do not know Miss Bethel. I am afraid you are a little prejudiced against her. And, indeed, please — please, believe me that it has been my very last wish to go counter in any way to your own plans. But it has seemed almost unavoidable; we have found that one thing after another has arisen about which we could not agree. Is it too late now to reconsider the position? Couldn’t we pull together from this moment?”

  But she interrupted him. “Come, Harry,” she said, “whatever we are, let us avoid hypocrisy. You have beaten me at every point and I must retire. I have seen in three weeks everything that I had cared for and loved destroyed. You come back a stranger, and without knowing or caring for the proper dignity of the House, you have done what you pleased. Finally, you are bringing a woman into the House whose parents are beggars, whose social position makes her unworthy of such a marriage. You cannot expect me to love you for it. From this moment we cease to exist for each other. I hope that I may never see you again or hear from you. I shall not indulge in heroics or melodrama, but I will never forgive you. I suppose that the house at Norfolk is at my disposal?”