by Hugh Walpole
“Certainly,” he answered. Then he turned to his brother. “I hope, Garrett,” he said, “that you do not feel as strongly about the matter as Clare. I should be very glad if you found it possible to remain.”
That gentleman was in a difficult position; he changed colour and tried to avoid his sister’s eyes. After a rapid survey of the position, he had come to the conclusion that he would not be nearly as comfortable in Norfolk — he could not write his book as easily, and the house had scarcely the same position of importance. He had grown fond of the place. Harry, after all, was not a bad chap — he seemed very anxious to be pleasant; and even Mary Bethel mightn’t turn out so badly.
“You see, Clare,” he said slowly, “there is the book — and — well, on the whole, I think it would be almost better if I remained; it is not, of course, that — —”
Clare’s lip curled scornfully.
“I understand, Garrett, you could scarcely be expected to leave such comforts for so slight a reason. And you, Robin?”
She held the chair with her hand as she spoke. The fury at her heart was such that she could scarcely breathe; she was quite calm, but she had a mad desire to seize Harry as he sat there at the table and strangle him with her hands. And Garrett! — the contemptible coward! But if only Robin would come with her, then the rest mattered little. After all, it had only been a fortnight ago when he had stood at her side and rejected his father. The scene now was parallel — her voice grew soft and trembled a little as she spoke to him.
“Robin, dear, what will you do? Will you come with me?”
For a moment father and son looked at each other, then Robin answered —
“I shall be very glad to come and stay sometimes, Aunt Clare — often — whenever you care to have me. But I think that I must stay here. I have been talking to father and I am going up to London to try, I think, for the Diplomatic. We thought — —”
But the “we” was too much for her.
“I congratulate you,” she said, turning to Harry. “You have done a great deal in three weeks. It looks,” she said, looking round the room, “almost like a conspiracy. I — —” Then she suddenly broke down. She bent down over Robin and caught his head between her hands —
“Robin — Robin dear — you must come, you must, dear. I brought you up — I have loved you — always — always. You can’t leave me now, old boy, after all that I have done — all, everything. Why, he has done nothing — he — —”
She kissed him again and again, and caught his hands: “Robin, I love you — you — only in all the world; you are all that I have got — —”
But he put her hands gently aside. “Please — please — Aunt Clare, I am dreadfully sorry — —”
And then her pride returned to her. She walked to the door with her head high.
“I will go to the Darcy’s in London until that other house is ready. I will go to-morrow — —”
She opened the door, but Harry sprang up —
“Please, Clare — don’t go like that. Think over it — perhaps to-morrow — —”
“Oh, let me go,” she answered wearily; “I’m tired.”
She walked up the stairs to her room. She could scarcely see — Robin had denied her!
She shut the door of her bedroom behind her and fell at the foot of her bed, her face buried in her hands. Then at last she burst into a storm of tears —
“Robin! Robin!” she cried.
CHAPTER XVI
It was Christmas Eve and the Cove lay buried in snow. The sea was grey like steel, and made no sound as it ebbed and flowed up the little creek. The sky was grey and snowflakes fell lazily, idly, as though half afraid to let themselves go; a tiny orange moon glittered over the chimneys of “The Bended Thumb.”
Harry came out of the Inn and stood for a moment to turn up the collar of his coat. The perfect stillness of the scene pleased him; the world was like the breathless moment before some great event: the opening of Pandora’s box, the leaping of armed men from the belly of the wooden horse, the flashing of Excalibur over the mere, the birth of some little child.
He sighed as he passed down the street. He had read in his morning paper that the Cove was doomed. The word had gone forth, the Town Council had decided; the Cove was to be pulled down and a street of lodging-houses was to take its place. Pendragon would be no longer a place of contrasts; it would be all of a piece, a completely popular watering-place.
The vision of its passing hurt him — so much must go with it; and gradually he saw the beauty and the superstition and the wonder being driven from the world — the Old World — and a hard Iron and Steel Materialism relentlessly taking its place.
But he himself had changed; the place had had its influence on him, and he was beginning to see the beauty of these improvements, these manufactures, these hard straight lines and gaunt ugly squares. Progress? Progress? Inevitable? — yes! Useful? — why, yes, too! But beautiful? — Well, perhaps ... he did not know.
At the top of the hill he turned and saluted the cold grey sky and sea and moor. The Four Stones were in harmony to-day: white, and pearl-grey, with hints of purple in their shadows — oh beautiful and mysterious world!
He went into the Bethels’ to call for Mary. Bethel appeared for a moment at the door of his study and shouted —
“Hullo! Harry, my boy! Frightfully busy cataloguing! Going out for a run in a minute!” — the door closed.
His daughter’s engagement seemed to have made little difference to him. He was pleased, of course, but Harry wondered sometimes whether he realised it at all.
Not so Mrs. Bethel. Arrayed in gorgeous colours, she was blissfully happy. She was at the head of the stairs now.
“Just a minute, Harry — Mary’s nearly ready. Oh! my dear, you haven’t been out in that thin waistcoat ... but you’ll catch your death — just a minute, my dear, and let me get something warmer? Oh do! Now you’re an obstinate, bad man! Yes, a bad, bad man” — but at this moment arrived Mary, and they said good-bye and were away.
During the few weeks that they had been together there had been no cloud. Pendragon had talked, but they had not listened to it; they had been perfectly, ideally happy. They seemed to have known each other completely so long ago — not only their virtues but their faults and failures.
With her arm in his they passed through the gate and found Robin waiting for them.
“Hullo! you two! I’ve just heard from Macfadden. He suggests Catis in Dover Street for six months and then abroad. He thinks I ought to pass easily enough in a year’s time — and then it will mean Germany!”
His face was lighted with excitement.
“Right you are!” cried Harry. “Anything that Macfadden suggests is sure to be pretty right. What do you say, Mary?”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about men’s businesses,” she said, laughing. “Only don’t be too long away, Robin.”
They passed down the garden, the three of them, together.
In Norfolk a woman sat at her window and watched the snow tumbling softly against the panes. The garden was a white sea — the hills loomed whitely beyond — the sky was grey with small white clouds, hanging like pillows heavily in mid-air.
The snow whirled and tossed and danced.
Clare turned slowly from the windows and drew down the blinds.
THE END
MARADICK AT FORTY
A TRANSITION
CONTENTS
PART I. THE ROOM OF THE MINSTRELS
CHAPTER I. THE PLACE
CHAPTER II. IN WHICH OUR HERO AND THE PLACE MEET ONCE AGAIN
CHAPTER III. IN WHICH THE ADMONITUS LOCORUM BEGINS TO HAVE FUN
CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH THE AFORESAID ADMONITUS LEADS THE AFORESAID
CHAPTER V. MARADICK MAKES A PROMISE AND MEETS AN
CHAPTER VI. SUPPER WITH JANET MORELLI
CHAPTER VII. MARADICK LEARNS THAT “GETTING A VIEW” MAY HAVE ITS
CHAPTER VIII. THEY ALL EAT CHICKEN IN THE GORSE AND
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PART II. PUNCH
CHAPTER IX. MORELLI BREAKS SOME CROCKERY AND PLAYS
CHAPTER X. IN WHICH EVERYONE FEELS THE AFTER EFFECT OF
CHAPTER XI. OF LOVE — AND THEREFORE TO BE SKIPPED BY ALL THOSE
CHAPTER XII. OUR MIDDLE-AGED HERO IS BURDENED BY RESPONSIBILITY
CHAPTER XIII. MORE OF THE ITINERANT OPTIMIST; ALICE DU CANE
CHAPTER XIV. MARADICK IN A NEW RÔLE — HE AFTERWARDS SEES TONY’S
CHAPTER XV. WHY IT IS TO BE THE TWENTY-SEVENTH, AND WHAT THE
PART III. THE TOWER
CHAPTER XVI. MRS. LESTER, TOO, WOULD LIKE IT TO BE THE TWENTY-SEVENTH
CHAPTER XVII. MORNING AND AFTERNOON OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH — TONY,
CHAPTER XVIII. AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH — MARADICK
CHAPTER XIX. NIGHT OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH — MARADICK AND
CHAPTER XX. MARADICK TELLS THE FAMILY, HAS BREAKFAST WITH HIS
CHAPTER XXI. SIX LETTERS
CHAPTER XXII. THE PLACE
PART I. THE ROOM OF THE MINSTRELS
CHAPTER I. THE PLACE
The grey twilight gives to the long, pale stretches of sand the sense of something strangely unreal. As far as the eye can reach, it curves out into the mist, the last vanishing garments, as it were, of some fleeing ghost. The sea comes, smoothly, quite silently, over the breast of it; there is a trembling whisper as it catches the highest stretch of sand and drags it for a moment down the slope, then, with a little sigh, creeps back again a defeated lover.
The sky is grey, with an orange light hovering on its outer edges, the last signal of the setting sun. A very faint mist is creeping gradually over the sea, so faint that the silver circle of the rising moon shines quite clearly through the shadows; but it changes the pale yellow of the ghostly sand into a dark grey land without form and void, seeming for a moment to be one with sea and sky, and then rising again, out of obscurity, into definite substance.
There is silence here in the creek, save for the rustling and whisper of the sea, but round the bend of the rocks the noises of the town come full upon the ear.
The town is built up from the sand on the side of the hill, and rises, tier upon tier, until it finds its pinnacle in the church tower and the roofs of the “Man at Arms.”
Now, in the dusk, the lights shine, row upon row, out over the sand. From the market comes the sound of a fair — harsh, discordant tunes softened by the distance.
The church clock strikes eight, and a bell rings stridently somewhere in the depths of the town.
There is a distant rumble, a roar, a flash of light, and a train glides into the station.
But the sea pays no heed, and, round the bend of the creek, the sand gleams white beneath the moon, and the mist rises from the heart of the waves.
CHAPTER II. IN WHICH OUR HERO AND THE PLACE MEET ONCE AGAIN
The Maradicks had reserved four seats by the 10.45, and so really there was no reason for arriving at Paddington a few minutes after ten. But, as it happened, it was quite fortunate, because there were so many people travelling that the porters seemed to have little scruple as to whether you’d reserved something or not, and just went about pulling pink labels off and sticking pink labels on in a way that was really grossly immoral. But Mrs. Maradick, having discovered that her own pink ticket was all right— “James Maradick, Esq.: Four seats by the 10.45. Travelling to Treliss” — could afford to be complacent about other people, and even a little triumphant over the quite amusing misfortunes of a party of six who seemed to have no chance whatever of securing a seat.
Mrs. Maradick always shut her mouth very tight indeed when going off for a holiday. She entered the station with the air of one who had a very sharp battle to fight and wasn’t going to be beaten under any circumstances. She selected a porter with the confidence of a very old general who could tell a man at a glance, and she marshalled him up and down the platform with a completeness and a magnificent strategy that left him at last breathless and confused, with scarcely energy enough to show indignation at the threepence with which she rewarded his services. But to-day things were finished sooner than usual, and by half-past ten, with a quarter of an hour to spare, she was able to pay attention to her friends.
Quite a number of them had come to see her off — Mrs. Martin Fraser, Louie Denis, Mrs. Mackintosh, Maggie Crowder, and those silly girls, the Dorringtons; and actually Tom Craddock — very short, very fat, very breathless — a little bit of a bounder, perhaps, but a man who served her husband with a quite pathetic devotion. Yes, of course, he’d come to say good-bye to James, so he didn’t count in quite the same way, but still it was nice of him.
“Oh! the papers! James, I must have papers! Oh! thank you, Mr. Craddock. What? Oh, I think, perhaps, the Lady’s Pictorial and the Queen — and oh! if you wouldn’t mind, the Daily Mail and the Mirror, and — oh! James has the Mail, so perhaps the Express would be better — and yes, just something for the girls — what do you say, Annie dear? The Girl’s Realm? Yes, please, the Girl’s Realm, Mr. Craddock, and the Girl’s Own Paper for Isabel. Rather a lot, isn’t it, Louie, but it’s such a long journey — hours and hours — and the girls get so restless.”
The ladies gathered in a little phalanx round the carriage window. They always felt this departure of Emmy Maradick’s; every year it was the same. Epsom wasn’t a bit the same place whilst she was away, and they really couldn’t see why she should go away at all. Epsom was at its very nicest in August, and that was the month of the year when she could be most useful. Everyone gave their tennis-parties then; and there were those charming little summer dances, and there was no garden in Epsom like the Maradicks’! Besides, they liked her for herself. Things always seemed to go so well when she was there, she had such a — what was the word? — a French phrase — savoire-vivre or savoir-faire — yes, it really was a pity.
“We shall miss you, dear.” This from Mrs. Mackintosh.
“That’s sweet of you, Katie darling. And I shall miss all of you, ever so much. And a hotel’s never the same thing, is it? And the garden’s just beginning to look lovely. You’ll go in, once or twice, won’t you, Louie, and see that things are all right? Of course they ought to be; but you never can tell, with quite a new gardener, too. I think he’s steady enough — at least, he had excellent testimonials, and James heard from Mr. Templeton, where he was before, you know, that he was quite a reliable man; but you know what it is when one’s away, how everything seems to go —— Oh! no, it’s all right, Mr. Craddock, I don’t think it’s going just yet. Sit down, Annie dear, and don’t lean against the door.”
The ladies then passed before the door, one after another, delivered their little messages, and lined up on the other side. Thus Mrs. Mackintosh —
“Well, dear, I do hope you have the rippingest time. I’m sure you deserve it after that old bazaar — all the worry — —”
And Mrs. Martin Fraser —
“Mind, a postcard, dear — when you get there — just a line. We shall all so want to know.”
And Louie Denis —
“Darling, don’t forget the sketch you promised. I shall have a frame all ready — waiting.”
And Maggie Crowder —
“I hope it will be fine, dear — such a nuisance if it’s wet; and then there’s our tennis dance next week, it won’t be a bit the same thing if — —”
Lastly the Dorrington girls together —
“Dear Mrs. Maradick — good-bye — ripping — awfully sorry — —” the rest lost in nervous laughter.
And then began that last dreadful minute when you do so wish in spite of yourself that the train would go. You have said your last words, you have given your last embrace, and you stare passionately down the platform hoping for that final whistle and the splendid waving of a green flag.
At last it came. The ladies surged forward in a body and waved their handkerchiefs. Mrs. Maradick leaned for a moment out of the window and waved hers. Tom Craddock shouted something
hoarsely about James that no one could hear, and Epsom was finally bereft of its glory.
Mrs. Maradick collected her bags with her rugs, and then considered her girls. They were seated quietly, each in a corner, their faces bent studiously over their magazines. They were very much alike, with straight flaxen hair and pink and white complexions, light blue cotton frocks, and dark green waistbands.
Yes, they were nice girls — they were dear girls. Then she thought of her husband. James Maradick had stood in the background during the farewells. He had, indeed, been busy up to the very last moment, but he was a reserved and silent man, and he really hadn’t anything very much to say. He was well over six feet, and broad in proportion. He was clean shaven, with features very strongly marked, and a high forehead from which the hair, closely cut and a little grey at the temples, was brushed back and parted on the right side. His eyes were grey and, at times, wonderfully expressive. Epsom said that he was a dreadful man for looking you through. He wore a suit of dark brown excellently cut. He was sitting now opposite his wife and looking out of the window. He was thinking of Tom Craddock.
“James dear, where is my book? You know — that novel you gave me— ‘Sir Somebody or other’s heir’ or something. I just like to know where everything is before I settle down. It was really awfully nice of Louie Denis coming all that way to say good-bye — and of the others too. I wonder Jack Hearne wasn’t there. He could have seen Louie back, and it would have been a good chance; but perhaps he didn’t know she was coming. It was nice of Mr. Craddock coming up, though of course he came to see you.”