by Hugh Walpole
“Poor old mother, and my flightiness has worried you, has it? I am most awfully sorry. But God made the fools as well as the wits, and He didn’t ask the fools which lot they wanted to belong to.”
“No, but, Tony, you aren’t a fool, that’s just it. You’ve got the brain of the family somewhere, only you seem to be ashamed of it and afraid that people should know you’d got it, and your mother would rather they did know. And then, dear, there is such a thing as family pride. It isn’t snobbery, although it looks like it; it only means, don’t be too indiscriminate. Don’t have just anybody for a friend. It doesn’t matter about their birth, but it does matter about their opinions and surroundings. Some of them have been — well, scarcely clean, dear. I’m sure that Mr. Templar wasn’t a nice man, although I dare say he was very clever; and that man to-night, for instance: I dare say he’s an excellent man in every way, but you owe it to the family to find out just a little about him first; you can’t tell just in a minute — —”
He stopped her for a minute and looked up at her quite seriously. “I’ll be difficult to change, mother, I’m afraid. How you and father ever produced such a vagabond I don’t know, but vagabond I am, and vagabond I’ll remain in spite of Oxford and the Bond Street tailor. But never you grieve, mother dear, I’ll promise to tell you everything — don’t you worry.”
“Yes. But what about settling?”
“Oh, settling!” he answered gravely. “Vagabonds oughtn’t to marry at all.”
“But you’re happy about everything? You’re satisfied with things as they are?”
“Of course!” he cried. “Just think what kind of a beast I’d be if I wasn’t. Of course, it’s splendid. And now, mother, the jaw’s over and I’m the very best of sons, and it’s a glorious night, and we’ll be as happy as the day is long.”
They knelt on the seat at the south end and looked down into the crooked streets; the moon had found its way there now, and they could almost read the names on the shops.
Suddenly Lady Gale put her hand against his cheek. “Tony, dear, I care for you more than anything in the world. You know it. And, Tony, always do what you feel is the straight thing and I shall know it is right for you, and I shall trust you; but, Tony, don’t marry anybody unless you are quite certain that it is the only person. Don’t let anything else influence you. Marriage with the wrong person is — —” Her voice shook for a moment. “Promise me, Tony.”
“I promise,” he answered solemnly, and she took his arm and they walked back down the path.
Rupert and Alice were waiting for them and they all went in together. Lady Gale and Rupert said good night. Rupert was always tired very early in the evening unless there was bridge or a dance, but Alice and Tony sat in the sitting-room by the open window watching the moonlight on the sea and listening to the muffled thunder of the waves. Far out into the darkness flashed the Porth Allen Lighthouse.
For a little while they were silent, then Tony suddenly said:
“I say, am I awfully young?”
She looked up. “Young?”
“Yes. The mater has been talking to me to-night. She says that it is time that I grew up, that I haven’t grown a bit since I was eighteen, and that it must be very annoying for everybody. Have you felt it, too?”
“Well, of course I know what she means. It’s absurd, but I always feel years older than you, although by age I’m younger. But oh! it’s difficult to explain; one always wants to rag with you. I’m always at my silliest when you’re there, and I hate being at my silliest.”
“I know you do, that’s your worst fault. But really, this is rather dreadful. I must proceed to grow up. But tell me honestly, am I a fool?”
“No, of course you’re not, you’re awfully clever. But that’s what we all think about you — you could do so many things and you’re not doing anything.”
He sat on the window-sill, swinging his legs.
“There was once,” he began, “the King of Fools, and he had a most splendid and widely attended Court; and one day the Wisest Man in Christendom came to see and be seen, and he talked all the wisest things that he had ever learnt, and the fools listened with all their ears and thought that they had never heard such folly, and after a time they shouted derisively, not knowing that he was the Wisest Man, ‘Why, he is the biggest fool of them all!’”
“The moral being?”
“Behold, the Wisest Man!” cried Tony, pointing dramatically at his breast. “There, my dear Alice, you have the matter in a nutshell.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” said Alice, laughing, “only it is scarcely convincing. Seriously, Tony, Lady Gale is right. Don’t be one of the rotters like young Seins or Rocky Culler or Dick Staines, who spend their whole day in walking Bond Street and letting their heads wag. Not, of course, that you’d ever be that sort, but it would be rather decent if you did something.”
“Well, I do,” he cried.
“What?” she said.
“I can shoot a gun, I can ride a horse, I can serve corkers from the back line at tennis, and score thirty at moderate cricket; I can read French, German, Italian. I can play bridge — well, fairly — I can speak the truth, eat meringues all day with no evil consequences, stick to a pal, and walk for ever and ever, Amen. Oh, but you make me vain!”
She laughed. “None of those things are enough,” she said. “You know quite well what I mean. You must take a profession; why not Parliament, the Bar, writing? — you could write beautifully if you wanted to. Oh, Tony!”
“I have one,” he said.
“Now! What?”
“The finest profession in the world — Odysseus, Jason, Cœur-de-Lion, St. Francis of Assisi, Wilhelm Meister, Lavengro. By the beard of Ahasuerus I am a wanderer!”
He struck an attitude and laughed, but there was a light in his eyes and his cheeks were flushed.
Then he added:
“Oh! what rot! There’s nobody so boring as somebody on his hobby. I’m sorry, Alice, but you led me on; it’s your own fault.”
“Do you know,” she said, “that is the first time, Tony, that I’ve ever heard you speak seriously about anything, and really you don’t do it half badly. But, at the same time, are you quite sure that you’re right . . . now? What I mean is that things have changed so. I’ve heard people talk like that before, but it has generally meant that they were unemployed or something and ended up by asking for sixpence. It seems to me that there’s such a lot to be done now, and such a little time to do it in, that we haven’t time to go round looking for adventure; it isn’t quite right that we should if we’re able-bodied and can work.”
“Why, how serious we are all of a sudden,” he cried. “One would think you ran a girls club.”
“I do go down to Southwark a lot,” she answered. “And we’re badly in need of subscriptions. I’d meant to ask you before.”
“Who’s the unemployed now?” he said, laughing. “I thought it would end in that.”
“Well, I must go to bed,” she said, getting up from the window-sill. “It’s late and cold, and I’m sure we’ve had a most inspiring talk on both sides. Good night, old boy.”
“Ta-ta,” said Tony.
But after she had gone he sat by the window, thinking. Was it true that he was a bit of a loafer? Had he really been taking things too easily? Until these last two days he had never considered himself or his position at all. He had always been radiantly happy; self-questioning had been morbid and unnecessary. It was all very well for pessimists and people who wrote to the Times, but, with Pope, he hummed, “Whatever is, is best,” and thought no more about it.
But this place seemed to have changed all that. What was there about the place, he wondered? He had felt curiously excited from the first moment of his coming there, but he could give no reason for it. It was a sleepy little place, pretty and charming, of course, but that was all. But he had known no rest or peace; something must be going to happen. And then, too, there was Alice. He knew perfectly well why sh
e had been asked to join them, and he knew that she knew. Before they had come down he had liked the idea. She was one of the best and true as steel. He had almost decided, after all, it was time that they settled down. And then, on coming here, everything had been different. Alice, his father, his mother, Rupert had changed; something was wrong. He did not, could not worry it out, only it was terribly hot, it was a beautiful night outside, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours.
He passed quietly down the stairs and out into the garden. He walked down to the south end. It was most wonderful — the moon, the stars, the whirling light at sea, and, quite plainly, the noise of the fair.
He leant over the wall and looked down. He was suddenly conscious that some one else was there; a big man, in evening dress, smoking a cigar. Something about him, the enormous arms or the close-cropped hair, was familiar.
“Good evening,” said Tony.
It was Maradick. He looked up, and Tony at once wished that he hadn’t said anything. It was the face of a man who had been deep in his own thoughts and had been brought back with a shock, but he smiled.
“Good evening. It’s wonderfully beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I’m Gale,” said Tony apologetically, “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”
“Oh no,” Maradick answered. “One can think at any time, and I wanted company. I suppose the rest of the hotel is in bed — rather a crime on a night like this.” Then he suddenly held up a warning finger. “Listen!” he said.
Quite distinctly, and high above the noise of the fair, came the voice of a man singing in the streets below. He sang two verses, and then it died away.
“It was a tune I heard last year,” Maradick said apologetically. “I liked it and had connected it with this place. I — —” Then suddenly they heard it again.
They were both silent and listened together.
CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH THE AFORESAID ADMONITUS LEADS THE AFORESAID
MEMBERS OF SOCIETY A DANCE
The two men stood there silently for some minutes; the voice died away and the noise of the fair was softer and less discordant; past them fluttered two white moths, the whirr of their wings, the heavy, clumsy blundering against Tony’s coat, and then again the silence.
“I heard it last year, that song,” Maradick repeated; he puffed at his cigar, and it gleamed for a moment as some great red star flung into the sky a rival to the myriads above and around it. “It’s funny how things like that stick in your brain — they are more important in a way than the bigger things.”
“Perhaps they are the bigger things,” said Tony.
“Perhaps,” said Maradick.
He fell into silence again. He did not really want to talk, and he wondered why this young fellow was so persistent. He was never a talking man at any time, and to-night at any rate he would prefer to be left alone. But after all, the young fellow couldn’t know that, and he had offered to go. He could not think connectedly about anything; he could only remember that he had been rude to his wife at dinner. No gentleman would have said the things that he had said. He did not remember what he had said, but it had been very rude; it was as though he had struck his wife in the face.
“I say,” he said, “it’s time chaps of your age were in bed. Don’t believe in staying up late.” He spoke gruffly, and looked over the wall on to the whirling lights of the merry-go-round in the market-place.
“You said, you know,” said Tony, “that you wanted company; but, of course — —” He moved from the wall.
“Oh! stay if you like. Young chaps never will go to bed. If they only knew what they were laying in store for themselves they’d be a bit more careful. When you get to be an old buffer as I am — —”
“Old!” Tony laughed. “Why, you’re not old.”
“Aren’t I? Turned forty, anyhow.”
“Why, you’re one of the strongest-looking men I’ve ever seen.” Tony’s voice was a note of intense admiration.
Maradick laughed grimly. “It isn’t your physical strength that counts, it’s the point of view — the way you look at things and the way people look at you.”
The desire to talk grew with him; he didn’t want to think, he couldn’t sleep — why not talk?
“But forty anyhow,” said Tony, “isn’t old. Nobody thinks you’re old at forty.”
“Oh, don’t they? Wait till you are, you’ll know.”
“Well, Balzac — —”
“Oh, damn your books! what do they know about it? Everyone takes things from books nowadays instead of getting it first hand. People stick themselves indoors and read a novel or two and think they know life — such rot!”
Tony laughed. “I say,” he said, “you don’t think like that always, I know — it’s only just for an argument.”
Maradick suddenly twisted round and faced Tony. He put his hand on his shoulder.
“I say, kid,” he said, “go to bed. It doesn’t do a chap of your age any good to talk to a pessimistic old buffer like myself. I’ll only growl and you won’t be the better for it. Go to bed!”
Tony looked up at him without moving.
“I think I’ll stay. I expect you’ve got the pip, and it always does a chap good, if he’s got the pip, to talk to somebody.”
“Have you been here before?” asked Tony.
“Oh yes! last year. I shan’t come again.”
“Why not?”
“It unsettles you. It doesn’t do to be unsettled when you get to my time of life.”
“How do you mean — unsettles?”
Maradick considered. How exactly did he mean — unsettles? There was no doubt that it did, though.
“Oh, I’m not much good at explaining, but when you’ve lived a certain time you’ve got into a sort of groove — bound to, I suppose. I’ve got my work, just like another man. Every morning breakfast the same time, same rush to the station, same train, same morning paper, same office, same office-boy, same people; back in the evening, same people again, same little dinner, same little nap — oh, it’s like anyone else. One gets into the way of thinking that that’s life, bounded by the Epsom golf course and the office in town. All the rest one has put aside, and after a time one thinks that it isn’t there. And then a man comes down here and, I don’t know what it is, the place or having nothing to do upsets you and things are all different.” Then, after a moment, “I suppose that’s what a holiday’s meant for.”
He had been trying to put his feelings into words, but he knew that he had not said at all what he had really felt. It was not the change of life, the lazy hours and the pleasant people; besides, as far as that went, he might at any moment, if he pleased, change things permanently. He had made enough, he need not go back to the City at all; but he knew it was not that. It was something that he had felt in the train, then in the sight of the town, some vague discontent leading to that outbreak at dinner. He was not a reading man or he might have considered the Admonitus Locorum. He had never read of it nor had he knowledge of such a spirit; but it was, it must be, the place.
“Yes,” said Tony, “of course I’ve never settled down to anything, yet, you know; and so I can’t quite see as you do about the monotony. My people have been very decent; I’ve been able to wander about and do as I liked, and last year I was in Germany and had a splendid time. Simply had a rucksack and walked. And I can’t imagine settling down anywhere; and even if I had somewhere — Epsom or anywhere — there would be the same looking for adventure, looking out for things, you know.”
“Adventures in Epsom!”
“Why not? I expect it’s full of it.”
“Ah, that’s because you’re young! I was like that once, peering round and calling five o’clock tea a romance. I’ve learnt better.”
Tony turned round. “It’s so absurd of you, you know, to talk as if you were eighty. You speak as if everything was over, and you’re only beginning.”
Maradick laughed. “Well, that’s pretty good cheek from a fellow half your age! Why, wha
t do you know about life, I’d like to know?”
“Oh, not much. As a matter of fact, it’s rather funny your talking like that, because my people have been talking to me to-night about that very thing — settling down, I mean. They say that my roving has lasted long enough, and that I shall soon be turning into a waster if I don’t do something. Also that it’s about time that I began to grow up. I don’t know,” he added apologetically, “why I’m telling you this, it can’t interest you, but they want me to do just the thing that you’ve been complaining about.”
“Oh no, I haven’t been complaining,” said Maradick hastily. “All I’m saying is, if you do get settled down don’t go anywhere or do anything that will unsettle you again. It’s so damned hard getting back. But what’s the use of my giving you advice and talking, you young chaps never listen!”
“They sound as if they were enjoying themselves down there,” said Tony a little wistfully. The excitement was still in his blood and a wild idea flew into his brain. Why not? But no, it was absurd, he had only known the man quarter of an hour. The lights of the merry-go-round tossed like a thing possessed; whirl and flash, then motionless, and silence again. The murmured hum of voices came to their ears. After all, why not?
“I say,” Tony touched Maradick’s arm, “why shouldn’t we stroll down there, down to the town? It might be amusing. It would be a splendid night for a walk, and it’s only twenty to eleven. We’d be back by twelve.”
“Down there? Now!” Maradick laughed. But he had a strange yearning for company. He couldn’t go back into the hotel, not yet, and he would only lose himself in his own thoughts that led him nowhere if he stayed here alone. A few days ago he would have mocked at the idea of wandering down with a boy he didn’t know to see a round-about and some drunken villagers; but things were different, some new impulse was at work within him. Besides, he rather liked the boy. It was a long while since anyone had claimed his companionship like that; indeed a few days ago he would have repelled anyone who attempted it with no uncertain hand.