Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “It’s so still,” he said suddenly, “that it’s almost like thunder. There’ll be a storm later. On a day like this in Cornwall you would hear the sound of the Mining Stamps for miles—”

  “Well,” she answered, “I am glad we’re not in Cornwall — I hate it.”

  “Hate it!”

  “Yes. That sounds horrible to you, I suppose, and I’m quite ready to admit that it’s my cowardice. Cornwall frightens me. When I was there as a tiny girl it was just the same. I always hated it.”

  “I don’t believe you’re ever frightened at anything.”

  “I am. I’m under such a disadvantage, you see. If I’d been white-faced and haggard every one would have thought it quite natural that I should scream if I were left in the dark or hate being left alone with those horrible black rocks that Cornwall’s so full of, but just because I’m healthy and was taught to hold my back up at school I have to pretend to a bravery that simply doesn’t exist—” He rejected, for the moment the last part of her sentence. “Oh, but I understand perfectly what you mean by your fear of Cornwall. Of course I understand it although I love the place with all my soul and body. But it is terrifying — almost the only terrifying place that civilisation has left to us — Central Africa is nothing to it—”

  “Are you afraid of it?” she said, looking at him intently.

  “Tremendously — because I suppose it won’t let me alone. It’s difficult to put into words, but I think what I mean is that I want to go on now in London, writing and seeing people and being happy and it’s pulling at me all the time.”

  “What way pulling at you?”

  “I can’t get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there. I wasn’t very happy, you know. I’ve told you something about it.... I want to go back.... I want to go back. I mustn’t, but I want to go back — and it hurts—”

  He seemed to have forgotten her — he stared out to sea, his hands holding the grass on either side of him.

  She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her laughing.

  “Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the black trees reminded me of Scaw House a little.... But it’s all right really. I suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and I’ve had such a rum life and been civilised so short a time....”

  She said slowly: “I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of it to be frightened of it — I don’t want life to be like that. I don’t suppose I’ve got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one to be hurt or damaged. Oh!” — her voice was suddenly like a cry— “Why can’t we just go through life without any one being frightened or made miserable? I believe in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions — all those other things can only hurt.”

  “They teach courage,” Peter answered gravely. “And that’s about the only thing we’re here to learn, I expect. My mother died because she wasn’t brave enough and I want ... I want....”

  He broke off— “There’s only one thing I want and that’s you, Clare. You must have known all these weeks that I love you. I’ve loved you ever since I met you that Good Friday afternoon years ago. Let me take care of you, see that no one hurts you — love you ... love you—”

  “Do you really want me, Peter?”

  He didn’t speak but his whole body turned towards her, answered her question.

  “Because I am yours entirely. I became yours that day when your hand touched mine. I wasn’t sure before — I knew then—”

  He looked at her. He saw her, he thought for the first time. She sat with her hands pressing on the grass, her body bent back a little.

  The curve from her neck to her feet was like the shadow of some colour against the brown earth because he saw her only dimly. Her hair burnt against the blue sky but her eyes — her eyes! His gaze caught hers and he surrendered himself to that tenderness, that mystery, that passion that she flung about him. In her eyes he saw what only a lover can see — the terror and the splendour of a soul surprised for the first time into love. She was caught, she was trapped, she was gorgeously delivered. In her eyes he saw that he had her in the hollow of his hand and that she was glad to be there.

  But even now they had not touched — they had not moved from their places. They were urged towards one another by some fierce power but also some great suspense still restrained them.

  Then Clare spoke, hurriedly, almost pleadingly.

  “But Peter, listen — before I say any more — you must know me better. I think that it is just because I love you so much that I see myself clearly to-day as I have never seen myself before — although I have, I suppose really known ... things ... but I have denied them to myself. But now I know that all that I say is true—”

  “I am ready,” he said, smiling. But she did not smile back at him, she was intensely serious, she spoke without moving her eyes from his face.

  “It is not altogether my fault. I have been an only child and everything that I have wanted I have always had. I have despised my mother and even my father because they have given in to me — that is not a pleasant thing to know. And now comfort, happiness, an absence of all misery, these things are essential—”

  “I will look after you,” said Peter. It was almost with irritation that she brushed aside his assurance.

  “Yes, yes, I know, but you must understand that it’s more than that. If I am unhappy I am another creature you haven’t seen ... you don’t know.... If I am frightened—”

  “But Clare, dear, we’re all like that—”

  “No, it’s sheer wickedness with me. Oh! Peter I love you so much that you must listen. You mustn’t think afterwards, ah, if I’d only known—”

  “Aren’t you making too much of it all? We’ve all got these things and it’s just because we can help each other that we marry. We give each the courage—”

  “I’ve always been frightened,” she said slowly, “always when anything big comes along — always. And this is the biggest thing I’ve ever met. If only it had been some ordinary man ... but you, Peter, that I should hurt you.”

  “You won’t hurt me,” he answered her, “and I’d rather be hurt by you than helped by some one else — let’s leave all this. If you love me, there’s nothing else to say.... Do you love me, Clare?”

  “Yes, Peter.”

  Then suddenly before he could move towards her a storm that had been creeping upon them, burst over their heads. Five minutes ago there had been no sign of anything but the finest weather, but, in a moment the black clouds had rolled up and the thunder broke, clashing upon the world. The sea had vanished.

  “We must run for it,” cried Peter, raising his voice against the storm. “That cottage over there — it’s the only place.”

  They ran. The common was black now — the rain drove hissing, against the soil, the air was hot with the faint sulphur smell.

  Peter flung himself upon the cottage door and Clare followed him in. For a moment they stood, breathless. Then Peter, conscious only that Clare was beside him, wild with the excitement of the storm, caught her, held her for a moment away from him, breathed the thunder that was about them all, and then kissed her mouth, wet with the rain.

  She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder.

  “Why, you’re not frightened?” The sense of her helplessness filled him with a delicious vigour. The way that her hand pressed in upon his shoulder exalted him. Her wet golden hair brushed his cheek. Then he remembered that they had invaded the cottage. For the first time it occurred to him that their first embrace might have been observed; he turned around.

  The room was filthy, a huge black fire-place occupied most of it, the floor was littered with pieces of paper, of vegetables and a disagreeable smell protested against the closed and dirty windows. At first it seemed that this place was empty and then, with a start, he was aware that two eyes were watching them. The thunder pealed above them, the rain lashed the roof and ran stream
ing from the eaves; the cottage was dark; but he saw in a chair, a bundle of rags from which those eyes were staring.

  Clare gave a little cry; an old woman with a fallen chin and a face like yellow parchment sat huddled in the chair.

  Peter spoke to her. “I hope you don’t mind our taking shelter here, whilst the storm passes.” She had seen them embrace; it made him uncomfortable, but the storm was passing away, already the thunder was more distant.

  The old woman made no reply, only her eyes glared at them. Peter put his hand in Clare’s— “It’s all right; I think the old thing’s deaf and dumb and blind — look, the storm’s passing — there’s a bit of blue sky. Isn’t it odd an old thing like that...”

  Clare, shuddered a little. “I don’t like it — she’s horrid — this place is so dirty. I believe the rain’s stopped.”

  They opened the door and the earth met them, good and sweet, after the shower. The sky was breaking, the mists were leaving the sea and as the storm vanished, the sun, dipping towards the horizon flung upon the blue a fleet of tiny golden clouds.

  Peter bent down to the old woman.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for giving us shelter.” He placed a shilling on her lap.

  “She’s quite deaf and blind,” he said. “Poor old thing!”

  They closed the door behind them and passed down a little path to the seashore. Here wonders met them. The sand, wet with the recent storm catching all the colours of the sky shone with mother of pearl — here a pool of blue, there the fleet of golden clouds.

  It stretched on every side of them, blazing with colour. Behind them the common, sinking now into the dull light of evening.

  They stood, little pigmies, on that vast painted floor. Before them the breeze, blowing back the waves into the sun again turned the spray to gold.

  Tiny figures, in all this glory, they embraced. In all the world they seemed the only living thing....

  III

  They had their witness. The old woman who lived in the heart of those black trees, was deaf and dumb indeed, but her eyes were alive in her fading and wrinkled body.

  When the door had closed she rose slowly from her chair, and her face was wrinkled with the passion of the hatred that her old soul was feeling.

  What did they mean, those two, coming there and haunting her with their youth and strength and love. Kissing there before her as though she were already dead — she to whom kisses were only bitter memories.

  Her face worked with fury — she hobbled, painfully, to the door and opened it.

  Below her, on a floor of gold, two black figures stood together.

  Gazing at them she raised her thin and trembling hand; she flung with a passionate, furious gesture, something from her.

  A small silver coin glittered in the air, whistled for a moment and fell.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE ROUNDABOUT

  I

  Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon sat solemnly, with the majesty of spreading skirts and Sunday Best hats, in the little drawing-room of The Roundabout, awaiting the return from the honeymoon.

  The Roundabout is the name that Peter has given to the little house in Dorset Street, Chelsea, that he has chosen to live in with his bride. High spirits lead to nicknames and Peter was in the very highest of spirits when he took the house. The name alluded both to the shape — round bow-windowed like — fat bulging little walls, lemon-coloured, and to the kind of life that Peter intended to lead. All was to be Happiness. Life is challenged with all the high spirits of a truly happy ceremony.

  It is indeed a tiny house — tiny hall, tiny stairs, tiny rooms but quaint with a little tumble-down orchard behind it and that strange painted house that old mad Miss Anderson lives in on the other side of the orchard. Such a quiet little street too ... a line of the gravest trees, cobbles with only the most occasional cart and a little church with a sleepy bell at the farthest end ... all was to be Happiness.

  Wedding presents — there had been six hundred or so — filled the rooms. People had, on the whole, been sensible, had given the right thing. The little drawing-room with its grey wall-paper, roses in blue jars, its two pictures — Velasquez’ Maria Theresa in an old silver frame and Rembrandt’s Night Watch — was pleasant, but overwhelmed now by the presence of these two enormous ladies. The evening sun, flooding it all with yellow light, was impertinent enough to blind the eyes of Mrs. Rossiter. She rose and moved slowly to draw down the blinds. A little silver clock struck half-past four.

  “They must soon be here,” said Mrs. Galleon gloomily. Her gloom was happy and comfortable. She was making the very most of a pleasant business with the greatest satisfaction in the world. She had done exactly the same at Bobby’s wedding, and, in her heavy, determined way she would do the same again before she died. Alice Galleon would be there in a moment, meantime the two ladies, without moving in their chairs, flung sentences across at one another and smoothed their silk skirts with their white plump hands.

  “It’s not really a healthy house—”

  “No — with the orchard — and it’s much too small—”

  “Poor dears, hope they’ll be happy. But one can’t help feeling, Jane dear, that it was a little rash of you ... your only girl ... and one knows so little about Mr. Westcott, really—”

  “Well, your own Bobby vouched for him. He’d known him at school after all, and we all know how cautious Bobby is about people — besides, Emma, no one could have received him more warmly—”

  “Yes — Oh! of course ... but still, having no family — coming out of nowhere, so to speak—”

  “Well, it’s to be hoped they’ll get on. I must say that Clare will miss her home terribly. It takes a lot to make up for that — And her father so devoted too....”

  “Yes, we must make the best of it.”

  The sun’s light faded from the room — the clock and the pictures stood out sharply against the gathering dusk. Two ladies filled the room with their shadows and the little fire clicked and rattled behind the murmuring voices.

  II

  Alice Galleon burst in upon them. “What! Not arrived yet! the train must be dreadfully late. Lights! Lights! No, don’t you move, mother!”

  She returned with lamps and flooded the room with light. The ladies displayed a feeble protest against her exultant happiness.

  “I’m sure, my dear, I hope that nothing has happened.”

  “My dear mother, what could happen?”

  “Well, you never know with these trains — and a honeymoon, too, is always rather a dangerous time. I remember—”

  “I hear them!” Alice cried and there indeed they were to be heard bumping and banging in the little hall. The door opened and Peter and Clare, radiant with happiness, appeared.

  They stood in the doorway, side by side, Clare in a little white hat and grey travelling dress and Peter browner and stronger and squarer than ever.

  All these people filled the little room. There was a crackling fire of conversation.

  “Oh! but we’ve had a splendid time—”

  “No, I don’t think Clare’s in the least tired—”

  “Yes, isn’t the house a duck?”

  “Don’t we just love being back!”

  “... hoping you hadn’t caught colds—”

  “... besides we had the easiest crossing—”

  “... How’s Bobby?”

  “... were so afraid that something must have happened—”

  Mrs. Rossiter took Clare upstairs to help her to take her hat off.

  Mother and daughter faced one another — Clare flung herself into her mother’s arms.

  “Oh! Mother dear, he’s wonderful, wonderful!”

  Downstairs Alice watched Peter critically. She had not realised until this marriage, how fond she had grown of Peter. She had, for him, very much the feeling that Bobby had — a sense of tolerance and even indulgence for all tempers and morosities and morbidities. She had seen him, on a day, like a boy of eighteen, loving the world
and everything in it, having, too, a curious inexperience of the things that life might mean to people, unable, apparently, to see the sterner side of life at all — and then suddenly that had gone and given place to a mood in which no one could help him, nothing could cheer him... like Saul, he was possessed with Spirits.

  Now, as he stood there, he looked not a day more than eighteen. Happiness filled him with colour — his eyes were shining — his mouth smiling.

  “Alice, old girl — she’s splendid. I couldn’t have believed that life could be so good—”

  A curious weight was lifted from her at his words. She did not know what it was that she had dreaded. Perhaps it had been merely a sense that Clare was too young and inexperienced to manage so difficult a temperament as Peter’s — and now, after all, it seemed that she had managed it. But in realising the relief that she felt she realised too the love that she had for Peter. When he was young and happy the risks that he ran seemed just as heavy as when he was old and miserable.

  “Oh, Peter! I’m so glad — I know she’s splendid — Oh! I believe you are going to be happy—”

  “Yes!” he answered her confidently, “I believe we are—”

  The ladies — Mrs. Galleon, Mrs. Rossiter and Alice — retired. Later on Clare and Peter were coming into Bobby’s for a short time.

  Left alone in their little house, he drew her to the window that overlooked the orchard and silently they gazed out at the old, friendly, gnarled and knotted tree, and the old thick garden-wall that stretched sharply against the night-sky.

  Behind them the fire crackled and the lamps shed their pleasant glow and that dear child with the great stiff dress that Velasquez painted smiled at them from the wall.

  Peter gave a deep sigh of happiness.