by Hugh Walpole
“I’m not sure,” said Henry, “whether it isn’t that sort who hurt people most in the end.” He took her hand in his. “He can do anything he likes, Katherine, anything, and I’ll adore him madly, so long as he doesn’t hurt you. If he does that—”
Aunt Aggie, standing in the doorway with the look of one who must live up to having had breakfast in bed, interrupted him:
“Ah, Katherine, there you are. The last thing I want is to give trouble to anyone, but I passed so poor a night that I feel quite unequal to marking those pillow-cases that I offered yesterday to do for your mother. I was so anxious yesterday afternoon to help her, as indeed I always am, but of course I couldn’t foretell that my night would be so disturbed. I wonder whether you—”
“Why, of course, Aunt Aggie,” said Katherine.
Henry’s morning reflections resolved themselves finally into the decision that to continue his emancipation he would, definitely, before the day closed, penetrate into the heart of his Club. He found, when he arrived there, that he was so deeply occupied with thoughts of Katherine, Philip and himself that he knew no fear. He boldly passed the old man in the hall who exactly resembled a goat, climbed the stairs with the air of one who had been doing it all his life, and discovered a room with a fire, a table with papers, some book-cases with ancient books, and Seymour. That gentleman was standing before the fire, a smile of beaming self-satisfaction upon his red fat face; he greeted Henry with that altruistic welcome that was peculiarly his own. A manner that implied that God had sent him especially into the world to show other men how to be jolly, optimistic, kind-hearted and healthy.
“Why, who ever expected to see you here?” he cried. “You’re yellow about the gills, my son. Have a whisky and soda.”
“No, thank you,” said Henry, with an internal shudder. “I thought I’d just look in.”
“Why, of course,” said Seymour. “How jolly to see you!”
They drew their chairs in front of the fire and talked — at least Seymour talked. He told Henry what a lucky fellow he, Seymour, was, how jolly the world was, how splendid the weather was. He let slip by accident the facts that three publishers were fighting for his next book, that America had gone mad about his last one (“although I always said, you know, that to be popular in America was a sure sign that one was no good”), and that he’d overheard some woman at a party saying that he was the most interesting young man of the day. He told these tales with an air as though he would imply— “How absurd these people are! How ridiculous!”
Then, suddenly, he paused. It seemed that he had remembered something.
“By the way, Trenchard — I knew there was something. There’s a fellow in this Club, just been lunching with him. I don’t expect he’s gone. I want you to meet him, I was thinking about you at luncheon. He’s just come from Moscow, where he’s been two years.”
“Moscow?” said Henry.
“Yes. I’ll go and find him. He may have left if I don’t go now.”
Seymour hurried away to return an instant later with a very-much dressed young man in a purple suit and a high, shrill voice. He gave Henry a languid finger, said that he wouldn’t mind a drink, and sat down in front of the fire. Seymour began a fresh monologue, the young man (Morrison was his name) drank his whisky with a delicate foreign attitude which Henry greatly admired, said at last that he must be going. It was only then that Henry plucked up courage.
“I say — Seymour tells me you’ve just come from Moscow.”
“Yes — damned rotten town,” said Morrison, “two years of it — nearly killed me.”
“Did you happen to know,” said Henry, “a man there called Mark?”
“What! Phil Mark! Think I did!... Everyone knew Phil Mark! Hot stuff, my word!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.
Mr. Morrison looked at Henry with curiosity, stared into his glass, found that it was empty, rose and brushed his trousers.
“Went the pace — had a mistress there for years — a girl out of the ballet. Everyone knew about it — had a kid, but the kid died ... conceited sort o’ feller — no one liked him. Know I didn’t.”
“It can’t have been the same man,” said Henry slowly.
“No? daresay not,” said Morrison languidly, “name of Philip though. Short square feller, bit fat, black hair; he was in Maddox and Custom’s — made a bit of money they said. He chucked the girl and came to England — here somewhere now I believe....”
He looked at Henry and Seymour, found them silent, disliked the stare in Henry’s eyes, saw a speck of dust on his waistcoat, was very serious about this, found the silence unpleasant and broke away —
“Well, so long, you fellows.... Must be toddling.”
He wandered out, his bent shoulders expressing great contempt for his company.
Seymour had watched his young friend’s face. He was, for once, at a loss. He had known what would occur; he had produced Morrison for no other purpose. He had hated Mark since that day at the Trenchard’s house with all the unresting hatred of one whose whole peace of mind depends on the admiration of others. Morrison had told him stories about Mark: he did not, himself, wish to inform Henry, because his own acquaintance with the family and knowledge of Miss Trenchard’s engagement made it difficult, but he had no objection at all to Morrison’s agency. He was frightened now at Henry’s white face and staring eyes.
“Did you know this?” Henry said.
“ ’Pon my word, Trenchard — no idea. Morrison was talking the other day about Englishmen in Moscow, and mentioned Mark, I think, but I never connected him. If I’d thought he was coming out with it like that of course I’d have stopped it, but he didn’t know—”
“He’s lying.”
“Don’t know why he should. He’d no idea your sister was engaged. It’s a bit rotten, isn’t it? I’m awfully sorry—”
Henry stared at him. “I believe you did know: I believe you meant him to tell me. That’s what you brought him for — you hate Mark anyway.” Henry laughed, then broke off, stared about him as though he did not know where he was, and rushed from the room. He did not know through what streets he passed; he saw no people, heard no noise; was conscious neither of light nor darkness. He knew that it was true. Mark was a blackguard. Katherine — Katherine....
As he crossed the bridge in St. James’ Park he tumbled against a man and knocked off his hat. He did not stop to apologise. What was he to do? What was he to do? Why had it been he who had heard this?
In the dark hall of the house he saw Katherine. She spoke to him; he tore past her, tumbling upstairs, running down the passage as though someone pursued him. His bedroom door banged behind him.
CHAPTER IV. GARTH IN ROSELANDS
Philip, on the day following his evening with Henry, left London to spend three weeks with some relations who lived near Manchester. This was the first parting from him that Katherine had suffered since the beginning of their engagement, and when she had said good-bye to him at the station, she seemed to return through empty streets, through a town without colour or movement, and the house, when she entered it, echoed, through its desolate rooms and passages, to her steps.
She resolved at once, however, that now was the time to show the family that she was the same Katherine as she had ever been. As she waited for a little in her bedroom, finally dismissing Philip’s presence and summoning the others, she laughed to think how simply now she would brush away the little distrusts and suspicions that seemed, during those last weeks, to have grown about her.
“They shall know Phil,” she thought to herself. “They can’t help loving him when they see him as he really is. Anyway, no more keeping anything back.” It seemed to her, at that moment, a very simple thing to impart her happiness to all of them. She had no fear that she would fail. Then, almost at once, the most delightful thing occurred.
Two or three days after Philip’s departure Mrs. Trenchard, alone with Katherine in the dining-room before breakfast, said:
/>
“I’ve written to Philip, my dear, to ask him to go down with us to Garth.”
Katherine’s eyes shone with pleasure.
“Mother!... How delightful of you! I was hoping that perhaps you might ask him later. But isn’t it tiresome to have him so soon?”
“No — my dear — no. Not tiresome at all. I hope he’ll be able to come.”
“Of course he’ll be able to come,” laughed Katherine.
“Yes — well — I’ve written to ask him. We go down on the fifth of March. Your father thinks that’s the best day. Griffiths writes that that business of the fences in Columb meadow should be looked into — Yes. No, Alice, not the ham — tell Grace to boil two more eggs — not enough — I’m glad you’re pleased, Katherine.”
Katherine looked up, and her eyes meeting her mother’s, the confidence that had been clouded ever since that fatal affair with the hot-water bottles seemed to leap into life between them. Mrs. Trenchard put out her hand, Katherine moved forward, but at that moment Aunt Aggie and Aunt Betty entered; breakfast began.
“I believe,” thought Katherine, “Aunt Aggie waits outside the door and chooses her moment. She’s always interrupting....” The fact that there was now some restraint between her mother and herself was only emphasised the more by the feeling of both of them that an opportunity had been missed.
And why, Katherine wondered afterwards, had her mother asked Philip? If he had been invited to come to them after Easter — but now, to go down with them, as one of the family! Was not this exactly what Katherine had been desiring? And yet she was uncomfortable. She felt sometimes now that her mother, who had once been her other self, in whose every thought, distress, anxiety she had shared, was almost a stranger.
“It’s just as though there were ghosts in the house,” she thought. As she went to bed she was, for the first time in her life, lonely. She longed for Philip ... then suddenly, for no reason that she could name, began to cry and, so crying, fell asleep. She was much younger than everyone thought her....
Throughout the three weeks that followed she felt as though she were beating the air. Rachel Seddon had taken her husband abroad. There was no one to whom she could speak. She wrote to Philip every day, and discovered how useless letters were. She tried to approach Millie, but found that she had not the courage to risk Millie’s frankness. Her sister’s attitude to her was: “Dear Katie, let’s be happy and jolly together without talking about it — it’s much better....” There had been a time, not so very long ago, when they had told one another everything. Henry was the strangest of all. He removed himself from the whole family, and would speak to no one. He went apparently for long solitary walks. Even his father noticed his depression, and decided that something must really be done with the boy. “We might send him abroad for six months — learn some French or German ...” but of course nothing was done.
Aunt Betty was the only entirely satisfactory member of the family. She frankly revelled in the romance of the whole affair. She was delighted that Katherine had fallen in love “with such a fine manly fellow” as Philip. Her attention was always centred upon Katherine to the exclusion of the others, therefore she noticed no restraint nor awkwardness. She was intensely happy, and went humming about the house in a way that annoyed desperately her sister Aggie. She even wrote a little letter to Philip, beginning “My dear Boy,” saying that she thought that he’d like to know from one of the family that Katherine was in perfect health and looking beautiful. She received a letter from Philip that surprised and delighted her by its warmth of feeling. This letter was the cause of a little battle with Aggie.
They were alone together in Betty’s room when she said, half to herself:
“Such a delightful letter from the ‘dear boy’.”
“What dear boy?” said Aunt Aggie sharply.
Aunt Betty started, as she always did when anyone spoke to her sharply, sucked her fingers, and then, the colour mounting into her cheeks, said:
“Philip. He’s written to me from Manchester.”
“I do think, Betty,” Aggie answered, “that instead of writing letters to young men who don’t want them you might try to take a little of the burden of this house off my shoulders. Now that Katherine has lost all her common-sense I’m supposed to do everything. I don’t complain. They wish me to help as much as I can, but I’m far from strong, and a little help from you ...”
Then Aunt Betty, with the effect of standing on her toes, her voice quite shrill with excitement, spoke to her sister as she had never, in all her life, spoken to anyone before.
“It’s too bad, Aggie. I used to think that you were fond of Katherine, that you wished her happiness — Now, ever since her engagement, you’ve done nothing but complain about her. Sometimes I think you really want to see her unhappy. We ought to be glad, you and I, that she’s found someone who will make her happy. It’s all your selfishness, Aggie; just because you don’t like Philip for some fancied reason ... it’s unfair and wicked. At anyrate to me you shan’t speak against Katherine and Philip.... I love Katherine, even though you don’t.”
Now it happened that, as I have said elsewhere, Aggie Trenchard loved her niece very deeply. It was a love, however, that depended for its life on an adequate return. “That young man has turned Katherine against me. Ever since he first came into the house I knew it.” Now at her sister’s accusation her face grew grey and her hands trembled.
“Thank you, Betty. I don’t think we’ll discuss the matter. Because you’re blind and know nothing of what goes on under your nose is no reason that other people’s sight should be blinded too. Can’t you see for yourself the change in Katherine? If you loved her a little more sensibly than you do, instead of romancing about the affair, you’d look into the future. I tell you that the moment Philip Mark entered this house was the most unfortunate moment in Katherine’s life. Nothing but unhappiness will come of it. If you knew what I know—”
Aunt Betty was, in spite of herself, struck by the feeling and softness in her sister’s voice.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean nothing. I’m right, that’s all. You’re a silly, soft fool, Elizabeth, and so you always were. But Harriet ... asking him to go down to Garth with us, when she hates him as I know she does! I don’t know what it means. Do you suppose that I don’t love Katherine any longer? I love her so much that I’d like to strangle Mr. Philip Mark in his sleep!”
She flung from the room, banging the door behind her.
Philip arrived on the evening before the departure into the country. He came well pleased with all the world, because his Manchester relations had liked him and he had liked his Manchester relations. Viewed from that happy distance, the Trenchards had been bathed in golden light. He reviewed his recent agitations and forebodings with laughter. “Her family,” he told his relations, “are a bit old-fashioned. They’ve got their prejudices, and I don’t think they liked the idea, at first, of her being engaged — she’s so valuable. But they’re getting used to it.” He arrived in London in the highest spirits, greeted Rocket as though he had been his life-long friend, and going straight up to his room to dress for dinner, thought to himself that he really did feel at home in the old house. He looked at his fire, at the cosy shape of the room, heard a purring, contented clock ticking away, thought for a moment of Moscow, with its puddles, its mud, its dark, uneven streets, its country roads, its weeks of rain.
“No, I’ve found my place,” he thought, “this is home.”
And yet, during dinner, his uneasiness, like a forgotten ghost, crept back to him. Henry had a headache, and had gone to bed.
“He’s not been very well lately,” said Aunt Aggie to Philip, “that evening with you upset him, I believe — over-excited him, perhaps. I’m glad you liked Manchester.” He could not deny that dinner was a little stiff. He was suddenly aware over his pudding that he was afraid of Mrs. Trenchard, and that his fear of her that had been vague and nebulous before his absence was
now sharp and defined.
He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were anything but placid and contented, like the rest of her.
“More pudding, Philip?” she asked him, and his heart beat as though he had received a challenge.
Afterwards in the drawing-room he thought to himself: “ ’Tis this beastly old house. It’s so stuffy” — forgetting that two hours earlier it had seemed to welcome him home. “We’ll be all right when we get down to the country,” he thought.
Finally he said good-night to Katherine in the dark little passage. As though he were giving himself some desperate reassurance, he caught her to him and held her tightly in his arms:
“Katie — darling, have you missed me?”
“Missed you? I thought the days were never going to pass.”
“Katie, I want to be married, here, now, to-night, at once. I hate this waiting. I hate it. It’s impossible—”
Katherine laughed, looking up into his eyes.
“I like you to be impatient. I’m so happy. I don’t think anything can ever be happier. Besides, you know,” and her eyes sparkled— “you may change — you may want to break it off — and then think how glad you’ll be that we waited.”
He held her then so fiercely that she cried out.
“Don’t say that — even as a joke. How dare you — even as a joke? I love you — I love you — I love you.” He kissed her mouth again and again, then suddenly, with a little movement of tenderness, stroked her hair very softly, whispering to her, “I love you — I love you — I love you — Oh! how I love you!”
That night she was so happy that she lay for many hours staring at the black ceiling, a smile on her lips. He, also, was awake until the early morning....
The departure to the station was a terrific affair. There were Mr. Trenchard, senior, Great Aunt Sarah (risen from a bed of sickness, yellow and pinched in the face, very yellow and pinched in the temper, and deafer than deaf), Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, George Trenchard, Mrs. Trenchard, Millie (very pretty), Henry (very sulky), Katherine, Philip, Rocket and Aunt Sarah’s maid (the other maids had left by an earlier train) — twelve persons. The train to be caught was the eleven o’clock from Paddington, and two carriages had been reserved. The first business was to settle old Mr. Trenchard and Aunt Sarah. They were placed, like images, in the best corners, Mr. Trenchard saying sometimes in his silvery voice: “It’s very kind of you, Harriet,” or “Thank ye, Betty, my dear,” and once to Millie, “I like to see ye laughing, my dear — very pretty, very pretty”. Aunt Sarah frowned and wrinkled her nose, but was, in her high black bonnet, a very fine figure. Her maid, Clarence, was plain, elderly and masculine in appearance, having a moustache and a stiff linen collar and very little hair visible under her black straw hat. She, however, knew just how Great-Aunt Sarah liked to be....