by Hugh Walpole
“I hope you didn’t very much want to be alone,” she said smiling at him; “but really, I couldn’t miss my opportunity. I have been wanting — very badly — ever since yesterday afternoon — to speak to you.”
“Since yesterday afternoon,” he repeated bitterly. “You must feel as they all do, about that.”
“I don’t know how the others feel,” she answered almost fiercely. “That is no business of mine. But I understood, I sympathized, a great deal more than you would believe — and I wanted to tell you so.”
“You couldn’t understand — you couldn’t sympathize. It doesn’t touch you anywhere. You’re going to-day and you won’t come back. Well, don’t think of any of us again. Don’t try and help us — it only makes it worse for us.”
“No, please; that is unkind and untrue. If you would let me I would understand — and even if I am going away it would be something for both of us if we knew that we had parted friends, that—”
But suddenly he interrupted her, standing in her path, his face working most strangely, muttering words that she could not catch. She wondered what he was going to do, he looked so odd and wild against the breaking dawn. Then he seemed to turn from her with a gesture that had some strange greatness in it; he faced the sea, his hands clenched behind his back and in the still hush of the morning she heard his sobs.
“Oh, please — don’t,” and then she stayed in infinite distress waiting for him to turn. His figure was so desolate, so thin and ragged, in the cold morning air, and her heart was full of the deepest aching pity.
At last he turned round to her. “Let us go on,” he said roughly; “I am all in pieces — don’t mind me — you shouldn’t have spoken to me like that — it’s more than I can stand.” Then after a pause he went on, “You mustn’t talk of our being friends. A man like myself cannot be a friend of yours.”
“That is for me to say,” she answered gently. “I have been so wrong all this term. I have only made things worse instead of better and I did so want to help. It’s been awful this term and yesterday afternoon was the worst of all. Oh! If you only knew how I had agreed with the things you said!”
“It isn’t any use,” he answered. “It’s too late.”
“It isn’t too late. It’s never too late. If you won’t let me help you, why then perhaps you’ll help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes — if you knew how miserable it will always make me if we part like this — I shall never cease my regret. Please, tell me a little of what you’ve felt, of what you’re going to do. It isn’t kind to me to leave it like this.”
There was a long silence. She had never before realized how young she was; her inexperience faced her most desperately, so that she felt bitterly that she could not touch even the fringe of his troubles. Every word that she uttered seemed an impertinence and yet she knew that if she went away without speaking she would regret it all her life.
At last he turned round to her; he seemed to have gained absolute control of himself and his voice was quite steady.
“No — I hadn’t meant to be rude like that — only you took me by surprise. I’ve made a wretched muddle of things and, since yesterday afternoon, I’ve seen that I’m a complete failure in every possible sense of the word. You are so splendid in all ways — and you are going to have such a splendid life — that we are at the opposite ends of the world, you and I.”
She noticed, whilst he was speaking, that his speech was clear of all its little affectations and pomposities. He seemed another man from the strange creature whom she had known before.
“No, we are not at the opposite ends of the world. I have felt so miserable all this term. I have felt that in some way I ought to have made things better between you and Archie — Mr. Traill — all that wretched quarreling — and yet I felt so helpless.”
“No. That would have been inevitable without you. An older man feeling that he was being jockeyed out of his place by a younger man and the younger man resenting the older man’s interference — and neither Traill nor I were, I suppose, very tactful. And there we were pressed up against one another with the whole place working on our nerves. No, you hadn’t very much to do with it.”
But it showed how young she was that she did not see the half-tender, half-ironical look that he flung upon her. In his heart he was wondering whether he would tell her, but something, perhaps her very absence of all self-consciousness, held him back —
He went on, softly, almost as though he were talking to himself. “And then, these last weeks it all got on my nerves to such an extent that I was nearly off my head. I wanted to kill Traill. I might have killed him if I had been a stronger man. I felt that it was all so unfair that he should have everything — youth, health, prospects, popularity — everything — and I nothing. I had never been a likable man, perhaps, but there seemed to be no reason. I had it in me, I thought, to do things—”
He stopped for a moment and looked at the sea; its gray was being shot with blue and gold and the banks of mist on the horizon were rolling back like gates before the sun.
“ — And then, yesterday afternoon, when Moy-Thompson was making his speech, I seemed to see suddenly that it was the place — the system — that I had been up against all this time, and not any one person — and suddenly I burst out, scarcely knowing, you know — and I thought I’d done rather a big thing. I thought the other men would be glad that I had led the way. I thought Moy-Thompson would be furious and frightened, but the other men were amused and Moy-Thompson laughed — and suddenly everything cleared and I saw what this place had made of me. They say that it takes a man all a lifetime to know himself — well, I’ve got that knowledge early. I know what I am.”
She suddenly put out her hand and he caught it fiercely in his. “You’re going to have a fine life,” he said; “there are so many people that you will do good to — but you have been everything to one useless creature.”
“I shall always be proud to be your friend.” Curiously, in the growing light, with that strange, uncouth figure holding her hand, she felt more strongly moved than she had ever been before — yes, even Archie Traill’s wooing had not touched her as this did.
“I’m too young to know all that it has meant to you,” at last she said brokenly, “but I shall never, all my life through, forget you. I shall want, please, always to hear—”
“To hear?” His lips twisted into a strange smile. “Ah, you must n ‘t want that.”
“Why not? What are you going to do — now?”
“To do?” He was still strangely smiling. “What is there for me to do? I am too old to struggle outside for a living. I have no means and I am fit for nothing but schoolmastering—”
“Cannot you come back here — in spite of it all?”
“Come back?”
“Yes.”
“Moy-Thompson wants me to come back. He thinks that I am so unimportant that — it doesn’t matter.”
“You will — promise that you will!”
“Ah, it is all so useless,” he said, shaking his head. “Before, when I had built up a kind of opinion of myself it was hard enough, but now, when that is all gone—”
“Oh! I wonder if I can make you understand” — her eyes were flaming— “you must — you must. Don’t you see that you’re being given such a chance! Think of the pluck of it — after all that has happened — to come back, knowing what they think of you, knowing what you think of yourself. Oh! I envy you. I believe the only thing we’re in the world for is to have courage — that answers everything — and some of us have such fat, easy lives that we’ve no chance at all. But you to come back with your teeth set, to build it all up again, to will it all back! Oh! it’s splendid! And Archie and I will have our happy, ordinary existences — just going along — and you’ll be here doing the finest thing in the world. I’d change places with you to-morrow,” she magnificently ended up.
“You see it like that?” he said slowly almost to himself.
/> “Of course I see it like that. Why, I believe that’s what all this term’s been for — to bring to a head — to show you your great chance. That’s life — everything leading up to the one big thing — and now this is yours.”
“My God!” he whispered, “If I could!”
“You must,” she answered, “I believe in you — come back — fight it — win.”
But he shook his head very slowly, very sadly.
“No; I’m not the kind of man to do a thing like that. I’ve had my spirit broken — this place has broken it.”
“No; it is not. I know it is not. Here’s your chance — take it.”
“All these years,” he answered grimly, “twenty years — it’s a long time for a man. I can’t begin all over again.”
“Twenty years are nothing. You’ve never seen things straight as you see things now — It’s never been the same before.”
He turned round and stared fiercely into her eyes.
“Do you believe I could do it?” he said.
“Of course I do.”
“Win back respect — make them forget yesterday — go on with the old torture—” he shuddered and buried his face in his hands.
“I believe in you,” she answered steadfastly.
He drew a deep breath. “At last!”
“I believe in you.”
“You are not saying that only to comfort met”
“No; you know that I am not.”
“To come back — to go on — to face it all.”
“It’s the hardest thing and the finest thing — I shall know — I shall always remember.”
As he looked at her he knew that he might kiss her and that she would not have drawn back — but she was not his. He faced it out in that brief moment — all the ignominy, the mockery, the drudgery — the hell that Moffatt’s was. Was it really his chance? Was he really in some way a new man, or was it only the passing emotion that moved him? Could he do anything still with his poor old wreck of a soul?
There was a long silence. They had reached Rayner’s Point. Here the sea swept, in a great arc to left and right. Sea and sky were very faintly blue. The sun broke the golden bands that bound it, the light flooded the brown earth of the winter fields, the shining mist glittered through the brown wood that hung like a cloud behind them on the horizon, a white gull, breaking the stillness with its cries, swerved past them out to sea.
Perrin drew a deep breath. “If you will help me, I’ll come back,” he said.
The new day shone about their heads.
IV.
Later, at the Comber’s breakfast-table there was confusion. Mrs. Comber was flushed and happy. It was true that this happy release was only for a few weeks, but her “Freddie” was more genial and pleasant than he had been since the days of their honeymoon and her boys were returning that afternoon.
“Freddie — another sausage — Oh! My dear Isabel, here’s a bill from that dressmaker again and she sent one only last week; she can’t leave one alone. Really, Freddie, another one won’t hurt you — and I told her only a month ago that I couldn’t pay for that black silk until Easter — well, some marmalade, then, if you won’t have another — what train did you say you were going to catch, Isabel? I’m so glad it’s a sunny day — you were up quite early weren’t you, dear? — and I meant to go in and see what Mrs. Dormer had to say about yesterday afternoon, you know, Mr. Perrin — and now I shan’t have a minute because Jane’s been so silly about Freddie’s shirts and his pyjamas — she missed them when they came from the wash, so that really it — but what did you think of it all, Isabel dear?”
“Of what all?” asked Isabel.
“Why, Mr. Perrin, of course. Poor man, of course he’s been queer all this time — anyone could see, but really — I wonder what he’ll do now?”
“I expect that he’ll come back,” said Isabel.
“Come back? Well! But of course Moy-Thompson will have him back if he can. That would keep him quiet. Then he could pretend to the governors that it was simply nerves — which it was mostly, I should think. I’m sure we were all nervy enough for anything. I’m sure I’ve been most queer all this term. And then his quarreling like that with Archie and everything. Oh! Yes, Moy-Thompson will keep him if he can — under his thumb.”
Freddie Comber had left the room. The two women were alone.
Mrs. Comber was sitting at the table, with her mouth wide open, like a fish, counting on the cloth with her fingers in order to remember the things that she ought to do.
“Dear?” said Isabel.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Comber, smiling.
“I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything in the world, dear, you know. Five, Mrs. Johnson’s hill for that ironing; six, Freddie’s socks; seven, the suit—”
“No, dear, please — just for a minute I want you to listen altogether to me.”
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Comber stopped her counting.
“Well, it’s this. Mr. Perrin is coming back. I saw him this morning—”
“You saw him this morning! Isabel!”
“Yes. We both went out to see the sun rise — to the Golden View. He talked to me. Dear, I never understood things before — things or people. There must be so many people like that who are so splendid inside and so dull outside.”
“I don’t want to be unkind, dear,” Mrs. Comber answered slowly, “but I cannot believe that Mr. Perrin is splendid inside — I can’t really.”
“Oh, but he is, he is! He’s coming back like a hero. Why, when I think of Archie and myself and our lives — and all the other people with lives like them — and then when I think of all the awkward, bad-mannered, stiff, jolty people who are heroes every day they live, I’m ashamed!”
Mrs. Comber was astonished. “Well, my dear,” she said, “it does seem to have affected you — really. Of course I want to be kind to everybody — even Mrs. Dormer — and of course I’ll believe what you say, and I’m sure I’m very sorry for him, and it won’t be pleasant for him coming back.”
“No,” said Isabel. “It won’t — no one ought ever to come back here again — but if only you’ll be a friend to him —
“You see,” she went on again, “he’s the kind of man whom those things matter to so frightfully. And no one’s ever taken any interest in him or any trouble — and now if you and I—”
“Anything,” said Mrs. Comber, “that you want me to do.”
“I sometimes think,” said Isabel, “that the world’s topsy-turvy. People seem to put so much value on all the outside things, and if someone’s ugly and awkward—”
Her gaze through the window was arrested by the sight of a cab at the door of the Lower School. The porter came out with a brown portmanteau — a very old brown portmanteau — and he put it on the cab. It was a very old cab, and a very old horse and a very old driver.
Mr. Perrin, wearing a bowler that was too small for him and in his old shabby overcoat, got into the cab.
The bag bounced about on the roof as the old horse stumbled away.
Would he come back and fight it out? She knew, with certain faith, that he would.
Would he win through? She did not know, but in the sun and glorious beauty of that day she seemed to get her answer.
Meanwhile the old cab rumbled down the Brown Hill.
“It shall be all right, next term,” said Mr. Perrin.
THE END
THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
TO MY FRIEND R. A. STREATFIELD
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat — and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet —
All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.
The Hound of Heaven.
16 HALLAM STREET, October 11, 1911.
CHAPTER I
LAST CHAPTER
1
“There is a God after all.” That was the immense conviction that faced him as he heard, slowly, softly, the leaves, the twigs, settle themselves after that first horrid crash which the clumsy body had made.
Olva Dune stood for an instant straight and stiff, his arms heavily at his side, and the dank, misty wood slipped back once more into silence. There was about him now the most absolute stillness: some trees dripped in the mist; far above him, on the top of the hill, the little path showed darkly — below him, in the hollow, black masses of fern and weed lay heavily under the chill November air — at his feet there was the body.
In that sudden after silence he had known beyond any question that might ever again arise, that there was now a God — God had watched him.
With grave eyes, with hands that did not tremble, he surveyed and then, bending, touched the body. He knelt in the damp, heavy soil, tore open the waistcoat, the shirt; the flesh was yet warm to his touch — the heart was still. Carfax was dead.
It had happened so instantly. First that great hulking figure in front of him, the sneering laugh, that last sentence, “Let her rot . . . my dear Dune, your chivalry does you credit.” Then that black, blinding, surging rage and the blow that followed. He did not know what he had intended to do. It did not matter — only in the force that there had been in his arm there had been the accumulated hatred of years, hatred that dated from that first term at school thirteen years ago when he had known Carfax for the dirty hypocrite that he was. He could not stay now to think of the many things that had led to this climax. He only knew that as he raised himself again from the body there was with him no feeling of repentance, no suggestion of fear, only a grim satisfaction that he had struck so hard, and, above all, that lightning certainty that he had had of God.