Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “You don’t understand, mother. I don’t understand myself, I think. But it will be all right. I know that it will.... You must be patient with me. It’s hard for him as well as for you. But nothing — nothing — can change me. If I loved him before, I have twice as much reason to love him now.”

  Mrs. Trenchard looked once more at Katherine, as though she were seeing her for the last time, then, with a little sigh, she went out, very carefully closing the door behind her.

  Meanwhile, another member of the Trenchard family, namely Henry, had found this especial Sunday very difficult. He always hated Sunday because, having very little to do on ordinary days of the week, he had nothing at all to do on Sunday. Never, moreover, in all his life before had the passing of time been so intolerably slow as it had during these last weeks. The matter with him, quite simply, was that his imagination, which had been first stirred on that afternoon of Philip’s appearance, was now as lively and hungry as a starved beast in a jungle. Henry simply didn’t know what to do with himself. Miserably uncertain as to his right conduct in the matter of Philip and Katherine, speculating now continually about adventures and experiences in that wider world of which he had had a tiny glimpse, needing desperately some definite business of preparation for business that would fill his hours, and having nothing of the sort, he was left to read old novels, moon about the fields and roads, quarrel with Millie, gaze forebodingly at Katherine, scowl at Philip, have some moments of clumsy sentiment towards his mother, bite his nails and neglect his appearance. He began to write a novel, a romantic novel with three men asleep in a dark inn and a woman stealing up the ricketty stairs with a knife in her hand. That was all that he saw of the novel. He knew nothing at all about its time nor place, its continuation nor conclusion. But he heard the men breathing in their sleep, saw the moonshine on the stairs, smelt the close, nasty, beery smell of the tap-room below, saw the high cheek-bones and large nose of the woman and the gleaming shine of the knife in her hand.

  He walked for many miles, to Rafiel, to St. Lowe, to Dumin Head, inland beyond Rasselas, to Pendennis Woods, to Polchester, to the further side of Pelynt — and always, as he walked with his head in the air, his Imagination ran before him like a leaping, towering flame. The visions before his soul were great visions, but he could do nothing with them. He thought that he would go forth and deliver the world, would love all men, prostitutes, lepers, debauchers (like Philip); he flung his arms about, tumbled over his untidy boot laces, saw life as a gorgeous-tinted plain, with fame and glory awaiting him — then returned to Garth, quarrelled with Millie, sulked and bit his nails.

  This was a hard time for Henry.

  He had determined that he would not present himself in the drawing-room at tea-time, but when half-past four arrived, the afternoon had already stretched to such ghastly lengths that something had to be done. He came slipping, stumbling downstairs, and found Philip, with a waterproof turned up over his ears and every sign of the challenger of wild weather, standing in the hall. Henry would have passed him in silence, but Philip stopped him.

  “Look here,” he said, in a low mysterious voice, “will you do something for me?”

  “What?” said Henry, suspiciously.

  “I’m going out for a long walk. Shan’t be back until supper. Give this letter to Katherine, and tell her I want her to read it before I get back.”

  “Why don’t you give it to her yourself? She’s up in her room.”

  “Because I want you to.”

  Henry took the letter, and Philip was gone, sending into the house a little gust of cold wind and rain as he plunged through the door. Henry looked after him, shook his head as though the destinies of the world were on his shoulders, put the letter into his pocket and went into the drawing-room. The Drake family was calling. There were Mrs. Drake, old and sharp and weather-beaten, like a sign post on the top of a hill; her son, Francis Drake, who, unlike his famous namesake, seemed unable to make up his mind about anything, was thin and weedy, with staring eyes, and continually trying to swallow his fist; and little Lettice Drake, aged seven, fifteen years younger than any other in the family; her parents had never entirely got over their surprise at her appearance: she was sharp and bony, like her mother. Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie and Millie were entertaining; Great-Aunt Sarah was seated in state, in black silk and white cap, and her stern eye was fixed upon Mr. Drake, whose appearance she did not like. This made Mr. Drake very nervous.

  Afternoon-tea on Sunday comes at the very moment when the day seems most unbearable — Later, at about six o’clock, Sunday fatigue will happily begin to descend and envelop its victims, but at half-past four one is only able to remember that it is a mistake to have so large a meal in the middle of the day, that Sunday clothes are chill and uncomfortable, and that all the people in whom one has the least interest in life will shortly make their appearance.

  There is also the prospect of evening service, followed by cold supper: the earlier hours of the day stretch now behind one at so vast and unwieldy a length that it seems impossible that one will ever reach the end of the day alive. Aunt Aggie felt all this — she also hated the Drakes. She saw that Henry, moody in a corner by himself, regarded her with a cynical eye: her tooth, which had been quiet since luncheon, was throbbing again. She endeavoured to be pleasant to little Lettice, although she hated children, and she knew that children knew it.

  “Wonderfully she’s grown!” she said, bending down towards the child, who watched her with cold curiosity. “And what’s your favourite game now, Lettice? Too old for dolls, I expect.”

  There was no reply.

  “Tell Miss Trenchard about your games, dear,” said Mrs. Drake.

  There was no reply.

  “You must come and play here one day, dear,” said Aunt Aggie. “Such a big room as we’ve got upstairs — and lots of toys. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  There was no reply.

  “She’s shy, I expect,” said Mrs. Drake. “So many children are.”

  Aunt Aggie drew nearer to Lettice.

  “You mustn’t be shy with me, dear. I’m so proud of children. You shall have such a piece of cake in a minute!”

  But with a little movement of her bony fingers Lettice Drake, in a voice of chill detachment, said:

  “You’ve got a thpot on your faith,” referring to a little black mole on Aunt Aggie’s right cheek. The voice was so chill, the indifference so complete that the failure of Aunt Aggie’s tactics was obvious to the dullest onlooker. Unfortunately Henry laughed; he had not intended to laugh: he did not feel at all in a humorous mood — but he laughed from nervousness, discomfort and disgust. He knew that Aunt Aggie would not forgive this ... he hated quarrels with Aunt Aggie. She did not look at him, but her back told him what she was thinking. He wished, bitterly, that he had more self-control; he knew that, of all possible insults, Aunt Aggie would regard most bitterly a mock at her appearance in a public place. The Drakes might be considered a public place.

  Mrs. Trenchard said: “Where’s Katie? You’d like to see her, Agnes, I’m sure. Perhaps she doesn’t know you’re here. I’ll see. I know you’d like to see her.” Mrs. Trenchard went away. Then Aunt Sarah, who had been hitherto absolutely silent, began, her eye never leaving Mrs. Drake’s face.

  “You’re the daughter of Aggie Mummings, whom I used to know. You must be. Poor Aggie ... I remember your mother quite well — a feeble thing always, never knowing her mind and always wanted people’s advice. I used to say to her: ‘Aggie, if you let men see how feeble you are you’ll never get married’ — but she did after all — which shows you never can tell — I think, Millie, I’ll have some more hot in this ... yes, I remember your mother very well, poor thing.”

  “I’ve heard her speak of you, Miss Trenchard,” said Mrs. Drake.

  Mr. Drake suddenly attacked Millie.

  “Well now — about Paris — you know — very different from this hole, ain’t it?”

  “Very different,” said Mi
llie. “But I don’t consider this ‘a hole’.”

  “Don’t you now? Well — that’s very interesting. Don’t you?... I do.”

  Millie had nothing to say.

  “It’s slow, you know — horrid slow — just weather, I call it. Whether it’s raining or not, you know — . Yes ... I wonder you don’t find it slow after Paris.”

  “I was at school there, you see,” said Millie. “It’s different when you’re at school.”

  “I suppose it is. Yes, I s’pose so.” He began to cram his fist into his mouth, was surprised at its boniness, regarded it gravely, said: “Well, yes ... I s’pose so ... Yes ... Well ...” and was silent.

  Then Mrs. Trenchard at last returned: Katherine was with her. Henry at once saw that Katherine had been crying. The effect of this discovery upon Henry was elemental in its force. He had, during all his life, regarded Katherine as almost omnipotent in her strength and wisdom. He had, moreover, always thought to himself: “One day she will have her reward,” and his vision of Katherine’s future happiness and glory had been one of his favourite dreams. Now that cad had been making her cry.... He was, at that moment, on the very edge of making a scene ... he would fling Philip’s letter down there, in front of them, Drakes and all. He would cry: “There! that’s from the beast who’s been making her cry — and I tell you he’s a cad. He had a woman for years in Russia and had a son too — that’s the kind of fellow he is.” But Katherine was smiling and laughing. The Drakes certainly would not see that she had been crying: even Millie did not, apparently, notice it; Millie, having done her duty by the Drakes, was going upstairs to write letters. She said good-bye and left the room ... two minutes later Henry slipped out after her.

  He caught her at the top of the stairs.

  “I say,” he said. “Come into my room for a minute. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Oh, bother,” answered Millie. “I want to write letters.”

  “Never mind. You must. It’s important.”

  “Aren’t the Drakes awful?” she said, standing inside his door and observing the disorder of his room with a scornful lip.

  “Yes, they are,” said Henry. “Wasn’t Aunt Aggie angry when I laughed?”

  “A silly sort of thing to do anyway. What a room! You might put those clothes away, and why can’t you have another shelf for the books? That table—”

  “Oh, rot! Dry up!” Henry moved about uneasily, kicking a book along the floor. “I’ve got something I want to — I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”

  “What is it? About Philip and Katie?”

  “No, not about Katie. At least — not unless he’s told her. It’s about Philip.”

  “What is it?” Millie said again.

  “He’s the most awful cad — an absolute outsider. I’ve known it for weeks, only I haven’t decided what to do.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Millie said, slowly. “You don’t know enough about men to tell whether a man’s an outsider or not.... What’s he done?”

  “In Russia — in Moscow — he had a mistress for years — and they had a son. He’s never said anything about it, but it’s true. They say he had an awful reputation in Moscow.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” said Millie, slowly. The colour mounted into her cheeks.

  “A man I know — a friend of Seymour’s. Oh! I know it’s true. There isn’t any sort of doubt about it.”

  “I daresay it is. Men are like that,” Millie said, with profundity.

  “Decent men aren’t. Not the sort of man who will marry Katie.”

  Millie said nothing, and there was a long silence in the room. Then, with a deep sigh, Millie said:

  “If it is true what does it matter if it’s all over?”

  “Perhaps it isn’t. Besides, if he’s that kind of man he’ll do it again. And anyway, if Katie were to know—”

  “Ah! if Katie were to know—”

  They stood there, young (very young) defenders of Katherine. They would both of them, always, afterwards remember that moment, that hour, that Sunday. There came for both of them, suddenly, an active, urgent demand on their participation in a sudden adventure, a real, serious adventure, and they simply did not know what to do with it. With neither of them was their apprehension, disgust, dismay so great as their curiosity. The first thing, after the pause, that Millie said was:

  “I wonder what she’s like, that other woman I mean.”

  Henry had been wondering for weeks. He now produced his conclusions.

  “It’s my idea,” he said, “that she was simply bored with him, couldn’t endure him any longer. I expect they had awful rows — Russians do, you know, and Philip’s got a temper I should think. Then he came home, and — sort of to save his pride because the other woman had kicked him out — made love to the first woman he saw. Katherine was the first, you know.”

  Millie felt a momentary surprise at her brother’s unexpected cleverness. Then she shook her head: “No, I’m sure it’s not that. He loves Katherine, I know, anyone can see it.”

  “Well, then,” said Henry, with sudden volcanic happiness, “he’s making her awfully miserable. She was crying this afternoon, and I’ve got a letter in my pocket now that he told me to give to her for her to read while he was out.... They’ve had a quarrel.”

  “Perhaps he’s told her.”

  “If he’s making her unhappy—”

  “I wonder what she thinks about it—”

  Henry’s thought, with all the simplicity that was in his real nature, was only of Katherine. Millie, although she loved her sister, was absorbed by the vision of life — dramatic, tragic, gay, sinister, rapturous — that was slowly being unfolded before her. What she would have liked would have been for both Philip and Katherine to have told her, minutely and precisely, how the affair appeared to them. How she could listen to them if they made her their confidante! Meanwhile she must content herself with Henry.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Do!... There are things I can do,” he hinted darkly. “Meanwhile, you just keep your eyes open and see whether he’s bad to Katherine. If he is we must stop it. That’s all that matters.”

  “I wonder what she was like — that other woman,” Millie said, not looking at Henry, but at her own reflection in his looking-glass, then, without another word to him, she turned and left the room.

  After she had gone he wondered whether he’d been wise to tell her. She had offered no advice, she had not even, he thought, been immensely interested, she had certainly been, in no way, shocked.

  “Girls are queer” was his final reflection. When the bell began to ring, with its strange little questioning invitation, he suddenly thought that he would go to church. He sometimes found evening service, with its candles and old familiar tunes and star-lit sky, romantic and moving: to-night he felt that his restlessness and indecision must be influenced. He came downstairs, and found Katherine standing and staring through the little window to the left of the hall door. She started when she heard his voice, as though she had been lost in her own company.

  “I’ve got a letter for you,” he said, roughly. “From Philip. He’s gone out for a long walk until supper, and he said you were to read it before he came back.”

  He gave it her. She said nothing. He turned abruptly away, and faced his mother.

  She had on her black Sunday hat and was buttoning her gloves.

  “I’m going to church.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “I think we shall be the only ones. Unless Katherine’s coming.”

  “No, I’m not coming,” said Katherine.

  He walked away with his mother, feeling self-conscious with her, as he always did, but to-night, whether from some especial sense of gloom, of dripping, wet trees, of wind and rain, or from some real perception of agitation in his mother, he felt a strong impulse of protection towards her. He would have liked to have put his arm through hers, to have defied the world to harm her, to run and fetch and ca
rry for her, to help her in any possible way. He had felt this before, but he had never known how to begin, and he knew that any demonstration of any kind would embarrass them both terribly.

  Mrs. Trenchard said things like:

  “Those two shirts of yours, Henry — those last two blue ones — have shrunk terribly. I’ll never go to that place in Oxford Street again. They’ve shrunk so dreadfully,” or “If you think you’d rather have those thicker socks next time you must tell me.... Do you like them better?”

  Henry was always vexed by such questions. He thought that he should have been managing his own clothes at his age, and he also could not be bothered to give his mind seriously to socks.

  “I don’t know, mother.”

  “But you must care for one or the other.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I think the thick ones are better. They don’t feel quite so comfortable perhaps.... Ah! there’s the bell stopping. We shall be late.”

  In church, influenced by the flickering candles, the familiar chants, the sense of a cosy and intimate trust in a Power who would see one safely through the night, just as one’s burning night-light had guarded one when one had been very small, Henry became sentimental and happy. He looked out of the corner of his eye at his mother, at the so familiar wave of her hair, the colour and shape of her cheek, the solid comfort of her figure, and suddenly thought how old she was looking. This came as a revelation to him: he fancied that even in the last week there had been a little change. He moved closer to her: then he saw that her eye was fixed upon a small choir-boy who had been eating sweets. The eye was stern and so full of command and assurance that Henry’s sentiment suddenly shrivelled into nothing. His mother wanted nobody’s help — he sighed and thought about other things. Soon he was singing “Abide with me” in his ugly, untuneful voice, pleased that the choir lingered over it in an abominable fashion, trying now and then to sing ‘second’, and miserably failing.