by Hugh Walpole
“And that’s all?” she said.
“Absolutely all,” he answered. “I’m afraid it’s disappointing in incident, but it is at any rate truthful.”
“Oh, but it’s adventurous,” she said, “beside mine. There’s nothing for me to tell at all. I’ve simply lived here with father always. There have been no books, no children, nothing at all except father.”
She paused then in rather a curious way. He looked up at her.
“Well?” he said.
“Oh! father’s so different — you never know. Sometimes he’s just as I am, plays and sings and tells stories. And then, oh! he’s such fun. There never was anybody like him. And sometimes he’s very quiet and won’t say anything, and then he always goes away, perhaps it’s only a day or two, and then it’s a week or a month even. And sometimes,” she paused again for a moment, “he’s angry, terribly angry, so that I am awfully frightened.”
“What! with you?” Tony asked indignantly.
“No; with no one exactly, but it’s dreadful. I go and hide.” And then she burst out laughing. “Oh, and once he caught Miss Minns like that, and he pulled her hair and it fell all over her shoulders. Oh! it was so funny. And a lot of it came out altogether; it was false, you know. I think that father is just like a child. He’s ever so much younger than I am really. I’m getting dreadfully old, and he’s as young as can be. He tells stories — beautiful stories! and then he’s cross and he sulks, and sometimes he’s out of doors for days together, and all the animals simply love him.”
All these facts she brought out, as it were, in a bunch, without any very evident connexion, but he felt that the cord that bound them was there and that he could find it one day. But what surprised him most was her curious aloofness from it all, as if he were a friend, perhaps a chum, sometimes a bother and sometimes a danger, but never a father.
“But tell me about yourself,” he said, “what you like and what you do.”
“No, there’s really nothing. I’ve just lived here always, that’s all. You’re the first man I’ve talked to, except father, and you’re fun. I hope that we shall see you sometimes whilst you are staying here,” she added, quite frankly.
“Somebody told you to say that,” he said, laughing.
“Yes, it’s Miss Minns. She teaches me sometimes about what you ought to say, and I’m dreadfully stupid. There are so many of them. There’s ‘at a wedding’ and ‘at a funeral’ and there’s ‘the dinner party,’ a nice one and a dull one and a funny one, and there’s ‘at the theatre,’ and lots more. Sometimes I remember, but I’ve never had anyone to practise them on. You’re quite the first, so I think I ought to give you them all.”
The door opened and Maradick and Morelli came in. The pair at the window did not see them and the two men stood for a moment at the door. Morelli smiled, and Maradick at once felt again that curious unfounded sensation of distrust. The man amazed him. He had talked about his “things,” his armour, some tapestry, some pictures, with a knowledge and enthusiasm that made him fascinating. He seemed to have the widest possible grip on every subject; there was nothing that he did not know. And there had been, too, a lightness of touch, a humorous philosophy of men and things for which he had been quite unprepared.
And then again, there would be suddenly that strange distrust; a swift glance from under his eyelids, a suspicious lifting of the voice, as though he were on his guard against some expected discovery. And then, most puzzling of all, there was suddenly a simplicity, a naïveté, that belonged to childhood, some anger or pleasure that only a child could feel. Oh! he was a puzzle.
At the sight of those two in the window he felt suddenly a sharp, poignant regret! What an old fool he was to meddle with something that he had passed long, long before. You could not be adaptable at forty, and he would only spoil their game. A death’s head at the feast indeed, with his own happy home to think of, his own testimony to fling before them. But the regret was there all the same; regret that he had not known for ever so many years, and a feeling of loneliness that was something altogether new.
He knew now that, during these last few days, Tony had filled his picture, some one that would take him out of himself and make him a little less selfish and even, perhaps, a little younger; but now, what did Tony — Tony in love, Tony with a new heaven and a new earth — want with a stout cynic of forty! It would have been better, after all, if they had never met.
Suddenly Miss Minns awoke, and was extremely upset. Some half-remembered story of gentlemen winning a pair of gloves under some such circumstances flew to her mind; at any rate it was undignified with two new persons in the room.
“I really — —” she said. “You were quite a long time. I have been sewing.”
At the sound of her voice Tony turned back from the window. He was so happy that he would have clasped Miss Minns round the neck and kissed her, if there had been any provocation. The lamp flung a half-circle of light, leaving the corners in perfect darkness, so that the room was curved like a shell; the shining tiles of the fireplace sparkled under the leaping flame of the fire.
“You have been a very long time,” said Janet.
“That’s scarcely a compliment to Mr. Gale,” said Morelli.
“Oh, but I haven’t found it so,” she answered quickly. “It has been enormously interesting. We have been discovering things. And now, father, play. Mr. Gale loves music, I know.”
That Morelli played was a little surprising. There was no piano in the room, and Maradick wondered what the instrument would be. They all sat down in a circle round the fireplace, and behind them, in the dusk of the room, Morelli produced a flute from his pocket. He had said nothing, and they were all of them suddenly silent.
The incident seemed to Maradick a key — a key to the house, to the man, and, above all, to the situation. This was not a feeling that he could in the least understand. It was only afterwards that he saw that his instinct had been a right one.
But the idea that he had of their all being children together — Tony, Janet, Morelli — was exactly represented by the flute. There was something absolutely irresponsible in the gay little tune piped mysteriously in the darkness, a little tune that had nothing in it at all except a pressing invitation to dance, and Maradick could see Tony’s feet going on the floor. It would not be at all impossible, he felt, for them suddenly to form a ring and dance riotously round the room; it was in the air.
He was a person of very slight imagination, but the tune gave him the long hillside, the white sails of the flying clouds, the shrill whistle of wind through a tossing forest of pines, white breakers against a black cliff, anything open and unfettered; and again he came back to that same word — irresponsible. The little tune was repeated again and again, with other little tunes that crept shyly into it for a moment and then out and away. The spell increased as the tune continued.
For Tony it was magical beyond all words. Nothing could have put so wonderful a seal on that wonderful evening as that music. His pulse was beating furiously and his cheeks were burning; he wanted now to fling himself on his knees, there on the floor, and say to her, “I love you! I love you!” like any foolish hero in a play. He moved his chair ever so slightly so that it should be nearer hers, and then suddenly, amazed at his daring, his heart stopped beating; she must have noticed. But she gazed in front of her, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes gravely bent towards the floor.
And this melancholy little tune, coming mysteriously from some unknown distance, seemed to give him permission to do what he would. “Yes, love,” it commanded. “Do what is natural. Come out on to the plain where all freedom is and there are winds and the clear sky and everything that is young and alive.”
He could almost fancy that Morelli himself was giving him permission, but at a thought so wild he pulled himself up. Of course Morelli didn’t know; he was going too fast.
Maradick began to be vaguely irritated and at last annoyed. There was something unpleasant in that monotonous lit
tle tune coming out of the darkness from nowhere at all; its note of freedom seemed to become rapidly something lawless and undisciplined. Had he put it into pictures, he would have said that the open plain that he had seen before became suddenly darkened, and, through the gloom, strange animals passed and wild, savage faces menaced him. Afterwards, in the full light of day, such thoughts would seem folly, but now, in the darkened room, anything was possible. He did not believe in apparitions — ghosts were unknown in Epsom — but he was suddenly unpleasantly aware that he would give anything to be able to fling a glance back over his shoulder.
Then suddenly the spell was broken. The tune died away, revived for an instant, and then came to an abrupt end.
Morelli joined the circle.
“Thank you so very much,” said Maradick. “That was delightful.” But he was aware that, although the little tune had been played again and again, it had already completely passed from his memory. He could not recall it.
“What was the name of it?” he asked.
“It has no name,” Morelli answered, smiling. “It’s an old tune that has been passed down from one to another. There is something rather quaint in it, and it has many centuries behind it.”
Then Tony got up, and to Maradick’s intense astonishment said: “I say, Maradick, it’s time we were going, it’s getting awfully late.”
He had been willing to give the boy as long a rope as he pleased, and now — but then he understood. It was the perfect moment that must not be spoiled by any extension. If they waited something might happen. He understood the boy as far as that, at any rate.
Morelli pressed them to stay, but Tony was firm. He went forward and said good night to Miss Minns, then he turned to Janet.
“Good night, Miss Morelli,” he said.
“Good night,” she answered, smiling. “Please come again and tell me more.”
“I will,” he said.
Morelli’s good-bye was very cordial. “Whenever you like,” he said, “drop in at any time, we shall be delighted.”
They walked back to the hotel in absolute silence. Tony’s eyes were fixed on the hill in front of him.
As they passed under the dark line of trees that led to the hotel he gripped Maradick’s hand very hard.
“I say,” he said, “help me!”
CHAPTER VII. MARADICK LEARNS THAT “GETTING A VIEW” MAY HAVE ITS
DANGERS AS WELL AS ITS REWARDS
Two days after the arrival of the Lesters Lady Gale arranged a picnic; a comprehensive, democratic picnic that was to include everybody. Her motives may be put down, if you will, to sociability, even, and you involve a larger horizon, to philanthropy. “Everybody,” of course, was in reality only a few, but it included the Lesters, the Maradicks, and Mrs. Lawrence. It was to be a delightful picnic; they were to drive to the top of Pender Callon, where there was a wonderful view, then they were to have tea, and then drive back in the moonlight.
Dear Mrs. Maradick (the letter went) —
It would give me such pleasure if you and your husband could come with us for a little Picnic at Pender Callon to-morrow afternoon, weather permitting, of course. The wagonette will come round about two-thirty.
I do hope you will be able to come.
Yours sincerely,
Beatrice Gale.
Mrs. Maradick considered it a little haughtily. She was sitting in the garden. Suddenly, as she turned the invitation over in her mind, she saw her husband coming towards her.
“Oh!” she said, as he came up to her, “I wanted to talk to you.”
He was looking as he always did — big, strong, red and brown. Oh! so healthy and stupid!
She did feel a new interest in him this morning, certainly. His avoiding her so consistently during the week was unlike him, was unusually strong. She even felt suddenly that she would like him to be rude and violent to her again, as he had been that other evening. Great creature! it was certainly his métier to be rude and violent. Perhaps he would be.
She held Lady Gale’s invitation towards him.
“A picnic.” she said coldly. “To-morrow; do you care to go?”
“Are you going?” he said, looking at her.
“I should think that scarcely matters,” she answered scornfully, “judging by the amount of interest you’ve taken in me and my doings during the last week.”
“I know,” he said, and he looked down at the ground, “I have been a brute, a cad, all these days, treating you like that. I have come to apologise.”
Oh! the fool! She could have struck him with her hand! It was to be the same thing after all, then. The monotonous crawling back to her feet, the old routine of love and submission, the momentary hope of strength and contradiction strangled as soon as born.
She laughed a little. “Oh, you needn’t apologise,” she said, “and, in any case, it’s a little late, isn’t it? Not that you need mind about me. I’ve had a very pleasant week, and so have the girls, even though their father hasn’t been near them.”
But he broke in upon her rapidly. “Oh! I’m ashamed of myself,” he said, “you don’t know how ashamed. I think the place had something to do with it, and then one was tired and nervy a bit, I suppose; not,” he hastily added, “that I want to make excuses, for there really aren’t any. I just leave it with you. I was a beast. I promise never to break out again.”
How could a man! she thought, looking at him, and then, how blind men were. Why couldn’t they see that it wasn’t the sugar and honey that women were continually wanting, or, at any rate, the right sort of woman!
She glanced at him angrily. “We’d better leave the thing there,” she said. “For heaven’s sake spare us any more scenes. You were rude — abominably — I’m glad you’ve had the grace at last to come and tell me so.”
She moved as though she would get up, but he put out his hand and stopped her.
“No, Emmy, please,” he said, “let’s talk for a moment. I’ve got things I want to say.” He cleared his throat, and stared down the white shining path. Mrs. Lawrence appeared coming towards them, then she saw them together and turned hurriedly back. “I’ve been thinking, all these days, about the muddle that we’ve made. My fault very largely, I know, but I have so awfully wanted to put it right again. And I thought if we talked — —”
“What’s the use of talking?” she broke in hastily; “there’s nothing to say; it’s all as stale as anything could be. You’re so extraordinarily dull when you’re in the ‘picking up the pieces’ mood; not content with behaving like a second-rate bricklayer and then sulking for a week you add to it by a long recital, ‘the virtues of an obedient wife’ — a little tiresome, don’t you think?”
Her nerves were all to pieces, she really wasn’t well, and the heat was terrible; the sight of him sitting there with that pathetic, ill-used look on his face, drove her nearly to madness. To think that she was tied for life to so feeble a creature.
“No, please,” he said, “I know that I’m tiresome and stupid. But really I’ve been seeing things differently these last few days. We might get along better. I’ll try; I know it’s been largely my fault, not seeing things and not trying — —”
“Oh!” she broke in furiously, “for God’s sake stop it. Isn’t it bad enough and tiresome enough for me already without all this stuff! I’m sick of it, sick of it, I tell you. Sick of the whole thing. You spoke your mind the other night, I’ll speak mine now. You can take it or leave it.” She rose from her chair and stood looking out to sea, her hands clenched at her sides. “Oh! these years! these years! Always the same thing. You’ve never stuck up to anything, never fought anything, and it’s all been so tame. And now you want us to go over the same old ground again, to patch it up and go on as if we hadn’t had twenty long dreary years of it and would give a good deal not to have another.” She stopped and looked at him, smiling curiously. “Oh! James! My poor dear, you’re such a bore. Try not to be so painfully good; you might even be a little amusing!”
; She walked slowly away towards the girls. She passed, with them, down the path.
He picked up the broken pieces of his thoughts and tried to put them slowly together. His first thought of her and of the whole situation was that it was hopeless, perfectly hopeless. He had fancied, stupidly, blindly, that his having moved included her moving too, quite without reason, as he now thoroughly saw. She was just where they had both been a week ago, she was even, from his neglect of her during these last days, a little farther back; it was harder than ever for her to see in line. His discovery of this affected him very little. He was very slightly wounded by the things that she had said to him, and her rejection of his advances so finally and completely distressed him scarcely at all. As he sat and watched the colours steal mistily across the sea he knew that he was too happy at all the discoveries that he was making to mind anything else. He was setting out on an adventure, and if she would not come too it could simply not be helped; it did not in the least alter the adventure’s excitement.
It was even with a new sense of freedom that he went off, late that afternoon, to the town; he was like a boy just out of school. He had no very vivid intention of going anywhere; but lately the town had grown before him so that he loved to stand and watch it, its life and movement, its colour and romance.
He loved, above all, the market-place with its cobbled stones over which rattled innumerable little carts, its booths, its quaint and delightful chatter, its old grey tower. It was one of the great features of his new view that places mattered, that, indeed, they were symbols of a great and visible importance; stocks and stones seemed to him now to be possessed of such vitality that they almost frightened him, they knew so much and had lived so long a time.