by Hugh Walpole
“As a matter of fact, I’m afraid it was dimmed for a bit. Russia seemed so far away and so did England, and I was hanging in mid-air, between. But now — everything’s all right again.”
“Why now?... Because I’ve paid you a call?”
Uncle Timothy laughed.
Philip looked down at the little public-house. “I’m very glad you have. But this afternoon — it’s been the kind of day I’ve expected London to give me, it seemed to settle me suddenly with a jerk, as though it were pushing me into my place and saying, ‘There! now I’ve found a seat for you’.”
He was talking, he knew, at random, but he was very conscious of Uncle Timothy, the more conscious, perhaps, because he could not see his face.
Then he bent forward in his chair. “It was very jolly of you,” he said, “to come and see me — but tell me, frankly, why you did. We scarcely spoke to one another whilst I was at your sister’s house.”
“I listened to you, though. Years ago I must have been rather like you. How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“Well, when I was thirty I was an idealist. I was impatient of my family although I loved them. I thought the world was going to do great things in a year or two. I believed most devoutly in the Millennium. I grew older — I was hurt badly. I believed no longer, or thought I didn’t. I determined that the only thing in life was to hold oneself absolutely aloof. I have done that ever since.... I had forgotten all these years that I had ever been like you. And then when I heard once again the same things, the same beliefs ...” He broke off, lit his pipe, puffed furiously at it and watched the white clouds sail into the night air.
“Whatever I have felt,” said Philip, slowly, “however I have changed, to-night I know that I am right. To-night I know that all I believed in my most confident hour is true.”
The older man bent forward and put his hand on Philip’s arm.
“Stick to that. Remember at least that you said it to me. If before I died.... There have been times.... After the Boer War here in England it seemed that things were moving. There was new life, new blood, new curiosity. But then I don’t know — it takes so long to wake people up. You woke me up a little with your talk. You woke them all up — a little. And if people like my sister and my brother-in-law — whom I love, mind you — wake up, why then it will be painful for them but glorious for everyone else.”
Philip was more alarmed than ever. He had not, at all, wished to wake the Trenchards up — he had only wanted them to like him. He was a little irritated and a little bored with Uncle Timothy. If only Mr. and Mrs. Trenchard allowed him to love Katherine, he did not care if they never woke up in all their lives. He felt too that he did not really fill the picture of the young ardent enthusiast. He was bound, he knew, to disappoint Uncle Timothy. He would have liked to have taken him by the hand and said to him: “Now if only you will help me to marry Katherine I will be as optimistic as you like for ever and ever.”
But Uncle Tim was cleverer than Philip supposed. “You’re thinking — how tiresome! Here’s this old man forcing me into a stained-glass window. Don’t think that. I know you’re an ordinary nice young fellow just like anyone else. It’s your age that’s pleasant. I’ve lived very much alone all these years at a little house I’ve got down in Glebeshire. You must come and see it. You’re sure to stay with my sister there; she’s only five minutes away. But I’ve been so much alone there that I’ve got into the habit of talking to myself.”
Philip at once loved Uncle Tim.
“I’m delighted that you came. If you’ll let me be a friend of yours I shall be most awfully proud. It was only that I didn’t want you to expect too much of me. One gets into the way in Russia of saying that things are going to be splendid because they’re so bad — and really there they do want things to be better. And often I do think that there’s going to be, one day, a new world. And many people now think about it and hope for it — perhaps they always did.”
Uncle Timothy got up. “That’s all right, my son. We’ll be friends. Come and see me. London’s a bit of a forest — one can’t make out always quite what’s going on. You’ll get to know all of us and like us, I hope. Come and see me. Yes?”
“Of course I will.”
“I’ve got a dirty little room in Westminster, 14 Barton Street. I go down to Glebeshire for Christmas, thank God. Good-night.”
He clumped away down the stairs. He had stayed a very short time, and Philip felt vaguely that, in some way or another, Uncle Tim had been disappointed in him. For what had he come? What had he wanted? Had the family sent him? Was the family watching him?
That sense that Philip had had during the early days in London suddenly returned. He felt, in the dark room, in the dark street, that the Trenchards were watching him. From the old man down to Henry they were watching him, waiting to see what he would do.
Did Uncle Tim think that he loved Katherine? Had he come to discover that?
Although it was early, the room was very cold and very dark. Philip knew that for an instant he was so afraid that he dared not look behind him.
“London’s a forest....”
And Katherine! At the thought of her he rose, defied all the Trenchards in the world, lit his lamp and pulled down the blinds. The smell of Uncle Tim’s tobacco was very strong in the room.
CHAPTER V. THE FINEST THING
When a stranger surveys the life of a family it is very certain that the really determining factor in the development of that group of persons will escape his notice. For instance, in surveying the Trenchards, Philip had disregarded Aunt Aggie.
As this is a record of the history of a family and not only of individuals, Aunt Aggie must be seriously considered; it was the first ominous mistake that Philip made that he did not seriously consider her. Agnes Trenchard, when quite a young girl, had been pretty in a soft and rounded manner. Two offers of marriage had been made to her, but she had refused these because she had a great sense of her destiny. From her first thinking moment she had considered herself very seriously. She had very high ideals; the finest thing in this world was a life of utter unselfishness, a life of noble devotion and martyred self-interest. She looked about her and could see no signs of such lives; all the more then was it clear that she was set apart to give the world such an example. Unfortunately, allied to this appreciation of a fine self-sacrificing character was a nature self-indulgent, indolent and suspicious. Could she be unselfish without trouble or loss then how unselfish she would be! She liked the idea of it immensely....
For some years she was pretty, sang a little and obviously ‘thought more’ than either of her sisters. People listened then to her creed and believed in her intentions. She talked often of unselfishness, was always ready to do anything for anybody, and was always prevented or forestalled by less altruistic people. When, after her two offers of marriage, she stepped very quickly into the shapes and colours of an old maid, went to live with her sister-in-law and brother, and formed ‘habits’, people listened to her less readily. She herself however, quite unaware that at thirty-five, life for a woman is, sexually, either over or only just commencing, hoped to continue the illusions of her girlhood. The nobility of unselfishness appealed to her more than ever, but she found that the people around her were always standing in her way. She became, therefore, quite naturally, rather bitter. Her round figure expressed, in defiance of its rotundity, peevishness.
She had to account for her failures in self-sacrificing altruism, and found it not in her own love of ease and dislike of effort, but, completely, in other people’s selfishness. Had she been permitted she would have been the finest Trenchard alive, and how fine that was only a Trenchard could know! But the world was in a conspiracy against her — the world, and especially her sister Elizabeth, whom she despised and bullied, but, somewhere in her strange suspicious crust of a heart, loved. That was, perhaps, the strangest thing about her — that, in spite of her ill-humour, discontents and irritations, she really loved th
e family, and would like to have told it so were she not continually prevented by its extraordinary habit of being irritating just when she felt most affectionate! She really did love them, and she would go down sometimes in the morning with every intention of saying so, but in five minutes they had destroyed that picture of herself which, during her absence from them, she had painted — for that, of course, she could not forgive them.
In the mansion of the human soul there are many chambers; Aunt Aggie’s contradictions were numberless; but, on broad lines it may be said that her assurance of the injustice of her own fate was balanced only by her conviction of the good luck of everyone else. She hoped, perpetually, that they would all recognise this — namely, that their Life had treated them with the most wonderful good fortune. Her brother George Trenchard, for instance, with his careless habits, his indifference to the facts of life, his obvious selfishness. What disasters he would, had he not been incredibly favoured, most surely have encountered! Aunt Aggie was afraid that he did not sufficiently realise this, and so, in order that he might offer up thanks to God, she reminded him, as often as was possible, of his failings. Thus, too, with the others. Even Katherine, for whom she cared deeply, betrayed, at times, a haughty and uplifted spirit, and, frequently forestalled her aunt’s intended unselfishness, thus, in a way, rebuking her aunt, a thing that a niece should never do. With this consciousness of her relations’ failings went an insatiable curiosity. Aunt Aggie, because she was the finest character in the family, should be rewarded by the trust and confidence of the family; she must, at any rate, maintain the illusion that she received it. Did they keep her quiet with little facts and stories that were of no importance, she must make them important in order to support her dignity. She made them very important indeed....
A great factor was her religion. She was, like her sister, a most sincere and devout member of the Church of England. She believed in God as revealed to her by relations and clergymen in the day of her baptism; time and a changing world had done nothing to shake her confidence. But, unlike her sisters, she believed that this God existed chiefly as a friend and supporter of Miss Agnes Trenchard. He had other duties and purposes, of course, but did not hide from her His especial interest in herself. The knowledge of this gave her great confidence. She was now fifty years of age, and believed that she was still twenty-five; that is not to say that she dressed as a young woman or encouraged, any longer, the possibility of romantic affairs. It was simply that the interest and attraction that she offered to the world as a fine and noble character were the same as they had ever been — and if the world did not recognize this that was because fine and noble characters were few and difficult to discover. One knew this because the Trenchard family offered so seldom an example of one, and the Trenchards were, of course, the finest people in England.
She had great power with her relations because she knew, so intimately, their weaknesses. People, on the whole, may be said to triumph over those who believe in them and submit to those who don’t. The Trenchards, because life was full and time was short, submitted to Aunt Aggie and granted anything in order that they might not be made uncomfortable. They could not, however, allow her to abuse them, one to another, and would submit to much personal criticism before they permitted treachery. Their mutual affection was a very real factor in their lives. Aunt Aggie herself had her share in it. She possessed, nevertheless, a genius for creating discomfort or for promoting an already unsteady atmosphere. She was at her best when the family was at its worst, because then she could perceive, quite clearly, her own fine nobility.
Philip Mark had made a grave mistake when he disregarded her.
She had disliked Philip from the first. She had disapproved of the way that he had burst in upon the family just when she had been at her best in the presentation to her father. He had not known that she had been at her best, but then that was his fault. She had been ready to forgive this, however, if, in the days that followed, he had shown that he appreciated her. He had not shown this, at all — he had, in fact, quite obviously preferred her sister Elizabeth. He had not listened to her with close attention when she had talked to him about the nobility of unselfishness, and he had displayed both irritation and immorality in his views of life. She had been shocked by the abruptness with which he had rebuked Mr. Seymour, and she thought his influence on Henry was, already, as bad as it could be. It was of course only too characteristic of George that he should encourage the young man. She could see what her father and Aunt Sarah thought of him, and she could only say that she entirely shared their opinion.
Philip’s visit had upset her, and Millie’s return from Paris upset her still more. She had never cared greatly about Millie, who had never showed her any deference or attention, but Millie had until now always been a Trenchard. She had come back from Paris only half a Trenchard. Aunt Aggie was grievously afraid that troublesome times were in store for them all.
It was just at this point that her attention was directed towards Katherine. She always considered that Katherine knew her better than any other member of the family did, which simply meant that Katherine considered her feelings. Lately, however, Katherine had not considered her feelings. She had, on at least two occasions, been deliberately uncivil! Once Aunt Aggie had suffered from neuralgia, and Katherine had promised to come and read her to sleep and had forgotten to do so. Next morning, her neuralgia being better, Aunt Aggie said— “I can’t, dear Katherine, imagine myself, under similar conditions, acting as you have done.... I had a sleepless night.... But of course you had more important duties” — and Katherine had scarcely apologised. On the second occasion Aunt Aggie at breakfast, (she was always bitter at breakfast, mildly unhappy over her porridge and violently sarcastic by marmalade time) had remarked with regret that Millie, who was late, had “picked up these sad habits abroad. She had never known anyone the finer, whether in character or manners, for living abroad;” here was a little dust flung at the inoffensive person of Philip, now soundly asleep in Jermyn Street. At once Katherine was “in a flurry.” “What right had Aunt Aggie to say so? How could she tell? It might be better if one went abroad more, lost some of one’s prejudices ...” quite a little scene! Very unlike Katherine!
Aunt Aggie did not forget. Like some scientist or mathematician, happily let loose into some new theory or problem, so now did she consider Katherine. Katherine was different, Katherine was restless and out of temper. She had been so ever since Philip Mark’s visit.... With her sewing or her book Aunt Aggie sat in a corner by the drawing-room fire and watched and waited.
Upon that afternoon that had seen Katherine’s meeting with Philip by the river Aunt Aggie had been compelled to have tea alone. That had been annoying, because it looked as though the gay world was inviting everyone except Aunt Aggie to share in its excitements and pleasures. At last there arrived Mrs. Trenchard and Millie, and finally Katherine. Aunt Aggie had sat in her warm corner, pursuing with her needle the green tail of an unnatural parrot which she was working into a slowly-developing cushion cover and had considered her grievances. It had been a horrible day, cold and gloomy. Aunt Aggie had a chilblain that, like the Waits, always appeared about Christmas and, unlike them, stayed on well into the spring. It had made its appearance, for the first time this season, during the past night. Millie talked a great deal about very little, and Mrs. Trenchard received her remarks with the nonchalant indifference of a croupier raking in the money at Monte Carlo. Katherine sat staring into the fire and saying nothing.
Aunt Aggie, watching her, felt quite suddenly as though the firelight had leapt from some crashing coal into a flaring splendour, that something strange and unusual was with them in the room. She was not at all, like her sister Elizabeth, given to romantic and sentimental impressions. She seldom read novels, and cared nothing for the theatre. What she felt now was really unpleasant and uncomfortable, as though she had soap in her eyes or dropped her collection under the seat during the Litany. The room positively glowed, the dim shadow
s were richly coloured, and in Aunt Aggie’s heart was alarm and agitation.
She stared about her; she looked about the room and pierced the shadows; she sewed a wrong stitch into the parrots’ tail, and then decided that it was Katherine’s eyes.... She looked at the girl — she looked again and again — saw her bending forward a little, her hands pressed together on her lap, her breast rising and falling with the softest suspicion of some agitation, and, in her eyes, such a light as could come from no fire, no flame from without, but only from the very soul itself. Katherine’s good-tempered, humorous eyes, so charged with common-sense, affectionate but always mild, unagitated, calm, like her mother’s — now what was one to say?
Aunt Aggie said nothing. Her own heart felt for an instant some response. She would have liked to have taken the girl into her arms and kissed her and petted her. In a moment the impulse passed. What was the matter with Katherine? Who was the matter with Katherine? It was almost improper that anyone should look like that in a drawing-room that had witnessed so much good manners. Moreover it was selfish, this terrible absorption. If Katherine began to think of herself, whatever would happen to them all! And there were Millie and her mother, poor things, chattering blindly together. Aunt Aggie felt that the business of watching over this helpless family did indeed devolve upon her. From that moment Katherine and the things that were possibly happening to Katherine never left her thoughts. She was happier than she had been for many months.
But Katherine, in the days that followed, gave her curiosity no satisfaction. Aunt Aggie dated, in future years, all the agitation that was so shortly to sweep down upon the Trenchard waters from that afternoon when ‘Katherine’s eyes had seemed so strange’, but her insistence on that date did not at all mean that it was then that Katherine invited her aunt’s confidence, Aunt Aggie was compelled to drive on her mysterious way alone. She was now assured that ‘something was the matter’, but the time had not yet arrived when all the family was concerned in it.