by Hugh Walpole
Later, she took her work and sat in the window. Her thoughts, as indeed was always the case now, were with Tony. She made up stories for him, imagined what he was doing at the moment and what the people were like to whom he was talking. She still felt sure that he would come and see them that afternoon. Then the door opened, and she knew that her father had returned. She did not turn round, but sat with her back to the door, facing the window. She could see a corner of the street with its shining cobbles, a dark clump of houses, a strip of the sky. The noise of the market came distantly up to her, and some cart rattled round the corner very, very faintly; the sound of the mining-stamp swung like a hammer through the air.
She heard him step across the room and stand waiting behind her. She was not afraid of him now; she knew that he had come back to apologise. She hated that as much as the rage, it seemed to hurt just as badly. She bent her head a little lower over her work.
“Janet,” he spoke imploringly behind her.
“Father!” She turned and smiled up at him.
He bent down and kissed her. “Janet! dear, I’m so sorry. I really can’t think why I was angry. You know I do get impatient sometimes, and that man had made me angry by the things he said.”
He stood away from her with his head hanging like a child who was waiting to be punished.
“No, father, please don’t.” She stood up and looked at him. “You know it is very naughty of you, and after you promised so faithfully last time that you wouldn’t get angry like that again. It’s no use promising if you never keep it, you know. And then think of all the china you’ve broken.”
“Yes, I know.” He shook his head dolefully. “I don’t know what it is, my dear. I never seem to get any better. And I don’t mean anything, you know. I really don’t mean anything.”
But she doubted that a little as she looked at him. She knew that, although his rage might pass, he did not forget. She had known him cherish things in his head long after they had passed from the other man’s memory, and she had seen him take his revenge. Who was this man who had insulted him? A sudden fear seized her. Supposing . . .
“Father,” she said, looking up at him, “who was it said things to you this morning that made you angry?”
“Ah, never mind that now, dear,” he said, his lip curling a little. “We will forget. See, I am sorry; you have forgiven me?” He sat down and drew her to him. “Look! I am just like a child. I am angry, and then suddenly it all goes.” He stroked her hair with his hand, and bent and kissed her neck. “Where was it that I hit her? Poor darling! There, on the cheek? Poor little cheek! But look! Hit me now hard with your fist. Here on the cheek. I am a brute, a beast.”
“No, father,” she laughed and pulled herself away from him, “It is nothing! I have forgotten it already. Only, dear me! all the broken china! Such expense!”
“Well, dear, never mind the expense. I have a plan, and we will have a lovely day. We will go into the wood with our lunch and will watch the sea, and I will tell you stories, and will play to you. What! now, won’t that be good fun?”
His little yellow face was wreathed in smiles; he hummed a little tune and his feet danced on the floor. He passed his hand through his hair so that it all stood on end. “We’ll have such a game,” he said.
She smiled. “Yes, father dear, that will be lovely. Only, we will be back this afternoon, because perhaps — —”
“Oh! I know!” He laughed at her. “Callers! Why, yes, of course. We shall be here if they come.” He chuckled to himself. “I am afraid, my dear, you have been lonely all these years. I ought to have thought of it, to give you companions.” Then he added after a little pause, “But he is a nice young fellow, Mr. Gale.”
She gave a little sigh of relief; then it was not he who had quarrelled with her father that morning. “That will be splendid. I’ll go and get lunch at once.” She bent down and kissed him, and then went singing out of the room.
He could, when he liked, be perfectly delightful, and he was going to like that afternoon, she knew. He was the best fun in the world. Poor thing! He would be hungry! He had no breakfast. And he sat in front of the window, smiling and humming a little tune to himself. The sun wrapped his body round with its heat, all the live things in the world were calling to him. He saw in front of him endless stretches of country, alive, shining in the sun. He stared in front of him.
It was market-day, and the market-place was crowded. Janet loved it, and her cheeks were flushed as she passed through the line of booths. As they crossed in front of the tower she saw that some one was leaning over the stall talking to the old fruit woman. Her heart began to beat furiously; he was wearing no cap, and she heard his laugh.
He turned round suddenly as though he knew who it was. The light suddenly flamed in his eyes, and he came forward:
“Good morning, Mr. Morelli,” he said.
In all the crowded market-place she was the only thing that he saw. She was dressed in a white muslin with red roses on it, and over her arm was slung the basket with the lunch; her hair escaped in little golden curls from under her broad hat.
But she found that she didn’t know what to say. This was a great surprise to her, because when she had thought about him in her room, alone, she had always had a great deal to say, and a great many questions to ask.
But now she stood in the sun and hung her head. Morelli watched them both.
Tony stammered. “Good-morning, Miss Morelli. I — I can’t take off my cap because I haven’t got one. Isn’t it a ripping day?” He held out his hand and she took it, and then they both laughed. The old woman behind them in her red peaked hat screamed, “A-pples and O-ranges! Fine ripe grapes!”
“We’re going out for a picnic, father and I,” said Janet at last. “We’ve got lunch in this basket. It’s a day that you can’t be in doors, simply!”
“Oh! I know,” he looked hungrily at the basket, as though he would have loved to have proposed coming as well. “Yes, it’s a great day.” Then he looked at her and started. She had been crying. She was smiling and laughing, but he could see that she had been crying. The mere thought of it made his blood boil; who had made her cry? He looked quickly at Morelli; was it he? Perhaps it was Miss Minns? or perhaps she wasn’t well, but he must know if she were unhappy; he would find out.
“I was thinking of coming to call this afternoon, Mr. Morelli,” he said, “Maradick and I . . . but if you are going to spend the day in the woods, another day — —”
“Oh, no,” said Morelli, smiling, “we shall be back again by four. We are only going to have lunch. We should be delighted to see you, and your friend.” Then they said good-bye, and Tony watched them as they turned out of the market-place. They didn’t talk very much as they passed through the town, they had, each of them, their own thoughts. Janet was very happy; he was coming to tea, and they would be able to talk. But how silly she was, she could suddenly think of a hundred things that she would like to have said to him. They turned off the hard white road that ran above the sea and passed along a narrow lane. It was deeply rutted with cart-tracks, and the trees hung so thickly over it that it was quite dark. It wound up the sides of a green hill and then dived suddenly into the heart of a wood. Here there were pine trees, and a broad avenue over which they passed crushing the needles under their feet. The trees met in a green tapestry of colours above their heads, and through it the sun twinkled in golden stars and broad splashes of light. The avenue dwindled into a narrow path, and then suddenly it ended in a round green knoll humped like the back of a camel. The grass was a soft velvety green, and the trees stood like sentinels on every side, but in front they parted and there was a wonderful view. The knoll was at the top of the hill, and you could see straight down, above and beyond the trees of the wood, the sea. To the right there was another clearing, and a little cove of white sand and brown rocks shone in the sun. There was perfect stillness, save for a little breeze that rocked the trees so that they stirred like the breathing of some sleepe
r.
Janet and her father always came to this place. Afterwards she was to see a great many cities and countries, but this green wood always remained to her the most perfect thing in the world. It was so still that you could, if you held your breath, hear the tiny whisper of the waves across the shingle and the murmur of the mining stamp. It was a wonderful place for whispers; the trees, the sea, the birds, even the flowers seemed to tell secrets, and Janet used to fancy that if she lay there, silently, long enough, she would, like the man in the fairy tale, hear what they were saying. She noticed that she always seemed to hear more when she was with her father. She had gone there sometimes with Miss Minns, and had wondered how she could be so fanciful. Nothing had whispered at all, and Miss Minns had had a headache. But to-day everything seemed to have a new meaning; her meeting with Tony had lent it a colour, an intensity that it had not had before. It was as though they all — the sea, the sky, the trees, the animals — knew that she had got a knight and would like to tell her how glad they were.
Morelli sat perched on the highest peak of the knoll with his legs crossed beneath him. He was at his very best; gay, laughing, throwing the pine needles like a child into the air, singing a little song.
“Come here, my dear, and talk to me.” He made way for her beside him. “Everything is singing to-day. There is a bird in a tree above us who has just told me how happy he is. I hope you are happy, my dear.”
“Yes, father, very.” She gave a little sigh of satisfaction and lay back on the grass at his side.
“Well, don’t be ashamed of showing it. Have your feelings and show them. Never mind what they are, but don’t cover them as though you were afraid that they would catch cold. Don’t mind feeling intensely, hurting intensely, loving intensely. It is a world of emotion, not of sham.”
She never paid any very deep attention when he talked about rules of life. Existence seemed to her, at present, such an easy affair that rules weren’t necessary; people made such a bother.
She lay back and stared straight into the heart of the sky. Two little clouds, like pillows, bulged against the blue; the hard sharp line of the pines cut into space, and they moved together slowly like the soft opening and closing of a fan.
“I knew a place once like this,” said Morelli. “It was in Greece. A green hill overlooking the sea, and on it a white statue; they came to worship their god there.”
“What is this talk of God?” she asked him, resting on one elbow and looking up at him. “You have never told me, father, but of course I have read and have heard people talk. Who is God?”
She asked it with only a very languid interest. She had never speculated at all about the future. The world was so wonderful, and there were such a number of things all around her to think about, that discussion about something that would affect her at the end of her life, when all the world was dark and she was old and helpless, seemed absurd. She would want the end to come then, when she was deaf and blind and cold; she would not spoil the young colour and intensity of her life by thinking about it. But with the sudden entrance of Tony the question came forward again. They would not live for ever; life seemed very long to her, but the time must come when they would die. And then? Who was this God? Would He see to it that she and Tony were together afterwards? If so, she would worship Him; she would bring Him flowers, and light candles as Miss Minns did. As she sat there and heard the woods and the sea she thought that the answer must be somewhere in them. He must have made this colour and sound, and, if that were so, He could not be unkind. She watched the two clouds; they had swollen into the shape of bowls, their colour was pale cream, and the sun struck their outer edges into a very faint gold.
“Who is God?” she said again.
Morelli looked at her. “There were gods once,” he said. “People were faithful in those days, and they saw clearly. Now the world is gloomy, because of the sin that it thinks that it has committed, or because pleasure has been acid to the taste. Then they came with their songs and flowers to the hill, and, with the sky at their head and the sea at their feet, they praised the God whom they knew. Now — —” He stared fiercely in front of him. “Oh! these people!” he said.
She did not ask him any more. She could not understand what he had said, and she was afraid lest her questions should bring his fury back again. But the question was there; many new questions were there, and she was to spend her life in answering them.
So they had lunch whilst the two clouds divided into three and danced with white trailing garments across the sun; then again they were swans, and vanished with their necks proudly curved into space.
“Father,” said Janet, with an abstracted air, as though she was thinking of some one else, “Do you think Mr. Gale handsome?”
“Yes, dear,” he answered. “He’s young, very young, and that is worth all the looks in the world.”
“I think he is very handsome,” she said, staring in front of him.
“Yes, dear, I know you do.”
“You like him, father?”
“Of course.” Morelli smiled. “I like to see you together.”
“And Mr. Maradick, father? What do you think of him?”
“Poor Mr. Maradick!” Morelli laughed. “He is going to have a bad time; life comes late to some people.”
“Yes, I like him,” said Janet, thoughtfully, “I know he’s kind, but he’s old; he’s older than you are, father.”
“He’ll be younger before he’s left Treliss,” said Morelli.
After lunch he took his flute from his pocket.
She lay motionless, with her arms behind her head; she became part of the landscape; her white dress lay about her like a cloud, her hair spread like sunlight over the grass, and her eyes stared, shining, into the sky. He sat, with his legs crossed under him, on the swelling grass, and stared at the tops of the trees and the sweep of the sea. No part of him moved except his fingers, which twinkled on the flute; the tune was a little gay dance that sparkled in the air and seemed to set all the trees in motion, even the three little clouds came back again and lay like monstrous white birds against the sky.
The two figures were absorbed into the surrounding country. His brown face and sharp nose seemed to belong to the ground on which he sat; the roses on her dress seemed to grow about her, and her hair lay around her like daffodils and primroses. The gay tune danced along, and the sun rose high above their heads; a mist rose from the sea like a veil and, shot with colour, blue and green, enveloped the woods.
Then there were stealthy movements about the two figures. Birds, thrushes, chaffinches, sparrows, hopped across the grass. A pigeon cooed softly above his head; two rabbits peeped out from the undergrowth. They grew bolder, and a sparrow, its head on one side, hopped on to Janet’s dress.
More rabbits came, and the pigeon, with a soft whirr of its wings, swept down to Morelli’s feet. The grass was soon dotted with birds, a squirrel ran down a tree-trunk and stayed, with its tail in the air, to listen. The birds grew bolder and hopped on to Morelli’s knee; a sparrow stood for a moment on Morelli’s head and then flew away.
Janet showed no astonishment at these things. She had often seen her father play to the animals before, and they had come. Suddenly he piped a shrill, discordant note, and with a whirr of their wings the birds had vanished and the rabbits disappeared.
He put his flute into his pocket.
“It’s nearly four o’clock,” he said.
“Father,” she said as they went down the hill, “can other people do that? Make the birds and animals come?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not? What is it that you do?”
“It’s nothing that I do,” he said. “It’s what I am. Don’t you worry your head about that, my dear. Only don’t say that anything’s impossible. ‘There’s more in Heaven and earth than is dreamed of in the philosophy’ of those folks who think that they know such a lot. Don’t ever disbelieve anything, my dear. Everything’s true, and a great deal more as well
.”
Meanwhile Tony dragged a reluctant Maradick to tea. “They don’t want me,” he said, “you’ll be making me hideously unpopular, Tony, if you keep dragging me there.”
“I told them you were coming,” said Tony resolutely. “And of course you are. There are simply heaps of reasons. The plot’s thickening like anything, and it’s absurd of you to pretend that you are not in it, because you are, right up to your neck. And now I’ll give you my reasons. In the first place there’s mother. At the picnic yesterday Alice spotted that there was some one else; of course she will speak to mother, probably has spoken already. As I have told you already, she has perfect confidence in you, and as long as you are there it’s perfectly right, but if you leave me she’ll begin to worry her head off. Then again, there’s Janet herself. I want her to get to know you and trust you. She’ll want some one older just as much as I do, probably more, because she’s a girl and a frightful kid. Oh! rot! I’m no use at explaining, and the situation’s jolly difficult; only how can she possibly trust you and the rest of it, if she never sees you? And last of all, there’s me. I want you to see how the thing’s going so that we can talk about it. There’s something ‘up,’ I know, I could see this morning that she’d been crying. I believe Morelli’s beastly to her or something. Anyhow, you’re bound and pledged and everything, and you’re a ripping old brick to be so decent about it,” at the end of which Tony, breathless with argument and excitement seized Maradick by the arm and dragged him away.
But Maradick had a great deal to think about, and it was as much for this reason as for any real reluctance to visit the Morellis that he hesitated.
And the tea-party was a great success. Everyone was in the very best of humours, and the restraint that had been there a little on the first occasion had now quite passed away. The sun poured into the room, and shone so that everything burnt with colour. Maradick felt again how perfect a setting it made for the two who were its centre, the blue-tiled fireplace, the fantastic blue and white china on the walls, the deep blue of the carpet set the right note for a background. On the table the tea-things, the old silver teapot and milk jug, old red and white plates and an enormous bowl of flaming poppies, gave the colour. Then against the blue sky and dark brown roofs beyond the window was Janet, with her golden hair and the white dress with the pink roses. Miss Minns was the only dark figure in the room and she scarcely seemed to matter. The only words that she spoke were to Maradick, “In for a penny in for a pound,” she suddenly flung at him à propos of some story of Epsom expenses, and then felt apparently that she had said too much and was quiet for the rest of the afternoon.