by Hugh Walpole
He remembered all this very clearly, and he had decided at the time that if he ever had a mistress he would take very good care that no one knew about her. That had been a year ago ... and now! He was bewildered, almost breathless with a kind of dismayed terror as to what the world might possibly be coming to. His mother! of whom at least one thing had surely been unalterable — that she, herself, would never change. And now she had taken this thing without horror, without anger, almost with complacency.
She had known of it for months!
It was as though he had cherished a pet with the happy conviction that it was a kitten and had suddenly discovered it to be a cub. And out of this confusion of a wrecked and devastated world there emerged the conviction “that there was something more behind all this”, that “his mother had some plan.” He did not see at all what her plan could possibly be, but she appeared before him now as a sinister and menacing figure, someone who had been close to him for so many years, but whose true immensity he had never even remotely perceived.
He, Henry, had, from other points of view, risen out of the affair with considerable good fortune. He had not, as far as he could perceive, earned Katherine’s undying hatred; he had not even made a fool of himself, as might naturally be expected. It was plain enough now that Philip was to be with them for ever and ever, and that therefore Henry must make the best of him. Now indeed that it had come to this, Henry was not at all sure that he might not like Philip very much indeed. That night at the ‘Empire’ had been the beginning of life for Henry, and the indifference of his mother to Philip’s past and the knowledge that Katherine had long been aware of it made him not a little ashamed of his indignation and tempers. Nevertheless Philip had that effect upon him, and would have it many times again no doubt. For a clear and steady moment Henry, looking at himself in his looking-glass, wondered whether he were not truly the most terrible of asses.
However, all this was of the past. It was with a sense of advancing to meet a new world that he went down to dinner.
In the drawing-room he found his mother alone. She was wearing an evening dress of black silk, and Henry, whose suspicion of the world made him observant, noticed that she was wearing a brooch of old silver set with pearls. This was a family brooch, and Henry knew that his mother wore it only ‘on occasions’; his mother’s idea of what made an ‘occasion’ was not always that of the outside world. He wondered what the occasion might be to-night.
He had, for long, been unconsciously in the habit of dividing his mother into two persons, the figure of domination and power who kept the household in awe and was mysterious in her dignity and aloof reserve, and the figure of maternal homeliness who spoke to one about underclothes, was subject to human agitations and pleasures; of the first he was afraid, and would be afraid until he died. The second he loved. His mother to-night was the first of these. She looked, in his eyes, amazingly young. Her fair grey hair, her broad shoulders, her straight back, these things showed Henry’s mother to be younger than ever Henry would be. The pearl brooch gleamed against the black silk that covered her strong bosom; her head was carried high; her eyes feared no man nor woman alive.
Therefore Henry, as was his manner on such an occasion, did his best to slip quietly into a chair and hide his diminished personality in a book. This, however, was not permitted him.
“Henry,” his mother said softly, “why did you not tell me earlier the things that you had heard about Philip?”
Henry blushed so intensely that there was a thin white line just below the roots of his hair.
“I didn’t want to make Katie unhappy,” he muttered.
“I should have thought your duty to your parents came before your duty to Katherine,” his mother replied.
“It wasn’t you who was going to marry Philip,” he answered, not looking at his mother.
“Nevertheless it’s possible that older heads — yes, older heads—”
“Oh! well! it’s all right,” he burst out, “I’m sick of the thing, and you and father don’t seem to mind anything about it—”
“I haven’t told your father,” she interrupted.
“Haven’t told Father?” Henry repeated.
“No. Father doesn’t think of such things. If everything goes well, as I am sure that everything will, Father will want to know nothing further. I have every confidence in Philip.”
“Why!” Henry burst out, “I always thought you hated Philip, Mother. I simply don’t understand.”
“There are quite a number of things you don’t understand, Henry dear,” his mother answered. “Yes, quite a number. Philip was perhaps not at home with us at first — but I’m sure that in time he will become quite one of the family — almost as though he had been born a Trenchard. I have great hopes.... Your tie is as usual, Henry, dear, above your collar. Let me put it down for you.”
Henry waited whilst his mother’s cool, solid fingers rubbed against his neck and sent a little shiver down his spine as though they would remind him that he was a Trenchard too and had better not try to forget it. But the great, overwhelming impression that now dominated him was of his mother’s happiness. He knew very well when his mother was happy. There was a note in her voice as sure and melodious as the rhythm of a stream that runs, somewhere hidden, between the rocks. He had known, on many days, that deep joy of his mother’s — often it had been for no reason that he could discover.
To-night she was triumphant; her triumph sang through every note of her voice.
The others come in. George Trenchard entered, rubbing his hands and laughing. He seemed, every week, redder in the face and stouter all over; in physical reality he added but little to his girth. It was the stoutness of moral self-satisfaction and cheerful complaisance. His doctrine of pleasant aloofness from contact with other human beings had acted so admirably; he would like to have recommended it to everyone had not such recommendation been too great a trouble.
He was never, after this evening, to be aloof again, but he did not know that.
“Well, well,” he cried. “Punctual for once, Henry. Very nice, indeed. Dear me, Mother, why this gaudiness? People coming to dinner?”
She looked down at her brooch.
“No, dear.... No one. I just thought I’d put it on. I haven’t worn it for quite a time. Not for a year at least.”
“Very pretty, very pretty,” he cried. “Dear me, what a day I’ve had! So busy, scarcely able to breathe!”
“What have you been doing, Father?” asked Henry.
“One thing and another. One thing and another,” said George airily. “Day simply flown.”
He stood there in front of the fire, his legs spread, his huge chest flung out, his face flaming like the sun.
“Yes, it’s been a very pleasant day,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “very pleasant.”
“Where’s Katie?” asked her father. “She’s generally down before anyone.”
Henry, who, in the contemplation of his mother, had forgotten, for the moment, his sister’s strange behaviour, said:
“Oh! she’ll be late, I expect. I saw her go out about seven. Had to see Penhaligan about something important, she told me. Went out into all that storm.”
As he spoke eight o’clock struck.
Mrs. Trenchard looked up.
“Went out to see Penhaligan?” she asked.
“Yes, Mother. She didn’t tell me why.”
Aunt Betty came in. Her little body, her cheerful smile, her air as of one who was ready to be pleased with anything, might lead a careless observer into the error of supposing that she was a quite ordinary old maid with a fancy for knitting, the Church of England, and hot water with her meals. He would be wrong in his judgment; her sharp little eyes, the corners of her mouth betrayed a sense of humour that, although it had never been encouraged by the family, provided much wise penetration and knowledge. Any casual acquaintance in half an hour’s talk would have discovered in Aunt Betty wisdom and judgment to which her own family would, until the day
of its decent and honourable death, be entirely blind.
Just now she had lost her spectacles.
“My spectacles,” she said. “Hum-hum — Very odd. I had them just before tea. I was working over in that corner — I never moved from there except once when — when — Oh! there they are! No, they are not. And I played ‘Patience’ there, too, in the same corner. Very odd.”
“Perhaps, dear,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “you left them in your bedroom.”
“No, Harriet, I looked there. Hum-hum-hum. Very odd it is, because—”
Millie came in and then Aunt Aggie.
“Is Father coming down to-night?” said George.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “He said that he felt better. Thought it would be nice to come down. Yes, that it would be rather nice.... Aggie, dear, that’s your sewing, isn’t it? You left it here this morning. Rocket put it between the pages of my novel to mark the place. I knew it was yours—”
“Yes, it’s mine,” said Aunt Aggie, shortly.
Meanwhile Henry, looking at the door, waited for Katherine. A strange premonition was growing in him that all was not well. Katherine and Philip, they had not appeared — Katherine and Philip.... As he thought of it, it occurred to him that he had not heard Philip moving as he dressed. Philip’s room was next to Henry’s, and the division was thin; you could always hear coughs, steps, the pouring of water, the opening and shutting of drawers.
There had been no sounds to-night. Henry’s heart began to beat very fast. He listened to the wind that, now that the storm had swung away, was creeping around the house, trying the doors and windows, rattling something here, tugging at something there, all the pipes gurgled and spluttered with the waters of the storm.
“Ah! there they are!” cried Aunt Betty.
Henry started, thinking that she must herald the entry of Katherine and Philip; but no, it was only the gold-rimmed spectacles lying miraculously beneath the sofa.
“Now, how,” cried Aunt Betty, “did they get there? Very odd, because I remember distinctly that I never moved from my corner.”
“Well,” said George Trenchard, who, now that his back was warmed by the fire, wanted his front warmed too, “how much longer are we to wait for dinner? Katie and Philip. Playing about upstairs, I suppose.”
Quarter-past eight struck, and Rocket, opening the door, announced that dinner was ready.
“Suppose you just go up and see what Katie’s doing, Millie dear,” said Mrs. Trenchard.
Millie left them and ran quickly upstairs. She pushed back Katie’s door, then, stepping inside, the darkness and silence and a strange murmurous chill caught her, as though someone had leapt, out of the dusk, at her throat. She knew then instantly what had occurred. She only said once, very softly, “Katie!” then gently closed the door behind her, as though she did not want anyone else to see the room.
She stayed there; there, beside the door, for quite a long time. The room was very dark, but the looking-glass glimmered like a white, flickering shadow blown by the wet wind that came in through the open window. Something flapped monotonously.
Millie, standing quite motionless by the door, thought to herself “Katherine and Philip! They’ve done it!... at last, they’ve done it!” At first, because she was very young and still believed in freedom and adventure as the things best worth having in life, she felt nothing but a glad, triumphant excitement; an excitement springing not only from her pleasure in any brave movement, but also from her reassurance in her beloved sister, her knowledge that after all Katherine did believe in Love beyond every other power, was ready to venture all for it. Her own impulse was to run after them, as fast as she could, and declare her fidelity to them.
At last she moved away from the door to the dressing-table and lit a candle. Its soft white flame for a moment blinded her. She had an instant of hesitation; perhaps after all she had flown too rapidly to her desired conclusions, the two of them were waiting now in the drawing-room for her.... Then she saw Katherine’s note propped against the looking-glass.
She took it up, saw that it was addressed to her mother, and realised, for the first time, what this would mean to them all. She saw then — THE OLD ONES — Grandfather, Mother, Father, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty. She was sorry for them, but she knew, as she stood there, that she did not care, really, whether they were hurt or no. She felt her own freedom descend upon her, there in Katie’s room, like a golden, flaming cloud. This was the moment for which, all her life, she had been waiting. The Old Ones had tried to keep them and tie them down, but the day of the Old Ones was past, their power was broken. It was the New Generation that mattered — Katherine and Philip, Millie and Henry, and all their kind; it was their world and their dominion —
She suddenly, alone there, with the note in her hand, danced a little dance, the candle-flame flickering in the breeze and Katherine’s white, neat bed so cold and tidy.
She was not hard, she was not cruel — her own time would come when she would cry for sympathy and would not find it, and must set her teeth because her day was past ... now was her day — She seized it fiercely.
Very quietly she went downstairs....
She opened the drawing-room door: as she entered all their eyes met her and she knew at once, as she saw Henry’s, that he was expecting her announcement.
She looked across at her mother.
“Katherine’s room’s empty,” she said. “There’s no one there at all.” She hesitated a moment, then added: “There was this note for you, Mother, on her dressing-table.”
She went across the room and gave it to her mother. Her mother took it; no one spoke.
Mrs. Trenchard read it; for a dreadful moment she thought that she was going to give way before them all, was going to cry out, to scream, to rush wildly into the road to stop the fugitives, or slap Aunt Aggie’s face. For a dreadful moment the battle of her whole life to obtain the mastery of herself was almost defeated — then, blindly, obeying some impulse with which she could not reason, of which she was scarcely conscious, some strong call from a far country, she won a triumphant victory.
“It’s from Katherine!” she said. “The child’s mad. She’s gone up to London.”
“London!” George Trenchard cried.
“London!” cried Aunt Aggie.
“Yes. With Philip. They have caught the eight train. They are to be married to-morrow. ‘Because I would not let Philip go,’ she says. But she’s mad—”
For an instant she gripped the mantelpiece behind her. She could hear them, only from a distance, as though their voices were muffled by the roar of sea or wind, their exclamations.
Her husband was, of course, useless. She despised him. He cried:
“They must be stopped! They must be stopped. This is impossible! That fellow Mark — one might have guessed! They must be stopped. At once! At once!”
“They can’t be.” She heard her voice far away with the others. “They can’t be stopped. The train left at eight o’clock, nearly half an hour ago. There’s nothing to be done.”
“But, of course,” cried George, “there’s something to be done. They must be stopped at once. I’ll go up by the next train.”
“There’s no train until six to-morrow morning — and what good would you do? They’re engaged. You gave your permission. Katherine’s of age. It is her own affair.”
They all cried out together. Their voices sounded to Mrs. Trenchard like the screams of children.
Through the confusion there came the sound of an opening door. They all turned, and saw that it was old Mr. Trenchard, assisted by Rocket.
“Why don’t you come in to dinner?” he said, in his clear, thin voice. “I went straight into the dining-room because I was late, and here you all are, and it’s nearly half-past eight.”
The same thought instantly struck them all. Grandfather must know nothing about it; a very slight shock, they were all aware, would kill Grandfather, and there could not possibly be any shock to him lik
e this amazing revolt of Katherine’s. Therefore he must know nothing. Like bathers asserting themselves after the first quiver of an icy plunge, they fought their way to the surface.
Until Grandfather was safely once more alone in his room the situation must be suspended. After all, there was nothing to be done! He, because he was feeling well that evening, was intent upon his dinner.
“What! Waiting for Katherine?” he said.
“Katherine isn’t coming down to dinner, Father,” Mrs. Trenchard said.
“What, my dear?”
“Katherine isn’t coming down to dinner.”
“Not ill, I hope.”
“No — a little tired.”
George Trenchard was the only one who did not support his part. When the old man had passed through the door, George caught his wife’s arm.
“But, I say,” he whispered, “something—”
She turned for an instant, looking at him with scorn.
“Nothing!” she said. “It’s too late.”
They went in to dinner.
It was fortunate that Grandfather was hungry; he did not, it seems, notice Philip’s absence.
“Very nice to see you down, Father,” Mrs. Trenchard said pleasantly. “Very nice for us all.”
“Thank ye, my dear. Very agreeable — very agreeable. Quite myself this evening. That rheumatism passed away, so I said to Rocket, ‘Well, ‘pon my word, Rocket, I think I’ll come down to-night’ Livelier for us all to be together. Hope Katie isn’t ill, though?”