Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “You mustn’t think it funny of me to speak to you like this when I know you so slightly. At my age one judges people quickly, and I don’t want to waste time. I’m asking a good deal of you, perhaps; I don’t know, but I think it would have happened in any case whether I had spoken or no. And then you will gain something, you know. No one can be with Tony — get to know him and be a friend of his — without gaining. He’s a very magical person.”

  Maradick looked down on the ground. He knew quite well that he would have done whatever Lady Gale had asked him to do. She had seemed to him since he had first seen her something very beautiful and even wonderful, and he felt proud and grateful that she had trusted him like that.

  “It’s very good of you, Lady Gale,” he said; “I will certainly be a friend of Tony’s, if that is what you want me to do. He is a delightful fellow, much too delightful, I am afraid, to have anything much to do with a dull, middle-aged duffer like myself. I must wake up and shake some of the dust off.”

  She smiled. “Thank you; you don’t know how grateful I am to you for taking an interest in him. I shall feel ever so much safer.”

  And then the door opened and Tony came in. He crossed over to her and said eagerly, “Mother, the Lesters are here. Came this afternoon. They’re coming up in a minute; isn’t it splendid!”

  “Oh, I am glad — not too loud, Tony, you’ll disturb the bridge. How splendid they’re coming; Mildred said something in town about possibly coming down in the car.”

  “He’s the author-fellow, you know,” said Tony, turning round to Maradick. “You were reading ‘To Paradise’ yesterday; I saw you with it. His books are better than himself. But she’s simply ripping; the best fun you ever saw in your life.”

  That Maradick should feel any interest in meeting a novelist was a new experience. He had formerly considered them, as a class, untidy both in morals and dress, and had decidedly preferred City men. But he liked the book.

  “Yes. I was reading ‘To Paradise this afternoon,’ he said. “It’s very good. I don’t read novels much, and it’s very seldom that I read a new one, but there was something unusual — —”

  Then the door opened and the Lesters came in. She was not pretty exactly, but striking — even, perhaps, he thought afterwards, exciting. He often tried on later days to call back the first impression that he had had of her, but he knew that it had not been indifference. In the shaded half-lights of the room, the grey blue shadows that the curtains flung on to the dark green carpet made her dress of light yellow stand out vividly; it had the color of primroses against the soft, uncertain outlines of the walls and hidden corners. There was a large black hat that hid her face and forehead, but beneath it there shone and sparkled two dark eyes that flung the heightened colour of her cheeks into relief. But the impression that he had was something most brilliantly alive; not alive in quite Tony’s way — that was a vitality as natural as the force of streams and torrents and infinite seas; this had something of opposition in it, as though some battle had created it. Her husband, a dark, plain man, a little tired and perhaps a little indifferent, was in the background. He did not seem to count at the moment.

  “Oh, Mildred, how delightful!” Lady Gale went forward to her. “Tony’s just told me. I had really no idea that you were coming; of course with a car one can do anything and get anywhere, but I thought it would have been abroad!”

  “So it ought to have been,” said Mrs. Lester. “Fred couldn’t get on with the new book, and suddenly at breakfast, in the way he does, you know, said that we must be in Timbuctoo that evening. So we packed. Then we wondered who it was that we wanted to see, and of course it was you; and then we wondered where we wanted to go, and of course it was Treliss, and then when we found that you and Treliss were together of course the thing was done. So here we are, and it’s horribly hot. I only looked in to see you for a second because I’m going to have a bath immediately and change my things.”

  She crossed for a moment to the card-table and spoke to Sir Richard. “No, don’t get up, Sir Richard, I wouldn’t stop the bridge for the world. Just a shake of the fingers and I’m off. How are you? Fit? I’m as right as a trivet, thanks. Hullo, Alice! I heard you were here! Splendid! I’ll be down later.”

  Her husband had shaken hands with Lady Gale and talked to her for a moment, then they were gone.

  “That’s just like Mildred,” said Lady Gale, laughing. “In for a moment and out again, never still. When she and Tony are together things move, I can tell you. Well, I must go up to my room, any amount of letters to write before dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Maradick, for the moment. Thank you for the chat.”

  When they were left alone Tony said, “Come out. It’s much cooler now. It will be ripping by the sea. You’ve been in all the afternoon.”

  “Yes,” said Maradick, “I’ll come.”

  He realised, as he left the room, that he and his wife had scarcely met since that first evening. There had always been other people, at meals, outside, after dinner; he knew that he had not been thinking of her very much, but he suddenly wondered whether she had not been a little lonely. These people had not accepted her in quite the same way that they had accepted him, and that was rather surprising, because at Epsom and in town it had always been the other way about. He had been the one whom people had thought a bore; everyone knew that she was delightful. Of course the explanation was that Tony had, as it were, taken him up. All these people were interested in Tony, and had, therefore, included Maradick. He could help a little in the interpretation or rather the development of Tony, and therefore he was of some importance. For a moment there was a feeling of irritation at the position, and then he remembered that it was scarcely likely that anyone was going to be interested in him for himself, and the next best thing was to be liked because of Tony. But it must, of course, be a puzzle to his wife. He had caught, once or twice, a look, something that showed that she was wondering, and that, too, was new; until now she had never thought about him at all.

  Tony chattered all the way down to the hall.

  “The Lesters are ripping. We’ve known Milly Lester ever since the beginning of time. She’s not much older than me, you know, and we lived next door to each other in Carrington Gardens. Our prams always went out and round the Square together, and we used to say goo-goo to each other. Then later on I used to make up stories for her. She was always awfully keen on stories and I was rather a nailer at them; then we used to fight, and I slapped her face and she pinched me. Then we went to the panto together, and used to dance with each other at Christmas parties. I was never in love with her, you know: she was just a jolly good sort whom I liked to be with. She’s always up to a rag; he thinks it’s a little too often. He’s a solemn sort of beggar and jolly serious, lives more in his books than out of them, which doesn’t make for sociability. Rather hard luck on her.”

  “What was his attraction for her?” asked Maradick.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Tony; “she admired his books awfully and made the mistake of thinking that the man was like them. So he is, in a way; it’s as if you’d married the books, you know, and there wasn’t anything else there except the leather.”

  They were silent for a little time, and then Tony said, “On a day like this one’s afraid— ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ you know — it’s all too beautiful and wonderful and makes such a splendid background for the adventure that we’re on the edge of.”

  “Adventure?” said Maradick.

  “Yes; you haven’t forgotten the other night, have you? I’ve been waiting for you to speak to me about it. And then this afternoon I saw it was all right. My asking you to come out was a kind of test, only I knew you’d say yes. I knew that mother had been talking to you about it. About me and whether you’d help me? Wasn’t it?”

  “That’s between your mother and myself,” said Maradick.

  “Well, it was, all the same. And you said yes. And it’s ripping, it’s just what I so especially wanted. They’ve all
been wondering what I’m up to. Of course they could see that something was up; and they’re simply longing to know all about it, the others out of curiosity and mother because she cares. It isn’t a bit curiosity with her, you know, it’s only that she wants to know that I’m safe, and now that she’s stuck you, whom she so obviously trusts, as a kind of bodyguard over me she’ll be comfortable and won’t worry any more. It’s simply splendid — that she won’t worry and that you said yes.”

  He paused and stood in the path, looking at Maradick.

  “Because, you know,” he went on, with that charming, rather crooked little smile that he had, “I do most awfully want you for a friend quite apart from its making mother comfortable. You’re just the chap to carry it through; I’m right about it’s being settled, aren’t I?”

  Maradick held out his hand.

  “I expect I’m a fool,” he said, “at my age to meddle in things that don’t concern me, but anyhow, there’s my hand on it. I like you. I want waking up a bit and turning round, and you’ll do it. So it’s a bargain.”

  They shook hands very solemnly and walked on silently down the path. They struck off to the right instead of turning to the left through the town. They crossed a stile, and were soon threading a narrow, tumbling little path between two walls of waving corn. In between the stems poppies were hiding and overhead a lark was singing. For a moment he came down towards them and his song filled their ears, then he circled up and far above their heads until he hung, a tiny speck, against a sky of marble blue.

  “You might tell me.” said Maradick, “what the adventure really is. I myself, you know, have quite the vaguest idea, and as I’m so immediately concerned I think I ought to know something about it.”

  “Why? I told you the other night,” said Tony; “and things really haven’t gone very much further. I haven’t seen her again, nor has Punch, and he has been about the beach such a lot that he’d have been sure to if she’d been down there. But the next step has to be taken with you.”

  “What is it?” said Maradick a little apprehensively.

  “To call on that man who gave us his card the other night. He’s got a lot to do with her, I know, and it’s the very best of luck that we should have met him as we did.”

  “I must say I didn’t like him for some quite unexplained reason. But why not go and call without me? He doesn’t want to see me; it was you he gave the card to.”

  “No, you must come. I should be afraid to go alone. Besides, he might show you things in Treliss that you’d like to see, although I suppose you’ve explored it pretty well for yourself by this time. But, by the way, wherever have you been this week? I’ve never seen you about the place or with people.”

  “No,” said Maradick. “I discovered rather a jolly room up in the top of the house somewhere, a little, old, deserted place with an old-fashioned gallery and a gorgeous view. I grew rather fond of the place and have been there a good deal.”

  “You must show it me. We ought to have struck the place by now. Oh, there it is, to the right.”

  They had arrived at the edge of the cliff, and were looking for a path that would take them down to the beach. Below them was a little beach shut in on three sides by cliff. Its sand was very smooth and very golden, and the sea came with the very tiniest ripple to the edge of it and passed away again with a little sigh. Everything was perfectly still. Then suddenly there was a bark of a dog and a man appeared on the lower rocks, sharply outlined against the sky.

  “What luck!” cried Tony. “It’s Punch. I wanted you to meet him, and he may have a message for me.”

  The man saw them and stepped down from the rocks on to the beach and came towards them, the dog after him. A little crooked path brought them to him, and Maradick was introduced. It was hard not to smile. The man was small and square; his legs were very short, but his chest was enormous, and his arms and shoulders looked as though they ought to have belonged to a much bigger man. His mouth and ears were very large, his nose and eyes small; he was wearing a peaked velvet cap, a velveteen jacket and velveteen knickerbockers. Maradick, thinking of him afterwards, said of him that he “twinkled;” that was the first impression of him. His legs, his eyes, his nose, his mouth stretched in an enormous smile, had that “dancing” effect; they said, “We are here now and we are jolly pleased to see you, but oh! my word! we may be off at any minute, you know!”

  The dog, a white-haired mongrel, somewhat of the pug order, was a little like its master; its face was curiously similar, with a little nose and tiny eyes and an enormous mouth.

  “Let me introduce you,” said Tony. “Punch, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Maradick. Maradick, this is my friend and counsellor, Punch; and, oh, yes, there’s Toby. Let me introduce you, Toby. Mr. Maradick — Toby. Toby — Mr. Maradick!”

  The little man held out an enormous hand, the dog gravely extended a paw. Maradick shook both.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said. “Tony has told me about you.”

  “Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” the man answered; “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”

  There was a pause, and they sat down on the sand with their backs against the rocks.

  “Well, Punch,” said Tony, “how’s the show? I haven’t seen you since Thursday.”

  “Oh, the show’s all right,” he answered. “There’s never no fear about that. My public’s safe enough as long as there’s children and babies, which, nature being what it is, there’ll always be. It’s a mighty pleasant thing having a public that’s always going on, and it ain’t as if there was any chance of their tastes changing either. Puppies and babies and kittens like the same things year in and year out, bless their little hearts.”

  “You have a Punch and Judy show, haven’t you?” said Maradick a little stiffly. He was disgusted at his stiffness, but he felt awkward and shy. This wasn’t the kind of fellow that he’d ever had anything to do with before; he could have put his hand into his pocket and given him a shilling and been pleasant enough about it, but this equality was embarrassing. Tony obviously didn’t feel it like that, but then Tony was young.

  “Yes, sir; Punch and Judy shows are getting scarce, what with yer cinematographs and pierrots and things. But there’s always customers for ’em and always will be. And it’s more than babies like ’em really. Many’s the time I’ve seen old gentlemen and fine ladies stop and watch when they think no one’s lookin’ at ’em, and the light comes into their eyes and the colour into their cheeks, and then they think that some one sees ’em and they creep away. It’s natural to like Punch; it’s the banging, knock-me-down kind of humour that’s the only genuine sort. And then the moral’s tip-top. He’s always up again, Punch is, never knows when he’s beat, and always smiling.”

  “Yes,” said Maradick, but he knew that he would have been one of those people who would have crept away.

  “And there’s another thing,” said the man; “the babies know right away that it’s the thing they want. It’s my belief that they’re told before they come here that there’s Punch waiting for them, otherwise they’d never come at all. If you gave ’em Punch right away there wouldn’t be any howling at all; a Punch in every nursery, I say. You’d be surprised, sir, to see the knowin’ looks the first time they see Punch, you’d think they’d seen it all their lives. There’s nothing new about it; some babies are quite blasé over it.”

  “And then there are the nursemaids,” said Tony.

  “Yes,” said Punch, “they’re an easy-goin’ class, nursemaids. Give them a Punch and Judy or the military and there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you. I’ve a pretty complete knowledge of nursemaids.”

  “I suppose you travel about?” said Maradick; “or do you stay more or less in one part of the country?”

  “Stay! Lord bless you, sir! I never stay anywhere; I’m up and down all the time. It’s easy enough to travel. The show packs up small, and then there’s just me and Toby. Winter time I’m in London a good bit. Christmas and a bit
after. London loves Punch and always will. You’d think that these music-halls and pantomimes would knock it out, but not a bit of it. They’ve a real warm feeling for it in London. And they aren’t the sort of crowd who stand and watch it and laugh and smack their thighs, and then when the cap comes round start slipping off and pretendin’ they’ve business to get to, not a bit of it. They’d be ashamed not to pay their little bit.”

  “And then in the summer?” said Maradick.

  “Oh! Cumberland for a bit and then Yorkshire, and then down here in Cornwall. All round, you know. There are babies everywhere, and some are better than others. Now the Cumberland babies beat all the rest. Give me a Cumberland baby for a real laugh. They’re right enough down here, but they’re a bit on their dignity and afraid of doing the wrong thing. But I’ve got good and bad babies all over the place. I reckon I know more about babies than anyone in the land. And you see I always see them at their best — smiling and crowing — which is good for a man’s ‘ealth.”

  The sun was sinking towards the sea, and there was perfect silence save for the very gentle ripple of the waves. It was so still that a small and slightly ruffled sparrow hopped down to the edge of the water and looked about it. Toby saw him, but only lazily flapped an ear. The sparrow watched the dog for a moment apprehensively, then decided that there was no possible danger and resumed its contemplation of the sea.

  The waves were so lazy that they could barely drag their way up the sand. They clung to the tiny yellow grains as though they would like to stay and never go back again; then they fell back reluctantly with a little song about their sorrow at having to go.

  A great peace was in Maradick’s heart. This was the world at its most absolute best. When things were like this there were no problems nor questions at all; Epsom was an impossible myth and money-making game for fools.