Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “Why?” said Tony.

  “Well, you see, I haven’t known other people’s fathers at all, and up to quite lately I didn’t think there was anything peculiar about mine, but just lately I’ve been wondering. You see there’s never been any particular affection, there hasn’t been any question of affection, and that’s,” she stopped for a moment, “that’s what I’ve been wanting. I used to make advances when I was quite tiny, climb on his knee, and sometimes he would play, oh! beautifully! and then suddenly he would stop and push me aside, or behave, perhaps, as though I were not there at all.”

  “Brute!” said Tony between his teeth, driving the oar furiously through the water.

  “And then I began to see gradually that he didn’t care at all. It was easy enough even for a girl as young as I was to understand, and yet he would sometimes be so affectionate.” She broke off. “I think,” she said, looking steadily out to sea, “that he would have liked to have killed me sometimes. He is so furious at times that he doesn’t in the least know what he’s doing.”

  “What did you do when he was like that?” asked Tony in a very low voice.

  “Oh, one waits,” she said very quietly, “they don’t last long.”

  She spoke dispassionately, as though she were outside the case altogether, but Tony felt that if he had Morelli there, in the boat with him, he would know what to do and say.

  “You must get away,” he said.

  “There are other things about him,” she went on, “that I’ve noticed that other people’s fathers don’t do. He’s wonderful with animals, and yet he doesn’t seem really to care about them, or, at least, he only cares whilst they are in certain moods. And although they come to him so readily I often think that they are really afraid as I am.”

  She began to think as she sat there. She had never spoken about it all to anyone before, and so it had never, as it were, materialised. She had never realised until now how badly she had wanted to talk to some one about it.

  “Oh, you have been so fortunate,” she said, a little wistfully, “to have done so many things and seen so many people. Tell me about other girls, are they all beautiful? Do they dress beautifully?”

  “No,” he said, looking at her. “They are very tiresome. I can’t be serious with girls as a rule. That’s why I like to be with you. You don’t mind a fellow being serious. Girls seem to think a man isn’t ever meant to drop his grin, and it gets jolly tiresome. Because, you know, life is awfully serious when you come to think about it. I’ve only realised,” he hesitated a moment, “during this last fortnight how wonderful it is. That’s, you know,” he went on hurriedly, “why I really like to be with men better. Now a fellow like Maradick understands what one’s feeling, he’s been through it, he’s older, and he knows. But then you understand too; it’s jolly funny how well you understand a chap.”

  He dropped his oars for a moment and the boat drifted. They were rounding the point, and the little sandy beach for which they were making crept timidly into sight. There was perfect stillness; everything was as though it were carved from stone, the trees on the distant hill, the hanging curtain of sky, the blue mirror of the sea, the sharply pointed town. A flock of white sheep, tiny like a drifting baby cloud, passed for a moment against the horizon on the brow of the hill. There was a very faint sound of bells.

  They were both very silent. The oars cut through the water, the boat gave a little sigh as it pushed along, there was no other sound.

  They sat on the beach and made tea. Tony had thought of everything. There was a spirit lamp, and the kettle bubbled and hissed and spluttered. Tony busied himself about the tea because he didn’t dare to speak. If he said the very simplest thing he knew that he would lose all self-control. She was sitting against a rock with her dress spread around her.

  She looked up at him with big, wide-open eyes.

  “Your name is Tony, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “I suppose it is short for Anthony. I shall call you Tony. But see, there is something that I want to say. You will never now, after we have been such friends, let it go again, will you? Because it has been so wonderful meeting you, and has made such a difference to me that I couldn’t bear it. If you went away, and you had other friends and — forgot.”

  “No, I won’t forget.”

  He dropped a plate on to the sand and came towards her.

  “Janet.” He dropped on to his knees beside her. “I must tell you. I love you, I love you, Janet. I don’t care whether you are angry or not, and if you don’t feel like that then I will be an awfully decent friend and won’t bother you about love. I’ll never talk about it. And anyhow, I ought, I suppose, to give you time; a little because you haven’t seen other fellows, and it’s not quite fair.”

  He didn’t touch her, but knelt on the sand, looking up into her face.

  She looked down at him and laughed. “Why, how silly, Tony dear, I’ve loved you from the first moment that I saw you; why, of course, you must have known.”

  Their hands touched, and at that moment Tony realised the wonderful silence and beauty of the world. The sea spread before them like a carpet, but it was held with the rocks and sand and sky in breathless tension by God for one immortal second. Nature waited for a moment to hear the story that it had heard so often before, then when the divine moment had passed the world went on its course once more. But in that moment things had happened. A new star had been born in the sky, the first evening star, and it sparkled and glittered above the town; in the minstrels’ room at that moment the sun shone and danced on the faces of the lions, beneath the tower the apple-woman paused in her knitting and nodded her head solemnly at some secret pleasant thought, on the knoll the birds clustered in chattering excitement, far on the horizon a ship with gleaming sails rose against the sky.

  “Janet, darling.” He bent down and kissed her hand. Then he raised his face, hers bent down to his — they kissed.

  Half an hour later they were in the boat again; she sat on the floor with her head against his knee. He rowed very slowly, which was natural, because it was difficult to move the oars.

  The evening lights began to creep across the sky, and the sun sank towards the horizon; other stars had stolen into the pale blue sky; near the sea a pale orange glow, as of a distant fire, burned. The boat shone like a curved and shining pearl.

  Tony had now a difficult business in front of him. The situation had to be made clear to her that his people must not be told. He was quite resolved within himself in what way he was going to carry the situation through, but he could not at all see that she would consider the matter in the same light. It would take time and considerable trouble to convey to her a true picture of the complicated politics of the Gale family.

  “Janet, dear,” he said, “we have now to be sternly practical. There are several things that have to be faced. In the first place, there is your father.”

  “Yes,” she said, a little doubtfully.

  “Well, how will he take it?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked up at him and laid her hand very lightly upon his knee. The yellow light had crept up from the horizon, and was spreading in bands of colour over the sky; the sea caught the reflexion very faintly, but the red glow had touched the dark band of country behind them and the white road, the still black trees were beginning to burn as though with fire.

  “Well,” said Tony, “of course I shall tell him at once. What will he say?”

  “I don’t know. One never can tell with father. But, dear, must you? Couldn’t we wait? It is not that I mind his knowing, but I am, in some way, afraid.”

  “But he likes me,” said Tony; “you told me yourself.”

  “Yes, but his liking anybody never means very much. It’s hard to explain; but it isn’t you that he likes so much as something that you’ve got. It is always that with everybody. I’ve seen it heaps of times. He goes about and picks people up, and if they haven’t got the thing he’s looking f
or he drops them at once and forgets them as soon as he can. I don’t know what it is that he looks for exactly, but, whatever it is, he finds it in the animals, and in the place even; that’s why he lives at Treliss.”

  Janet was very young about the world in general, but about anything that she had herself immediately met she was wise beyond her years.

  She looked at him a moment, and then added: “But of course you must speak to him; it is the only thing to do.”

  “And suppose,” said Tony, “that he refuses to give his consent?”

  “Oh, of course,” Janet answered quietly, “then we must go away. I belong to you now. Father does not care for me in the least, and I don’t care for anyone in the world except you.”

  Her calm acceptance of the idea that he himself had intended to submit to her very tentatively indeed frightened him. His responsibility seemed suddenly to increase ten-fold. Her suggesting an elopement so quietly, and even asserting it decisively as though there were no other possible alternative, showed that she didn’t in the least realise what it would all mean.

  “And then, of course,” she went on quietly, “there are your people. What will they say?”

  “That’s it, dear. That’s the dreadful difficulty. They mustn’t be told at all. The only person in the family who really matters in the least is my mother, and she matters everything. The governor and my brother care for me only as the family, and they have to see that that isn’t damaged.”

  “And they’d think that I’d damage it?” said Janet.

  “Yes,” said Tony, quietly, “they would. You see, dear, in our set in town the two things that matter in marriage are family and money. You’ve got to have either ancestors or coin. Your ancestors, I expect, are simply ripping, but they’ve got to be in Debrett, so that everyone can look them up when the engagement’s announced. It isn’t you they’d object to, but the idea.”

  “I see; well?”

  “Well, if mother knew about it; if it was public she’d have to support the family, of course. But really in her heart of hearts what she wants is that I should be happy. She’d much rather have that than anything else; so that if we are married and it’s too late for anyone to say anything, and she sees that we are happy, then it will be all right, but she mustn’t know until afterwards.”

  Tony stopped, but Janet said nothing. Then he went on: “You see there was a sort of idea with people, before we came down here, that I should get engaged to some one. It was more or less an understood thing.”

  “Was there, is there anyone especially?” asked Janet.

  “Yes; a Miss Du Cane. We’d been pals for a long time without thinking about marriage at all; and then people began to say it was time for me to settle down, and rot like that — and she seemed quite suitable, and so she was asked down here.”

  “Did you care about her?”

  “Oh! like a friend, of course. She’s a jolly good sort, and used to be lots of fun, but as soon as all this business came into it she altered and it became different. And then I saw you, and there was never more any question of anyone else in all the world.”

  Tony dropped the oars and let the boat drift. He caught her golden hair in his hands and twined it about his arm. He bent down and touched her lips. She leaned up towards him and they clung together. About them the sea was a golden flame, the sky was a fiery red, the country behind them was iron black. The boat danced like a petal out to sea.

  Then, with her arm about his neck, Janet spoke again. “Your father would like you to marry this lady?” she asked.

  “Yes. He thinks that I am going to.”

  “Ah! now I understand it all. You cannot tell them, of course; I see that. We must do it first and tell them afterwards. And father will never consent. I am sure of it. Oh, dear! what fun! we must go away secretly; it will be an elopement.”

  “What a ripping rag!” said Tony eagerly. “Oh! darling, I was so afraid that you would mind all those things, and I didn’t want to tell you. But now that you take it like that! And then, you see, that’s where Maradick comes in.”

  “Mr. Maradick?”

  “Yes. He’s really the foundation-stone of the whole affair. It’s because mother trusts him so absolutely completely that she’s feeling so safe. He knows all about it, and has known all about it all the time. Mother depends on him altogether; we all depend on him, and he’ll help us.”

  The sun lay, like a tired warrior, on the breast of the sea; the clouds, pink and red and gold, gathered about him. The boat turned the creek and stole softly into the white shelter of the cove. Above the heads of the lovers the stars glittered, about them the land, purple and dark with its shadows, crept in on every side. Some bell rang from the town, there was the murmur of a train, the faint cry of some distant sheep.

  Their voices came softly in the dusk:

  “I love you.”

  “Janet!”

  “Tony!”

  The night fell.

  CHAPTER XII. OUR MIDDLE-AGED HERO IS BURDENED BY RESPONSIBILITY

  BUT BOLDLY UNDERTAKES THE ADVENTURE

  That same afternoon Maradick finished “To Paradise.” He read it in the room of the minstrels with the sun beating through the panes in pools of gold on to the floor, the windows flung wide open, and a thousand scents and sounds flooding the air. The book had chimed in curiously with the things that were happening to him; perhaps at any other time, and certainly a year ago, he would have flung the book aside with irritation at its slow movement and attenuated action. Now it gave him the precisely correct sensation; it was the atmosphere that he had most effectually realised during these last weeks suddenly put for him clearly on to paper. Towards the end of the book there was this passage: “And indeed Nature sets her scene as carefully as any manager on our own tiny stage; we complain discordantly of fate, and curse our ill-luck when, in reality, it is because we have disregarded our setting that we have suffered. Passing lights, whether of sailing ships or huddled towns, murmuring streams heard through the dark but not seen, the bleating of countless sheep upon a dusky hill, are all, with a thousand other formless incoherent things, but sign-posts to show us our road. And let us, with pressing fingers, wilfully close our ears and blind our eyes, then must we suffer. Changes may come suddenly upon a man, and he will wonder; but let him look around him and he will see that he is subject to countless other laws and orders, and that he plays but a tiny rôle in a vast and moving scene.”

  He rose and stretched his arms. He had not for twenty years felt the blood race through his veins as it did to-day. Money? Office stools? London? No; Romance, Adventure. He would have his time now that it had come to him. He could not talk to his wife about it; she would not understand; but Mrs. Lester ——

  The door opened suddenly. He turned round. No one had ever interrupted him there before; he had not known that anyone else had discovered the place, and then he saw that it was Lester himself. He came forward with that curious look that he often had of seeing far beyond his immediate surroundings. He stared now past the room into the blue and gold of the Cornish dusk; the vague misty leaves of some tree hung, a green cloud, against the sky, two tiny glittering stars shone in the sky above the leaves, as though the branches had been playing with them and had tossed them into the air.

  Then he saw Maradick.

  “Hullo! So you’ve discovered this place too?” He came towards him with that charming, rather timid little smile that he had. “I found it quite by chance yesterday, and have been absolutely in love with it — —”

  “Yes,” said Maradick, “I’ve known it a long time. Curiously enough, we were here last year and I never found it.” Then he added: “I’ve just finished your book. May I tell you how very much I’ve enjoyed it? It’s been quite a revelation to me; its beauty — —”

  “Thank you,” said Lester, smiling, “it does one a lot of good when one finds that some one has cared about one’s work. I think that I have a special affection for this one, it had more of myself in it. But
will you forgive my saying it, I had scarcely expected you, Maradick, to care about it.”

  “Why?” asked Maradick. Lester’s voice was beautifully soft and musical, and it seemed to be in tune with the room, the scene, the hour.

  “Well, we are, you know, in a way at the opposite ends of the pole. You are practical; a business man; it is your work, your place in life, to be practical. I am a dreamer through and through. I would have been practical if I could. I have made my ludicrous attempts, but I have long ago given it up. I have been cast for another rôle. The visions, the theories, the story of such a man as I am must seem stupidly, even weakly vague and insufficient to such a man as you. I should not have thought that ‘To Paradise’ could have seemed to you anything but a moonstruck fantasy. Perhaps that is what it really is.”

  He spoke a little sadly, looking out at the sky. “I am afraid that is what it is,” he said.

  “Is it not possible,” said Maradick slowly, “that a man should, at different times in his life, have played both rôles? Can one not be practical and yet have one’s dreams? Can one not have one’s dreams and yet be practical?”

  As he spoke he looked at the man and tried to see him from Mrs. Lester’s point of view. He was little and brown and nervous; his eyes were soft and beautiful, but they were the eyes of a seer.

  Mr. Lester shook his head. “I think it is possible to be practical and yet to have your dreams. I will not deny that you have yours; but the other thing — no, I shall never see the world as it is. And yet, you know,” he went on, smiling a little, “the world will never let me alone. I think that at last I shall see that for which I have been searching, that at last I shall hear that for which I have been listening so long; and then suddenly the world breaks in upon it and shatters it, and it vanishes away. One has one’s claims, one is not alone; but oh! if I had only an hour when there might be no interruption. But I’m really ashamed, Maradick; this must seem, to put it bluntly, so much rot to you, and indeed to anyone except myself.”