by Hugh Walpole
“That’s all right,” said Philip again. “Have some more bone.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Henry, staring darkly in front of him. “I don’t know why I’m so unfortunate, because I know I could do things if I were given a chance, but no one will ever let me try. What do they keep me at home for when I ought to be at Oxford? Why don’t they settle what I’m going to be? It’s quite time for them to make up their mind.... It’s a shame, a shame....”
“So it is. So it is,” said Philip. “But it will be all right if you wait a bit.”
“I’m always told I’ve got to wait,” said Henry fiercely. “What about other fellows? No one tells them to wait.... I’m nineteen, and there are plenty of men of nineteen I know who are doing all kinds of things. I can’t even dress properly — soot and fluff always come and settle on my clothes rather than on anyone else’s. I’ve often noticed it. Then people laugh at me for nothing. They don’t laugh at other men.”
“You oughtn’t to care,” said Philip.
“I try not to, but you can’t help it if it happens often.”
“What do you want to be?” said Philip. “What would you like to do?”
“I don’t mind; anything,” said Henry, “if only I did it properly. I’d rather be a waiter who didn’t make a fool of himself than what I am. I’d like to be of use. I’d like to make people proud of me. I’d like Katherine—”
At that name he suddenly stopped and was silent.
“Well?” said Philip. “What about Katherine?... Have some more whisky.... Waiter, coffee.”
“I want to do something,” said Henry, “to make Katherine proud of me. I know it must be horrible for her to have a brother whom everyone laughs at. It’s partly because of her that I’m so shy. But she understands me as none of the others do. She knows I’ve got something in me. She believes in me. She’s the only one.... I can talk to her. She understands when I say that I want to do something in the world. She doesn’t laugh. And I’d die for her.... Here, now, if it was necessary. And I’ll tell you one thing. I didn’t like you at first. When you got engaged to Katherine I hated it until I saw that she’d probably have to be engaged to someone, and it might as well be you.”
“Thank you,” said Philip, laughing.
“I saw how happy you made her. It’s hard on all of us who’ve known her so long, but we don’t mind that ... if you do make her happy.”
“So,” said Philip, “it’s only by the family’s permission that I can keep her?”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Henry. “Of course she’s her own mistress. She can do what she likes. But she is fond of us. And I don’t think — if it came to it — that she’d ever do anything to hurt us.”
“If it came to what?” said Philip.
But Henry shook his head. “Oh! I’m only talking. I meant that we’re fonder of one another as a family than people outside can realise. We don’t seem to be if you watch us, but if it came to pulling us apart — to — to — taking Katherine away, for instance, it — it wouldn’t be easy.”
“Another soda, waiter,” said Philip. “But I don’t want to take Katherine away. I don’t want there to be any difference to anyone.”
“There must be a difference,” said Henry, shaking his head and looking very solemn. “If it had been Millie it mightn’t have mattered so much, because she’s been away a lot as it is, but with Katherine — you see, we’ve always thought that whatever misfortune happened, Katherine would be there — and now we can’t think that any longer.”
“But that,” said Philip, who’d drunk quite a number of whiskies by this time, “was very selfish of you. You couldn’t expect her never to marry.”
“We never thought about it,” said Henry. He spoke now rather confusedly and at random. “We aren’t the sort of people who look ahead. I suppose we haven’t got much imagination as a family. None of the Trenchards have. That’s why we’re fond of one another and can’t imagine ever not being.”
Philip leant forward. “Look here, Henry, I want us to be friends — real friends. I love Katherine so much that I would do anything for her. If she’s happy you won’t grudge her to me, will you?... I’ve felt a little that you, some of you, don’t trust me, that you don’t understand me. But I’m just what I seem: I’m not worthy of Katherine. I can’t think why she cares for me, but, as she does, it’s better, isn’t it, that she should be happy? If you’d all help me, if you’d all be friends with me—”
He had for some minutes been conscious that there was something odd about Henry. He had been intent on his own thoughts, but behind them something had claimed his attention. Henry was now waving a hand in the air vaguely, he was looking at his half-empty glass with an intent and puzzled eye. Philip broke off in the middle of his sentence, arrested suddenly by this strangeness of Henry’s eye, which was now fixed and staring, now red and wandering. He gazed at Henry, a swift, terrible suspicion striking him. Henry, with a face desperately solemn, gazed back at him. The boy then tried to speak, failed, and very slowly a large fat tear trembled down his cheek.
“I’m trying — I’m trying,” he began. “I’ll be your friend — always — I’ll get up — stand — explain.... I’ll make a speech,” he suddenly added.
“Good Lord!” Philip realised with a dismay pricked with astonishment, “the fellow’s drunk.” It had happened so swiftly that it was as though Henry were acting a part. Five minutes earlier Henry had apparently been perfectly sober. He had drunk three whiskies and sodas. Philip had never imagined this catastrophe, and now his emotions were a confused mixture of alarm, annoyance, impatience and disgust at his own imperception.
Whatever Henry had been five minutes ago, there was no sort of question about him now.
“Someone’s taken off my — b-boots,” he confided very confidentially to Philip. “Who — did?”
The one clear thought in Philip’s brain was that he must get Henry home quietly — from the Carlton table to Henry’s bed, and with as little noise as possible. Only a few people now remained in the Grill Room. He summoned the waiter, paid the bill. Henry watched him.
“You must — tell them — about my boots,” he said. “It’s absurd.”
“It’s all right,” said Philip. “They’ve put them on again now. It’s time for us to be moving.” He was relieved to see that Henry rose at once and, holding for a moment on to the table, steadied himself. His face, very solemn and sad, with its large, mournful eyes and a lock of hair tumbling forward over his forehead, was both ridiculous and pathetic.
Philip took his arm.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go home.”
Henry followed very meekly, allowed them to put on his coat, was led upstairs and into a “taxi.”
Then he suddenly put his head between his hands and began to sob. He would say nothing, but only sobbed hopelessly.
“It’s all right,” said Philip, as though he were speaking to a child of five. “There’s nothing to cry about. You’ll be home in a moment.” He was desperately annoyed at the misfortune. Why could he not have seen that Henry was drinking too much? But Henry had drunk so little. Then he had had champagne at dinner. He wasn’t used to it. Philip cursed his own stupidity. Now if they made a noise on the way to Henry’s room there might follow fatal consequences. If anyone should see them!
Henry’s sobs had ceased: he seemed to be asleep. Philip shook his arm. “Look here! We must take care not to wake anyone. Here we are! Quietly now, and where’s your key?”
“Wash key?” said Henry.
Philip had a horrible suspicion that Henry had forgotten his key. He searched. Ah! there it was in the waistcoat pocket.
Henry put his arms round Philip’s neck.
“They’ve turned the roa’ upside down,” he whispered confidentially. “We mustn’t lose each other.”
They entered the dark hall. Philip with one arm round Henry’s waist. Henry sat on the lowest step of the stairs.
“I’ll shtay here t
o-night,” he said. “It’s shafer,” and was instantly asleep. Philip lifted him, then with Henry’s boots tapping the stairs at each step, they moved upwards. Henry was heavy, and at the top Philip had to pause for breath. Suddenly the boy slipped from his arms and fell with a crash. The whole house re-echoed. Philip’s heart stopped beating, and his only thought was, “Now I’m done. They’ll all be here in a moment. They’ll drive me away. Katherine will never speak to me again.” A silence followed abysmally deep, only broken by some strange snore that came from the heart of the house (as though it were the house that was snoring) and the ticking of two clocks that, in their race against one another, whirred and chuckled.
Philip picked Henry up again and proceeded. He found the room, pushed open the door, closed it and switched on the light. He then undressed Henry, folding the clothes carefully, put upon him his pyjamas, laid him in bed and tucked him up. Henry, his eyes closed as though by death, snored heavily....
Philip turned the light out, crept into the passage, listened, stole downstairs, let himself into the Square, where he stood for a moment, in the cold night air, the only living thing in a sleeping world, then hastened away.
“Thank Heaven,” he thought, “we’ve escaped.” He had not escaped. Aunt Aggie, a fantastic figure in a long blue dressing-gown, roused by Henry’s fall, had watched, from her bedroom door, the whole affair. She waited until she had heard the hall-door close, then stole down and locked it, stole up again and disappeared silently into her room.
When Henry woke in the morning his headache was very different from any headache that he had ever endured before. His first thought was that he could never possibly get up, but would lie there all day. His second that, whatever he did, he must rouse suspicion in no one, his third that he really had been terribly drunk last night, and remembered nothing after his second whisky at the Carlton, his fourth that someone must have put him to bed last night, because his clothes were folded carefully, whereas it was his own custom always to fling them about the room. At this moment Rocket (who always took upon himself the rousing of Henry) entered with hot water.
“Time to get up, sir,” he said. “Breakfast-bell in twenty minutes. Bath quite ready.”
Henry watched. “He’ll suspect something when he sees those clothes,” he thought. But Rocket, apparently, suspected nothing. Henry got up, had his bath and slowly dressed. His headache was quite horrible, being a cold headache with a heavy weight of pain on his skull and a taste in his mouth of mustard and bad eggs. He felt that he could not possibly disguise from the world that he was unwell. Looking in the glass he saw that his complexion was yellow and muddy, but then it was never, at any time, very splendid. He looked cross and sulky, but then that would not surprise anyone. He went downstairs and passed successfully through the ordeal: fortunately Aunt Aggie was in bed. Only Millie, laughing, said to him: “You don’t look as though evenings with Philip suited you, Henry—”
(How he hated Millie when she teased him!)
“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Trenchard placidly, “there must be thunder about — thunder about. I always feel it in my back. George dear, do put that paper down, your tea’s quite cold.”
“Well,” said George Trenchard, looking up from the ‘Morning Post’ and beaming upon everyone, “what did Philip do with you last night, Henry. Show you the town — eh?”
“We had a very pleasant evening, thank you, father,” said Henry. “We went to the Empire.”
“You came in very quietly. I didn’t hear you. Did you hear him, Harriet?”
“No,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “I do hope you locked the front door, Henry.”
“Oh, yes, mother. That was all right,” he said hurriedly.
“Well, dear, I’m very glad you had a pleasant evening. It was kind of Philip — very kind of Philip. Yes, that’s Aunt Aggie’s tray, Katie dear. I should put a little more marmalade — and that bit of toast, the other’s rather dry — yes, the other’s rather dry. Poor Aggie says she had a disturbed night — slept very badly. I shouldn’t wonder whether it’s the thunder. I always know by my back. Thank you, Katie. Here’s a letter from Rose Faunder, George, and she says, ‘etc., etc.’ ”
After breakfast Henry escaped into the drawing-room; he sank into his favourite chair by the fire, which was burning with a cold and glassy splendour that showed that it had just been lit. The room was foggy, dim and chill, exactly suited to Henry, who, with his thin legs stretched out in front of him and his headache oppressing him with a reiterated emphasis as though it were some other person insisting on his attention, stared before him and tried to think.
He wanted to think everything out, but could consider nothing clearly. It was disgusting of him to have been drunk, but it was Philip’s fault — that was his main conclusion. Looking back, everything seemed to be Philip’s fault — even the disaster to himself. There was in Henry a strange puritanical, old-maidish strain, which, under the persuasion of the headache, was allowed full freedom. Philip’s intimacy with those women, Philip’s attitude to drink, to ballets, even to shirt studs, an attitude of indifference bred of long custom, seemed to Henry this morning sinister and most suspicious. Philip had probably been laughing at him all the evening, thought him a fool for getting drunk so easily (terrible idea this), would tell other people about his youth and inexperience. Thoughts like these floated through Henry’s aching head, but he could not really catch them. Everything escaped him. He could only stare into the old mirror, with its reflection of green carpet and green wall-paper, and fancy that he was caught, held prisoner by it, condemned to remain inside it for ever, with an aching head and an irritated conscience.
He was ill, he was unhappy, and yet through it all ran the thought: “You are a man now. You have received your freedom. You’ll never be a boy again....”
He was aroused from his thoughts by the sudden vision of Katherine, who was, he found, sitting on the elbow of his arm-chair with her hand on his shoulder.
“Hullo,” he said, letting her take his hand. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t know you were in here,” she answered. “You were hidden by the chair. I was looking for you, though.”
“Why?” said Henry, suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing — except that I wanted to hear about last night. Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much.”
“Was Philip nice?”
“Very nice.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, we dined at Jules, went to the Empire, had supper at the Carlton, and came home.” He looked at Katherine’s eyes, felt that he was a surly brute and added: “The ballet was called ‘The Pirate’. I thought it was fine, but it was the first one I’d seen — I don’t think Philip cared much for it, but then he’s seen so many in Moscow, where they go on all night and are perfectly splendid.”
Katherine’s hand pressed his shoulder a little, and he, in response, drew closer to her.
“I’m glad Philip was nice to you,” she said, gazing into the fire. “I want you two to be great friends.” There sprang then a new note into her voice, as though she were resolved to say something that had been in her mind a long time. “Henry — tell me — quite honestly, I want to know. Have I been a pig lately? A pig about everybody. Since I’ve been engaged have I neglected you all and been different to you all and hurt you all?”
“No,” said Henry, slowly. “Of course you haven’t ... but it has been different a little — it couldn’t help being.”
“What has?”
“Well, of course, we don’t mean so much to you now. How can we? I suppose what Philip said last night is true, that we’ve been all rather selfish about you, and now we’re suffering for it.”
“Did Philip say that?”
“Yes — or something like it.”
“It isn’t true. It simply shows that he doesn’t understand what we all are to one another. I suppose we’re different. I’ve been feeling, since I’ve been engaged, that we must b
e different. Philip is so continually surprised at the things we do.”
Henry frowned. “He needn’t be. There’s nothing very wonderful in our all being fond of you.”
She got up from the chair and began to walk up and down the room. Henry’s eyes followed her.
“I don’t know what it is,” she said suddenly. “But during these last weeks it’s as though you were all hiding something from me. Even you and Millie. Of course I know that Aunt Aggie hates Philip. She never can hide her feelings. But mother ...” Katherine broke out. “Oh! it’s all so silly! Why can’t we all be natural? It’s unfair to Philip. He’s ready for anything, he wants to be one of us, and you, all of you—”
“It isn’t quite fair,” said Henry slowly, “to blame only us. We’ve all been very nice to Philip, I think. I know Aunt Betty and Millie and father like him very much.”
“And you?” said Katherine.
“I don’t think I’d like anyone who was going to take you away.”
“But he isn’t going to take me away. That’s where you’re all so wrong. He’s just going to be one more of the family.”
Henry said nothing.
Katherine then cried passionately: “Ah, you don’t know him! you simply don’t know him!” She stopped, her eyes shining, her whole body stirred by her happiness. She came over and stood close to him: “Henry, whatever happens, whatever happens, nothing can take me away from you and mother and the rest. Nor from Garth.... If you’re sure of that then you needn’t be afraid of Philip.”
Henry looked up at her. “Suppose, Katherine — just suppose — that he insisted on your going, leaving us all, leaving Garth, going right away somewhere. What would you do?”
Katherine smiled with perfect confidence. “He wouldn’t insist on anything that would make me so unhappy — or anyone unhappy. All he wants is that everyone should like everyone else, and that no one should be hurt.”