by Hugh Walpole
He tenderly passed his hand over some of the rough grey stones in a lingering farewell. Probably he’d been worth something to the tower in an obscure sort of way. He believed enough in its real existence to think it not fantastic that it should recognise his appreciation of it and be glad.
His next farewell was to Punch.
He climbed the little man’s dark stairs with some misgiving. He ought to have been in there more just lately, especially after the poor man losing his dog. He owed a great deal to Punch; some people might have found his continual philosophising tiresome, but to Maradick its sincerity and the very wide and unusual experience behind it gave the words a value and authority.
He found Punch sitting on his bed trying to teach the new dog some of the things that it had to learn. He jumped up when he saw Maradick, and his face was all smiles.
“Why, I’m that glad to see you,” he said, “I’d been hopin’ you’d come in before you were off altogether. Yes, this is the new dog. It ain’t much of a beast, only a mongrel, but I didn’t want too fine a dog after Toby; it looks like comparison, in a way, and I’m thinkin’ it might ‘urt ’im, wherever ’e is, if ’e knew that there was this new one takin’ ’is place altogether.”
The new one certainly wasn’t very much of a beast, but it seemed to have an enormous affection for its master and a quite pathetic eagerness to learn.
“But come and sit down, sir. Never mind them shirts, I’ll chuck ’em on the floor. No, my boy, we’ve had enough teachin’ for the moment. ‘E’s got an astonishin’ appetite for learnin’, that dog, but only a limited intelligence.”
Maradick could see that Punch didn’t want to say any more about Toby, so he asked no questions, but he could see that he felt the loss terribly.
“Well, Garrick,” he said, “I’ve come to say good-bye. We all go back to-morrow, and, on the whole, I don’t know that I’m sorry. Things have happened here a bit too fast for my liking, and I’m glad to get out of it with my life, so to speak.”
Punch, looked at him a moment, and then he said: “What’s happened about young Gale, sir? There are all sorts of stories afloat this morning.”
Maradick told him everything.
“Well, that’s all for the best. I’m damned glad of it. That girl’s well away, and they’ll make the prettiest married couple for many a mile. They’ll be happy enough. And now, you see for yourself that I wasn’t so far out about Morelli after all.”
Maradick thought for a moment and then he said: “But look here, Garrick, if Morelli’s what you say, if, after all, there’s something supernatural about him, he must have known that those two were going to run away; well, if he knew and minded so much, why didn’t he stop them?”
“I’m not saying that he did know,” said Punch slowly, “and I’m not saying that he wanted to stop them. Morelli’s not a man, nor anything real at all. ‘E’s just a kind of vessel through which emotions pass, if you understand me. The reason, in a way, that ’e expresses Nature is because nothing stays with him. ‘E’s cruel, ‘e’s loving, ‘e’s sad, ‘e’s happy, just like Nature, because the wind blows, or the rivers run, or the rains fall. ‘E’s got influence over everything human because ’e isn’t ‘uman ‘imself. ’E isn’t a person at all, ‘e’s just an influence, a current of atmosphere in a man’s form.
“There are things, believe me, sir, all about this world that take shape one day like this and another day like that, but they have no soul, no personal identity, that is, because they have no beginning or end, no destiny or conclusion, any more than the winds or the sea. And you look out for yourself when that’s near you — it’s mighty dangerous.”
Maradick said nothing. Punch went on —
“You can’t see these things in cities, or in places where you’re for ever doing things. You’ve got to have your mind like an empty room and your eyes must be blind and your ears must be closed, and then, slowly, you’ll begin to hear and see.”
Maradick shook his head. “No, I don’t understand,” he said. “And when I get back to my regular work again I shall begin to think it’s all bunkum. But I do know that I’ve been near something that I’ve never touched before. There’s something in the place that’s changed us all for a moment. We’ll all go back and be all the same again; but things can’t ever be quite the same again for me, thank God.”
Punch knocked out his pipe against the heel of his boot.
“Man,” he said suddenly, “if you’d just come with me and walk the lanes and the hills I’d show you things. You’d begin to understand.” He gripped Maradick’s arm. “Come with me,” he said, “leave all your stupid life; let me show you the real things. It’s not worth dying with your eyes shut.”
For a moment something in Maradick responded. For a wild instant he thought that he would say yes. Then he shook his head.
“No, David, my friend,” he answered. “That’s not my life. There’s my wife, and there are others. That’s my line. But it will all be different now. I shan’t forget.”
Punch smiled. “Well, perhaps you’re right. You’ve got your duty. But just remember that it isn’t only children we men and women are begetting. We’re creating all the time. Every time that you laugh at a thought, every time that you’re glad, every time that you’re seeing beauty and saying so, every time that you think it’s better to be decent than not, better to be merry than sad, you’re creating. You’re increasing the happy population of the world. Young Gale was that, and now you’ve found it too. That’s religion; it’s obvious enough. Plenty of other folks have said the same, but precious few have done it.”
Then, as they said good-bye, he said —
“And remember that I’m there if you want me. I’ll always come. I’m always ready. All winter I’m in London. You’ll find me in the corner by the National Gallery, almost opposite the Garrick Theatre, with my show, most nights; I’m your friend always.”
And Maradick knew as he went down the dark stairs that that would not be the last that he would see of him.
He climbed, for the last time, up the hill that ran above the sea. Its hard white line ran below him to the town, and above him across the moor through the little green wood that fringed the hill. For a moment his figure, black and tiny, was outlined against the sky. There was a wind up here and it swept around his feet.
Far below him the sea lay like a blue stone, hard and sharply chiselled. Behind him the white road curved like a ribbon above him, and around him was the delicate bending hollow of the sky.
For a moment he stood there, a tiny doll of a man.
The wind whistled past him laughing. Three white clouds sailed majestically above his head. The hard black body of the wood watched him tolerantly.
He passed again down the white road.
CHAPTER XXI. SIX LETTERS
Mrs. Maradick to Miss Crowdet.
The Elms, Epsom.
October 17.
My dearest Louie,
I’ve been meaning to write all this week, but so many things have accumulated since we’ve been away that there’s simply not been a minute to write a decent letter. No, Treliss wasn’t very nice this time. You know, dear, the delightful people that were there last year? Well, there were none of them this year at all except that Mrs. Lawrence, who really got on my nerves to such an extent!
There were some people called Gale we saw something of — Lady and Sir Richard Gale. I must say I thought them rather bad form, but Jim liked them; and then their boy eloped with a girl from the town, which made it rather thrilling, especially as Sir Richard was simply furious with Jim because he thought that he’d had something to do with it. And you can’t imagine how improved dear old Jim is with it all, really quite another man, and so amusing when he likes; and people quite ran after him there, you wouldn’t have believed it. There was a horrid woman, a Mrs. Lester, who would have gone to any lengths, I really believe, only, of course, Jim wasn’t having any. I always said that he could be awfully amusing if he liked and
really nice, and he’s been going out quite a lot since we’ve been back and everybody’s noticed the difference.
And what do you think? We may be leaving Epsom! I know it’ll be simply hateful leaving you, dear, but it’ll only be London, you know, and you can come up whenever you like and stay just as long as you please, and we’ll be awfully glad. But Epsom is a little slow, and what Jim says is quite true — why not be either town or country? It’s what I’ve always said, you know, and perhaps we’ll have a little cottage somewhere as well.
By the way, dear, as you are in town I wish you’d just look in at Harrod’s and see about those patterns. Two and elevenpence is much too much, and if the ones at two and sixpence aren’t good enough you might ask for another sort!
Do come and see us soon. I might come up for a matinée some day soon. Write and let me know.
Your loving
Emmy.
To Anthony Gale, Esq.,
20 Tryon Square,
Chelsea, S.W.
My dear Boy,
I was very glad to get your letter this morning. You’ve been amazingly quick about settling in, but then I expect that Janet’s an excellent manager. I’ll be delighted to come to dinner next Wednesday night, and shall look forward enormously to seeing you both and the kind of home that you have. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to me to hear that you are both so happy. Of course I knew that you would be and always, I hope, will be, but the responsibility on my part was rather great and I wanted to hear that it was all right. I’m so glad that your mother likes Janet so much. I knew that they would get on, and I hope that very soon your father will come as well and make everything all right in that direction. We’re all quite settled down here again now; well, not quite. Treliss has left its mark on both of us, and we’re even thinking — don’t jump out of your chair with excitement — of coming up to London to live. A little wider life will suit both of us better now, I think. Nothing is settled yet, but I’m going to look about for a house.
Treliss did rather a lot for all of us, didn’t it? It all seems a little incredible, really; but you’ve got Janet to show you that it’s real enough, and I’ve got, well, quite a lot of things, so that it can’t have been all a dream.
Well until Wednesday. Then I’ll hear all the news.
My affection to Janet.
Your friend,
James Maradick.
To James Maradick,
The Elms, Epsom.
20 Tryon Square,
Chelsea, S.W.
October 25, 1909.
My dear Maradick,
Hurray! I’m so glad that you can come on Wednesday, but I’m just wild with joy that you are really coming to live in London. Hurray again! Only you must, you positively must come to live in Chelsea. It’s the only possible place. Everybody who is worth knowing lives here, including a nice intelligent young couple called Anthony and Janet Gale. The house — our house — is simply ripping. All white and distempered by your humble servant; and Janet’s been simply wonderful. There’s nothing she can’t do, and everybody all over the place loves her. We haven’t had a word from her father, so I don’t suppose that he’s going to take any more trouble in that direction, but I heard from Garrick the other day — you remember Punch — and he says that he saw him not long ago sitting on the shore and piping to the waves with a happy smile on his face. Isn’t he rum?
The Minns is here and enjoying herself like anything. She’s bought a new bonnet and looks no end — my eye! And what do you think? Who should turn up this morning but the governor! Looking awfully cross at first, but he couldn’t stand against Janet; and he went away as pleased as anything, and says we must have a better sideboard in the dining-room, and he’s going to give us one. Isn’t that ripping? The writing’s getting on. I met a fellow at tea the other day, Randall, he’s editor of the New Monthly; he was a bit slick up, but quite decent, and now he’s taken one of my things, and I’ve had quite a lot of reviewing.
Well, good-bye, old chap. You know that Janet and I would rather have you here than anyone else in the world, except the mater, of course. We owe you everything. Buck up and come here to live. Love from Janet.
Your affect.
Tony.
To Lady Gale,
12 Park Lane, W.
Rossholm,
Nr. Dartford, Kent,
October 25.
My Dear,
This is only a hurried little scrawl to say that Fred and I are going to be up in town for a night next week and should awfully like to see you if it’s possible. Fred’s dining that night with some silly old writer, so if I might just come in and have a crumb with you I’d be awfully glad. Fred and I have both decided that we didn’t like Treliss a bit this year and we’re never going there again. If it hadn’t been for you I simply don’t know what we’d have done. There’s something about the place.
Fred felt it too, only he thought it was indigestion. And then the people! I know you rather liked those Maradick people. But I thought the man perfectly awful. Of course one had to be polite, but, my dear, I really don’t think he’s very nice, not quite the sort of man — oh well! you know! Not that I’d say anything against him for the world, but there’s really no knowing how far one can go with a man of that kind. But of course I scarcely saw anything of them.
How is Tony? I hear that they’ve settled in Chelsea. Is Sir Richard reconciled? You must tell me everything when we meet. Fred — he is such a pet just now — sends regards.
Ever
Your loving
Milly.
To James Maradick, Esq.,
The Elms, Epsom.
12 Park Lane, W.
October 21.
Dear Mr. Maradick,
I’ve been wanting to write to you for some days, but so many things crowd about one in London, and even now I’ve only got a moment. But I thought that you would like to know that both my husband and myself have been to see Tony in Chelsea and that we think Janet perfectly charming. My husband was conquered by her at once; one simply cannot help loving her. She is no fool either. She is managing that house splendidly, and has got a good deal more common-sense than Tony has.
Of course now you’ll say that we ought to have shown her to Sir Richard at once if he’s got to like her so much. But that isn’t so. I’m quite sure that he would never have allowed the marriage if there’d been a chance of it’s being prevented. But now he’s making the best of it, and it’s easy enough when it’s Janet.
I think he feels still sore at your having “interfered,” as he calls it, but that will soon wear off and then you must come and see us. Alice Du Cane is staying with us. She has been so much improved lately, much more human; she’s really a charming girl.
And meanwhile, how can I thank you enough for all that you have I done? I feel as though I owed you everything. It won’t bear talking or writing about, but I am more grateful than I can ever say.
But keep an eye on Tony. He is devoted to you. He is still very young, and you can do such a lot for him.
Please remember me to your wife.
I am,
Yours very sincerely,
Lucy Gale.
To James Maradick, Esq.,
The Elms, Epsom.
On the road to Ashbourne,
Derbyshire.
11 a.m.
I’m sitting under a hedge with this bit of paper on my knee; dirty you’ll be thinking it, but I find that waiting for paper means no letter at all, and so it’s got to be written when the moment’s there. I’m tramping north — amongst the lakes I’m making for. It’s fine weather and a hard white road, and the show’s been going strong these last days. There’s a purple line of hills behind me, and a sky that’ll take a lot of poet’s talking to glorify it, and a little pond at the turn of the road that’s bluer than blue-bells.
The new dog’s none so stupid as I thought him; not that he’s Toby, but he’s got a sense of humour on him that’s more than a basketful of intelligence.
Last night I was in a fine inn with a merry company. I wish that you could have heard the talking, but you’ll have been dining with your napkin on your knee and a soft carpet at your feet. There was a fine fellow last night that had seen the devil last week walking on the high ridge that goes towards Raddlestone.
Maybe it was Morelli; like enough. He’s often round that way. I’m thinking of you often, and I’ll be back in London, November. I’d like to have you out here, with stars instead of chimney pots and a red light where the sun’s setting.
I’ll write again from the North.
Yours very faithfully,
David Garrick.
CHAPTER XXII. THE PLACE
It is twilight. The cove is sinking with its colours into the evening mists. The sea is creeping very gently over the sand, that shines a little with the wet marks that the retreating tide has left.
The rocks, the hills, the town, rise behind the grey mysterious floor that stretches without limit into infinite distance in black walls sharply outlined against the night blue of the sky.
There is only one star. Some sheep are crying in a fold.
A cold wind passes like a thief over the sand. The sea creeps back relentlessly, ominously . . . eternally.
THE END
MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL
OR, THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill; Or the Gods and Mr. Perrin was first published by Mills and Boon in 1911. Mills and Boon was established in 1908 by Gerald Rusgrove Mills and Charles Boon. While the publisher would become famous for its romantic fiction after the 1930’s, its early releases featured a wide array of genres, including crime stories, Shakespeare and P. G. Wodehouse. Walpole’s novel sold well and was his first significant success in the literary world. He would later comment in 1936 that he considered this work to be ‘probably the truest’ he had ever produced. The book was heavily influenced by Walpole’s experiences as both a pupil and teacher. He attended a series of schools during his childhood, where he frequently suffered from bullying and periods of great distress and unhappiness, while his fairly brief time teaching at Epsom College — the chief inspiration for the work — was challenging and unsatisfying.