by Hugh Walpole
Instead of the reliable, affectionate and stolid sister who had shared with him all her intimacies, her plans, her regrets, her anticipations, he beheld now a stranger who gave him no intimacies at all, avoided him and hid from him her undoubted unhappiness. It was true of him now as it had ever been that ‘he would give his life to make Katherine happy,’ but how was he to do anything for her when she would tell him nothing, when she treated him like a stranger, and then blamed him for his hostilities.
If it had been clear that now, after these months of her engagement, she no longer loved Philip, the matter would have been simple. He would have proceeded at once to his father and told him all that he knew about Philip’s Moscow life. But she did love Philip — more, yes, far more, than ever — nothing could be clearer than that. This love of Katherine’s burned, unceasingly, in Henry’s brain. With no other human being could he have felt, so urgently, the flame of it but Katherine, whom he had known as he had known himself, so sure, so undramatic, so happily sexless, as she had always seemed to him, that it should be she whom this passion had transformed! From that moment when he had seen her embrace of Philip, his imagination had harried him as a dog harries a rabbit, over the whole scale of the world.... Love, too, that he had believed was calm, domestic, friendly, reassuring, was in truth unhappy, rebellious, devastating. In the very hearty of her unhappiness seemed to be the fire of her love. This removed her from him as though he had been flung by it into a distant world. And, on every side, he was attacked by this same thing. There were the women whom he had seen that night with Philip, there was the woman who had given Philip a son in Russia, there was here a life, dancing before him, now near him, now far away from him, intriguing him, shaming him, stirring him, revolting him, removing him from all his family, isolating him and yet besetting him with the company of wild, fantastic figures.
He walked the Glebeshire roads, spoke to no one, hated himself, loathed Philip, was lashed by his imagination, aroused at last to stinging vitality, until he did not know whither to turn for safety.
He came up to London for the Faunder-Trenchard wedding. Late in the afternoon that had seen Philip’s conversation with old Mr. Trenchard Henry came into the drawing-room to discover that tea was over and no one was there. He looked into the tea-pot and saw that there was nothing there to cheer him. For a moment he thought of Russia, in which country there were apparently perpetual samovars boiling upon ever-ready tables. This made him think of Philip — then, turning at some sudden sound, there was Aunt Aggie in the doorway.
Aunt Aggie looked cold in spite of the warm weather, and she held her knitting-needles in her hand defiantly, as though she were carrying them to reassure a world that had unjustly accused her of riotous living.
“It’s simply rotten,” said Henry, crossly. “One comes in expecting tea and it’s all over. Why can’t they have tea at the ordinary time?”
“That’s it,” said Aunt Aggie, settling herself comfortably into the large arm-chair near the fireplace. “Thinking of yourself, Henry, of course. Learn to be unselfish or you’ll never be happy in this world. I remember when I was a girl—”
“Look here!” Henry interrupted. “Has Philip been here this afternoon?”
“Mr. Mark? Yes, he has.”
“Did he come to tea?”
“Yes.”
She dug her needles viciously into an innocent ball of wool.
“Yes,” said Henry fiercely, “that’s why they had it early, I suppose — and why I don’t get any — of course.”
“All I know is,” continued Aunt Aggie, “that he’s put your grandfather into the most dreadful state. He was alone in here with him it seems, and I’m sure I don’t know what he’s said to him, but it upset him dreadfully. I’ve not been well myself to-day, and to have your grandfather—”
But Henry again interrupted.
“What did he want coming to-day at all for? He might have waited.”
Aunt Aggie, however, did not like to be interrupted when she was discussing her health, so she said now sharply: “Just look at your hands, Henry — Why can’t you keep them clean. I should have thought going up to Cambridge—”
“Oh! I’m all right,” he answered, impatiently. “Anyway, I wonder what he told grandfather.”
“Why, what could he have told him?” said Aunt Aggie, eagerly, looking up.
“Oh, I don’t know — nothing — Only ... Oh, Rocket, ask them to make some fresh tea. Let me have it in here.”
“Certainly, Mr. Henry,” said Rocket, removing the tea-pot with an air of strong disapproval.
“Really, Henry!” Aunt Aggie exclaimed. “And simply for yourself! Why, even though I’ve had the most trying headache all day, I’d never venture to give so much trouble simply for myself.”
“Oh, I daresay you’ll have some when it comes,” Henry answered, carelessly — then, pursuing his thoughts, he continued: “Well, he won’t be coming back to Garth with us — that’s one comfort.”
“Oh, but he is!” cried Aunt Aggie, excitedly. “He is! Your mother’s asked him to come back with us, and he’s accepted. I simply don’t understand it. Your mother dislikes him as much as the rest of us do, and why she should ask him! It can’t be for poor Katie’s sake. She’s miserable enough when he’s at Garth. I’m sure if things go on like this much longer I shall go and take a little house by myself and live alone. I’d really rather than all this unpleasantness.”
This threat did not apparently alarm Henry very greatly, for, bursting out suddenly, he cried: “It’s beastly! perfectly beastly! There we’ve all got to sit watching him make Katie miserable. I won’t stand it! I won’t stand it!”
“Why you!” said Aunt Aggie, scornfully. “How can you prevent it! You’re only a boy!”
This epithet stung Henry to madness. Ah, if Aunt Aggie only knew all, she’d see that he was very far from being ‘only a boy’ — if she only knew the burden of secret responsibility that he’d been bearing during all these weeks. He’d keep secret no longer — it was time that everyone should know the kind of man to whom Katherine was being sacrificed. He turned round to his aunt, trembling with anger and excitement.
“You talk like that!” he cried, “but you don’t know what I know!”
“What don’t I know?” she asked eagerly.
“About Philip — this man Mark — He’s wicked, he’s awful, he’s — abominable!”
“Well,” said Aunt Aggie, dropping her needles. “What’s he done?”
“Done!” Henry exclaimed, sinking his voice into a horrified and confidential whisper. “He’s been a dreadful man. Before, in Russia, there’s nothing he didn’t do. I know, because there’s a friend of mine who knew him very well out there. He lived a terribly immoral life. He was notorious. He lived with a woman for years who wasn’t his wife, and they had a baby. There’s nothing he didn’t do — and he never told father a word.” Henry paused for breath.
Aunt Aggie’s cheeks flushed crimson, as they always did when anyone spoke, before her, of sexual matters.
At last she said, as though to herself: “I always knew it — I always knew it. You could see it in his face. I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen.”
Henry meanwhile had recovered himself. He stood there looking into the Mirror. It was a tragic moment. He had done, after all, what, all these months, he had determined to prevent himself from doing. He saw now, in a flash of accusing anger, what would most certainly follow. Aunt Aggie would tell everyone. Philip would be dismissed — Katherine’s heart would be broken.
He saw nothing but Katherine, Katherine whom he loved with all the ardour of his strange undisciplined quixotic soul. He saw Katherine turning to him, reproaching him, then, hiding her grief, pursuing her old life, unhappy for ever and ever. (At this stage in his development, he saw everything in terms of ‘for ever and for ever’.) It never occurred to him that if Philip were expelled out of the Trenchard Eden Katherine might accompany him. No, she would remain, a heart-broken m
onument to Henry’s lack of character.
He scowled at his aunt, who sat there thrilled and indignant and happy.
“I say!” he burst out. “Of course you mustn’t tell anybody!”
Aunt Aggie nodded her head and her needles clicked.
“It must remain with wiser and older heads than yours, Henry, as to what ought to be done ...” then to herself again: “Ah, they’ll wish they’d listened to me now.”
“But I say,” repeated Henry, red in the face, standing in front of her, “you really mustn’t. I told it you as a secret.”
“A secret! When everyone in London knows! A nice thing they’ll all think — letting Katherine marry a man with such a reputation!”
“No, but look here — you wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t told you — and you mustn’t do anything — you mustn’t really. Katie loves him — more than ever — and if she were to lose him—”
“Much better for her to lose him,” said Aunt Aggie firmly, “than for her to be miserable for life — much better. Besides, think of the abominable way the man’s deceived us! Why, he’s no better than a common thief! He—”
“Perhaps he hasn’t deceived her,” interrupted Henry. “Perhaps he’s told her—”
“Told her!” cried his aunt. “And do you really suppose that Katherine would stay for one moment with a man whose life — My dear Henry, how little you know your sister. She certainly has changed lately under that dreadful man’s influence, but she’s not changed so fundamentally as to forget all principles of right and wrong, all delicate feeling.”
“I don’t know,” said Henry slowly, “I don’t believe we do know Katie a bit. Girls are so queer. You think they don’t know a thing about anything, and really they know more than you do.... Anyway,” he went on eagerly, “you mustn’t say a word. You mustn’t really. You must give me your promise.”
But before Aunt Aggie could do more than shake her head there was an interruption. The door opened and Philip entered. Aunt Aggie at once rose from her chair, and, with a rustle and a quiver, without looking at the young man, without speaking left the room.
Henry remained, staring at Philip, confused and bewildered, furious with himself, furious with Aunt Aggie, furious with Philip. Yes, now he had ruined Katherine’s life — he and Philip between them. That he should not consider it possible that Katherine should have her life in her own hands to make or mar was characteristic of the Trenchard point of view.
Philip, conscious of Aunt Aggie’s exit, said: “I was just going — I came back to fetch a book that I left here — one that Katherine lent me.”
Henry made his usual lurching movement, as though he would like to move across the room and behave naturally, but was afraid to trust himself.
“That it?” he asked, pointing gloomily to a novel on the table near him.
“That’s it,” said Philip.
“Hullo!” cried Henry, looking at it more closely. “That’s mine!” It was indeed the novel that had to do with forests and the sea and the liberty of the human soul, the novel that had been to Henry the first true gospel of his life and that had bred in him all the troubles, distrusts and fears that a true gospel is sure to breed. Henry, when the original book had been delivered back to Mudie’s had with ceremony and worship bought a copy for himself. This was his copy.
“It’s my book,” Henry repeated, picking it up and holding it defiantly.
“I’m very sorry,” said Philip stiffly. “Of course I didn’t know. Katherine spoke as though it were hers.”
“Oh, you can take it,” Henry said, frowning and throwing it back on the table.
Philip looked at him, then suddenly, laughing, walked over to him, “What’s the matter, Henry?” he said catching his arm. “I’ll have it out with the lot of you, I swear I will. You, none of you, say anything — you all just look as though you didn’t know me. You yourself, these last months, have looked as though you’d like to stick a dagger into my back. Now, really, upon my word, I don’t know what I’ve done. I’m engaged to Katherine, but I’ve behaved as decently about it as I can. I’m not going to take her away from you all if I can help it. I’ve made up my mind to that, now that I see how much she cares for you all. I’ve done my best ... I really have. Now, what is it?”
Henry was, in spite of himself, touched by this appeal. He glanced at Philip’s face and thought, again in spite of himself, what a nice one it was. A horrible suspicion came to him that he liked Philip, had always liked him, and this abominable whisper, revealing treachery to all his principles, to all his traditions, to all his moral code, above all to Katherine, infuriated him. He tore his arm away.
“If you want to know,” he cried, “it’s because I think you’re a beast, because you’re not fit to touch Katie — because — because — I know all about you!”
Philip stood there; for a moment a smile trembled to his lips, then was dismissed.
“What do you mean?” he said, sternly.
“Mean?” cried Henry, allowing himself to be carried along on a tide of indignation that seemed, in some way, in spite of itself, to be quite genuine. “Mean? I mean that I’ve known for weeks and weeks the kind of man you are! I know what you did in Moscow for years and years, although you may look so quiet. Do you think you’re the sort of man to marry Katherine? Why, you aren’t fit to touch her hand.”
“Would you mind,” said Philip quietly, “just telling me exactly to what you are referring?”
“Why,” said Henry, dropping his voice and beginning to mumble, “you had — you had a mistress — in Moscow for years, and everyone knew it — and you had a baby — and it died. Everyone knows it.”
“Well,” said Philip quietly, “and what then?”
“Oh, you’re going to deny it, I suppose,” said Henry, “but I tell you—”
“No,” said Philip, “I’m not going to think of denying it. I don’t know where you got your information from, but it’s perfectly true. At the same time I can’t see that it’s your particular business or, indeed, anyone’s. The affair’s absolutely done with — old history.”
“No, I suppose,” cried Henry, “it doesn’t seem to be anything to you. You don’t know what a decent family thinks of such things. It’s nothing to you, of course. But we happen to care for Katherine more than — more than — you seem to know. And — and she’s everything to us. And we’re not going to let her — to let her marry someone who’s notoriously a — a bad man. No, we’re not. It may seem odd to you, but we’re not.”
Philip was standing now beneath the Mirror, in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back.
“My dear Henry,” he said, “it’s extremely pleasant to me to hear that you’re so fond of Katherine — but has it ever occurred to any of you that she may possibly have a life of her own, that she isn’t going to be dependent on all of you for ever?... And as for you, Henry, my boy, you’re a nice character, with charming possibilities in it, but I’m afraid that it can’t be denied that you’re a bit of a prig — and I don’t know that Cambridge is exactly the place to improve that defect.”
Philip could have said nothing more insulting. Henry’s face grew white and his hands trembled.
His voice shaking, he answered: “You can say what you like. All I can tell you is that if you don’t give up Katherine I’ll tell Father at once the sort of man you are — tell them all. And then you’ll have to go.”
At Philip’s heart there was triumph. At last the crisis was threatened for which he had, all this time, been longing. He did not for an instant doubt what Katherine would do. Ah! if they drove him away she was his, his for ever! and, please God, they would never see Glebeshire again!
He was triumphant, but he did not give Henry his mood.
“You can do what you please, my son,” he answered, scornfully. “Tell ’em all. But brush your hair next time you come down to the drawing-room for tea. Even in Russia we do that. You don’t know how wild it looks.... Now, just hand me that
book and I’ll clear out. Meanwhile don’t be so childish. You’re going to Cambridge, and really must grow up. Take my advice. Brush your hair, put on a clean collar, and don’t be a prig.”
Henry, white with passion, saw nothing but Philip’s face. Philip the enemy and scorn of the house, Philip the ravisher of Katherine, Philip author of all evil and instigator of all wickedness.
He picked up the book and flung it at Philip’s head.
“There’s your book!” he screamed. “Take it!... You — you cad!”
The book crashed into the centre of the mirror.
There was a tinkle of falling glass, and instantly the whole room seemed to tumble into pieces, the old walls, the old prints and water-colours, the green carpet, the solemn book-cases, the large arm-chairs — and with the room, the house, and with the house Westminster, Garth, Glebeshire, Trenchard and Trenchard tradition — all represented now by splinters and fragments of glass, by broken reflections of squares and stars of green light, old faded colours, deep retreating shadows.
“Oh!” cried Henry! “Oh!”
“Thank Heaven!” laughed Philip triumphantly. “One of you’ve done something at last!”
CHAPTER III. ANNA AND MRS. TRENCHARD
That return to Garth was, for everyone concerned, a miserable affair. It happened that the fine summer weather broke into torrents of rain. As they drove up to the old house they could hear the dripping of water from every nook and corner. As Henry lay awake that first night the hiss and spatter of the rain against his window seemed to have a personal grudge against him. “Ah — you fool — s-s-s — you s-s-s-illy a-s-s-s. Put your pride in your pocket — s-s-s-illy a-s-s.”
When he slept he dreamt that a deluge had descended upon the earth, that all were drowned save he, and that he was supported against the flood only by the floor of the house that swayed and swayed. Suddenly with a crash in it fell — he awoke to find that he had tumbled out of bed on to the carpet.