Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “Now, Tom Prother, out with thy musick.” One of the fat figures felt in his coat and produced four papers, and these were handed round.

  “Bill, my son, it’s for thee to lead off at thy brightest, mind ye. Let ’em have it praper.”

  The small figure came forward and began; at first his voice was thin and quavering, but in the second line it gathered courage and rang out full and bold:

  As oi sat under a sicymore tree

  A sicymore tree, a sicymore tree,

  Oi looked me out upon the sea

  On Christ’s Sunday at morn.

  “Well for thee, lad,” said the tall figure approvingly, “but the cold is creepin’ from the tips o’ my fingers till my singin’ voice is most frozen. Now, altogether.”

  And the birds in the silent garden woke amongst the ivy on the distant wall and listened:

  Oi saw three ships a-sailin’ there —

  A sailin’ there, a-sailin’ there,

  Jesu, Mary, and Joseph they bare

  On Christ’s Sunday at morn.

  A small boy curled up, like the birds, under the roof stirred uneasily in his sleep and then slowly woke. He moved, and gave a little cry because his back hurt him, then he remembered everything. The voices came up to him from the garden:

  Joseph did whistle and Mary did sing,

  Mary did sing, Mary did sing,

  And all the bells on earth did ring

  For joy our Lord was born.

  O they sail’d in to Bethlehem,

  To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem;

  Saint Michael was the steersman,

  Saint John sate in the horn.

  And all the bells on earth did ring,

  On earth did ring, on earth did ring;

  “Welcome be thou Heaven’s King,

  On Christ’s Sunday at morn.”

  He got slowly out of bed and went to the window. The light was coming in broad bands from the East and he could hear the birds in the ivy. The four black figures stood out against the white shadowy garden and their heads were bent together. He opened his window, and the fresh morning air swept about his face.

  He could hear the whispers of the singers as they chose another carol and suddenly above the dark iron gates of the garden appeared the broad red face of the sun.

  CHAPTER III

  OF THE DARK SHOP OF ZACHARY TAN, AND OF THE DECISIONS THAT THE PEOPLE IN SCAW HOUSE CAME TO CONCERNING PETER

  I

  But it was of the nature of the whole of life that these things should pass. “Look back on this bitterness a year hence and see how trivial it seems” was one of the little wisdoms that helped Peter’s courage in after years. And to a boy of twelve years a beating is forgotten with amazing quickness, especially if it is a week of holiday and there have been other beatings not so very long before.

  It left things behind it, of course. It was the worst beating that Peter had ever had, and that was something, but its occurrence marked more than a mere crescendo of pain, and that evening stood for some new resolution that he did not rightly understand yet — something that was in its beginning the mere planting of a seed. But he had certainly met the affair in a new way and, although in the week that followed he saw his father very seldom and spoke to him not at all beyond “Good morning” and “Good night,” he fancied that he was in greater favour with him than he had ever been before.

  There were always days of silence after a beating, and that was more markedly the case now when it was a week of holidays and no Parlow to go to. Peter did not mind the silence — it was perhaps safer — and so long as he was home by six o’clock he could spend the day where he pleased. He asked Mrs. Trussit about the carol-singers. There was a little room, the housekeeper’s room, to which he crept when he thought that it was safe to do so. She was a different Mrs. Trussit within the boundary of her kingdom — a very cosy kingdom with pink wall-paper, a dark red sofa, a canary in a cage, and a fire very lively in the grate. From the depths of a big arm-chair, her black silk dress rustling a little every now and then, her knitting needles clinking in the firelight, Mrs. Trussit held many conversations in a subdued voice with Peter, who sat on the table and swung his legs. She was valuable from two points of view — as an Historian and an Encyclopædia. She had been, in the first place, in the most wonderful houses — The Earl of Twinkerton’s, Bambary House, Wiltshire, was the greatest of these, and she had been there for ten years; there were also Lady Mettlesham, the Duchess of Cranburn, and, to Peter, the most interesting of all, Mr. Henry Galleon, the famous novelist who was so famous that American ladies used to creep into his garden and pick leaves off his laurels.

  Peter had from her a dazzling picture of wonderful houses — of staircases and garden walks, of thousands and thousands of shining rooms, of family portraits, and footmen with beautiful legs. Above it all was “my lady” who was always beautiful and stately and, of course, devoted to Mrs. Trussit. Why that good woman left these noble mansions for so dreary a place as Scaw House Peter never could understand, and for many years that remained a mystery to him — but in awed whispers he asked her questions about the lords and ladies of the land and especially about the famous novelist and, from the answers given to him, constructed a complete and most romantic picture of the Peerage.

  But, as an Encyclopædia, Mrs. Trussit was even more interesting. She had apparently discovered at an early age that the golden rule of life was never to confess yourself defeated by any question whatever, and there was therefore nothing that he could ask her for which she had not an immediate answer ready. Her brow was always unruffled, her black shining hair brushed neatly back and parted down the middle, her large flat face always composed and placid, and her voice never raised above a whisper. The only sign that she ever gave of disturbance was a little clucking noise that she made in her mouth like an aroused hen. Peter’s time in the little pink sitting-room was sometimes exceedingly short and he used to make the most of it by shooting questions at the good lady at an astonishing rate, and he was sometimes irritated by her slow and placid replies:

  “What kind of stockings did Mr. Galleon wear?”

  “He didn’t wear stockings unless, as you might say, in country attire, and then, if I remember correctly, they were grey.”

  “Had he any children?”

  “There was one little dear when I had the honour of being in the house — and since then I have heard that there are two more.”

  “Mrs. Trussit, where do children come from?”

  “They are brought by God’s good angels when we are all asleep in the night time.”

  “Oh!” (this rather doubtfully). A pause — then “Did the Earl of Twinkerton have hot or cold baths?”

  “Cold in the morning, I believe, with the chill off and hot at night before dressing for dinner. He was a very cleanly gentleman.”

  “Mrs. Trussit, where is Patagonia? It came in the history this morning.”

  “North of the Caribbean Sea, I believe, my dear.”

  And so on, and Peter never forgot any of her answers. About the carol-singers she was a little irritable. They had woken her it seemed from a very delightful sleep, and she considered the whole affair “savoured of Paganism.” And then Peter found suddenly that he didn’t wish to talk about the carol-singers at all because the things that he felt about them were, in some curious way, not the things that he could say to Mrs. Trussit.

  She was very kind to him during that Christmas week and gave him mixed biscuits out of a brightly shining tin that she kept in a cupboard in her room. But outside the gates of her citadel she was a very different person, spoke to Peter but rarely, and then always with majesty and from a long way away. Her attitude to the little maid-of-all-work was something very wonderful indeed, and even to Aunt Jessie her tone might be considered patronising.

  But indeed to Aunt Jessie it was very difficult to be anything else. Aunt Jessie was a poor creature, as Peter discovered very early in life. He found that she never had any answers ready
to the questions that he asked her and that she hesitated when he wished to know whether he might do a thing or no. She was always trembling and shaking, and no strong-minded person ever wore mittens. He had a great contempt for his aunt....

  On New Year’s Eve, the last day but one of release from old Parlow, Mr. Westcott spent the day doing business in Truro, and at once the atmosphere over Scaw House seemed to lighten. The snow had melted away, and there was a ridiculous feeling of spring in the air; ridiculous because it was still December, but Cornwall is often surprisingly warm in the heart of winter, and the sun was shining as ardently as though it were the middle of June. The sunlight flooded the dining-room and roused old grandfather Westcott to unwonted life, so that he stirred in his chair and was quite unusually talkative.

  He stopped Peter after breakfast, as he was going out of the room and called him to his side:

  “Is that the sun, boy?”

  “Yes, grandfather.”

  “Deary me, to think of that and me a poor, broken, old man not able to move an arm or foot.”

  He raised himself amongst his cushions, and Peter saw an old yellow wrinkled face with the skin drawn tight over the cheekbones and little black shining eyes like drops of ink. A wrinkled claw shot out and clutched Peter’s hand.

  “Do you love your grandfather, boy?”

  “Of course, grandfather.”

  “That’s right, that’s right — on a nice sunny morning, too. Do you love your father, boy?”

  “Of course, grandfather.”

  “He, he — oh, yes — all the Westcotts love their fathers. He loved his father when he was young, didn’t he? Oh, yes, I should rather think so.”

  And his voice rose into a shrill scream so that Peter jumped. Then he began to look Peter up and down.

  “You’ll be strong, boy, when you’re a man — oh, yes, I should rather think so — I was strong once.... Do you hear that?... I was strong once, he, he!”

  And here grandfather Westcott, overcome by his chuckling, began to cough so badly that Peter was afraid that he was going to be ill, and considered running for Aunt Jessie.

  “Hit my back, boy — huh, huh! Ugh, ugh! That’s right, hit it hard — that’s better — ugh, ugh! Oh! deary me! that’s better — what a nasty cough, oh, deary me, what a nasty cough! I was strong once, boy, hegh, hegh! Indeed I was, just like your father — and he’ll be just like me, one day! Oh! yes, he will — blast his bones! He, he! We all come to it — all of us strong men, and we’re cruel and hard, and won’t give a poor old man enough for his breakfast — and then suddenly we’re old ourselves, and what fun that is! Oh! Yes, your father will be old one day!” and suddenly, delighted with the thought, the old man slipped down beneath his cushions and was fast asleep.

  And Peter went out into the sunlight.

  II

  Peter looked very different at different times. When he was happy his cheeks were flooded with colour, his eyes shone, and his mouth smiled. He was happy now, and he forgot as he came out into the garden that he had promised his aunt that he would go in and see his mother for a few minutes. Old Curtis, wearing the enormous sun-hat that he always had flapping about his head and his trousers tied below his knees with string in the most ridiculous way, was sweeping the garden path. He never did very much work, and the garden was in a shocking state of neglect, but he told delightful stories. To-day, however, he was in a bad temper and would pay no attention to Peter at all, and so Peter left him and went out into the high road.

  It was two miles across the common to Stephen’s farm and it took the boy nearly an hour, because the ground was uneven and there were walls to climb, and also because he was thinking of what his grandfather had said. Would his father one day be old and silly like his grandfather? Did every one get old and silly like that? and, if so, what was the use of being born at all? But what happened to all his father’s strength? Where did it all go to? In some curious undefined way he resented his grandfather’s remarks. He could have loved and admired his father immensely had he been allowed to, but even if that were not permitted he could stand up for him when he was attacked. What right had his silly old grandfather to talk like that?... His father would one day be old? And Stephen, would he be old, too? Did all strength go?

  Peter was crossing a ploughed field, and the rich brown earth heaved in a great circle against the sky and in the depth of its furrows there were mysterious velvet shadows — the brown hedges stood back against the sky line. The world was so fresh and clean and strong this morning that the figure and voice of his grandfather hung unpleasantly about him and depressed him. There were so many things that he wanted to know and so few people to tell him, and he turned through the white gates of Stephen’s farm with a consciousness that since Christmas Eve the world had begun to be a new place.

  Stephen was sitting in the upstairs room scratching his head over his accounts, whilst his old mother sat dozing, with her knitting fallen on to her lap by the fire. The window was open, and all the sound and smells of the farm came into the room. The room was an old one with brown oaken rafters and whitewashed walls, a long oaken table down the middle of it, and a view over the farmyard and the sweeping fields beyond it, lost at last, in the distant purple hills. Peter was given a chair opposite the old lady, who was nearly eighty, and wore a beautiful white cap, and she woke up and talked incessantly, because she was very garrulous by nature and didn’t care in the least to whom she talked. Peter politely listened to what she had to say, although he understood little of it, and his eyes were watching for the moment when the accounts should be finished and Stephen free.

  “Ay,” said the old lady, “and it were good Mr. Tenement were the rector in those days, I remember, and he gave us a roaring discourse many’s the Sunday. Church is not what it was, with all this singing and what not and the clothes the young women wear — I remember...”

  But Stephen had closed his books with a bang and given his figures up in despair. “I don’t know how it is, boy,” he said, “but they’re at something different every time yer look at ’em — they’re one too many for me, that’s certain.”

  One of Stephen’s eyes was still nearly closed, and both eyes were black and blue, and his right cheek had a bad bruise on it, but Peter thought it was wiser not to allude to the encounter. The farm was exceedingly interesting, and then there was dinner, and it was not until the meal had been cleared away that Peter remembered that he wanted to ask some questions, and then Stephen interrupted him with:

  “Like to go to Zachary Tan’s with me this afternoon, boy? I’ve got to be lookin’ in.”

  Peter jumped to his feet with excitement.

  “Oh! Steve! This afternoon — this very afternoon?”

  It was the most exciting thing possible. Zachary Tan’s was the curiosity shop of Treliss and famous even twenty years ago throughout the south country. It is still there, I believe, although Zachary himself is dead and with him has departed most of the atmosphere of the place, and it is now smart and prosperous, although in those days it was dark and dingy enough. No one knew whence Zachary had come, and he was one of the mysteries of a place that deals, even now, in mysteries. He had arrived as a young man with a basket over his back thirty years before Peter saw the light, when Treliss was a little fishing village and Mr. Bannister, Junior, had not cast his enterprising eye over The Man at Arms. Zachary had beads and silks, and little silver images in his basket, and he had stayed there in a little room over the shop, and things had prospered with him. The inhabitants of the place had never trusted him, but they were always interested. “Thiccy Zachary be a poor trade,” they had said at first, “poor trade” signifying anything or anybody not entirely approved of — but they had hung about his shop, had bought his silks and little ornaments, and had talked to him sometimes with eyes open and mouth agape at the things that he could tell them. And then people had come from Truro and Pendragon and even Bodmin and, finally, Exeter, because they had heard of the things that he had for sale.
No one knew where he found his treasures, for he was always in his shop, smiling and amiable, but sometimes gentlemen would come from London, and he had strange friends like Mr. Andreas Morelli, concerning whose life a book has already been written. Zachary Tan’s shop became at last the word in Treliss for all that was strange and unusual — the strongest link with London and other curious places. He had a little back room behind his shop, where he would welcome his friends, give them something to drink and talk about the world. He was always so friendly that people thought that he must wish for things in return, but he never asked for anything, nor did he speak about himself at all. As for his portrait, he had a pale face, a big beak nose, very black hair that hung over his forehead and was always untidy, a blue velvet jacket, black trousers, green slippers, and small feet.

  He also wore two rings and blew his long nose in silk handkerchiefs of the most wonderful colours. All these things may seem of the slenderest importance, but they are not insignificant if one considers their effect upon Peter. Zachary was the most romantic figure that he had yet encountered; to walk through the shop with its gold and its silver, its dust and its jewels, into the dark little room beyond; to hear this wonderful person talk, to meet men who lived in London, to listen by the light of flickering candles and with one’s eyes fixed upon portraits of ladies dancing in the slenderest attire, this was indeed Life, and Life such as The Bending Mule, Scaw House, and even Stephen’s farm itself could not offer.

  Peter often wondered why Stephen and Zachary were friends, because they seemed to have little enough in common, but Stephen was a silent man, who liked all kinds of company, and Peter noticed that Zachary was always very polite and obliging to Stephen.

  Stephen was very silent going across the Common and down the high road into the town, but Peter knew him too well by this time to interrupt his thoughts. He was thinking perhaps about his accounts that would not come right or about the fight and Burstead his enemy.

  Everybody had their troubles that they thought about and every one had their secrets, the things that they kept to themselves — even Aunt Jessie and old Curtis the gardener — one must either be as clever as Zachary Tan or as foolish as Dicky the Idiot to know very much about people. Zachary, Peter had noticed, was one of the persons who always listened to everything that Dicky had to say, and treated him with the greatest seriousness, even when he seemed to be talking about the wildest things — and it was a great many years after this that Peter discovered that it was only the wisest people who knew how very important fools were. Zachary’s shop was at the very bottom of Poppero Street, the steep and cobbled street that goes straight down to the little wooden jetty where the fishing boats lie, and you could see the sea like a square handkerchief between the houses on either side. Many of the houses in Poppero Street are built a little below the level of the pathway, and you must go down steps to reach the door. Zachary’s shop was like this, and it had a green door with a bright brass knocker. There were always many things jumbled together in the window — candlesticks, china shepherds and shepherdesses, rings and necklaces, cups and saucers, little brass figures, coins, snuff-boxes, match-boxes, charms, and old blue china plates, and at the back a complete suit of armour that had been there ever since Zachary had first opened his shop.