by Hugh Walpole
When, therefore, the party, climbing out of the Lane, came suddenly upon the path leading down to the Cove, with the sea, like a blue cloud in front of them, no one exclaimed at the view. It was a very beautiful view — one of the finest of its kind in the United Kingdom, the high rocks closing in the Cove and the green hills closing in the rocks. On the hill to the right was the Rafiel Old Church, with its graveyard that ran to the very edge of the cliff, and behind the Cove was a stream and a green orchard and a little wood. The sand of the Cove was bright gold, and the low rocks to either side of it were a dark red — the handsomest place in the world, with the water so clear that you could see down, far down, into green caverns laced with silver sand. Unfortunately, at the moment when the Coles and their friends beheld it, it was blazing in the sun; soon the sun would pass and, during the whole afternoon, half of it at least would lie in shadow, but the Le Pages could not be expected to think of that.
The basket was unloaded from the jingle and carried down to the beach by Mr. Cole and Jim. Jeremy, finding himself at the side of the lovely Charlotte, was convulsed with shyness, the more that he knew that the unhappy Mary was listening with jealous ears. Charlotte, walking like Agag, “delicately,” had a piteous expression in her eyes as though she were being led to the torture.
Jeremy coughed and began: “We always come here every year. Don’t you like it?”
“Yes,” she said miserably.
“And we paddle and bathe. Do you like bathing?”
“Going into the sea?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no! Mother says I mustn’t, because it’ll hurt my hair. Do you like my hair?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy, blushing at so direct an invitation to compliment.
“Mother says I’ve got to be very careful of my hair because it’s my chief beauty.”
“Yes,” said Jeremy.
“I have a maid, Alice, and she brushes a whole hour every morning and a whole hour every evening.”
“Don’t you get very tired?” asked Jeremy. “I know I should.”
“Mother says if you have such beautiful hair you must take trouble with it,” Charlotte gravely replied.
Her voice was so like the voice of a parrot that Jeremy’s grandmother had once possessed that it didn’t seem as though a human being was speaking at all. They were near the beach now and could see the blue slipping in, turning into white bubbles, then slipping out again.
“Do you like my frock?” said Charlotte.
“Yes,” said Jeremy.
“It was bought in London. All my clothes are bought in London.”
“Mary’s and Helen’s aren’t,” said Jeremy with some faint idea of protecting his sisters. “They’re bought in Polchester.”
“Mother says,” said Charlotte, “that if you’re not pretty it doesn’t matter where you buy your clothes.”
They arrived on the beach and stared about them. It became at once a great question as to where Mrs. Le Page would sit. She could not sit on the sand which looked damp, nor equally, of course, on a rock that was spiky and hard. What to do with her? She stood in the middle of the beach, still holding up her skirts, gazing desperately about her, looking first at one spot and then at another.
“Oh, dear, the heat!” she exclaimed. “Is there no shade anywhere? Perhaps in that farm-house over there...” It was probable enough that no member of the Cole family would have minded banishing Mrs. Le Page into the farmhouse, but it would have meant that the whole party must accompany her. That was impossible. They had come for a picnic and a picnic they would have.
Mrs. Cole watched, with growing agitation, the whole situation. She saw from her husband’s face that he was rapidly losing his temper, and she had learnt, after many experiences, that when he lost his temper he was capable of anything. That does not mean, of course, that he ever was angry to the extent of swearing or striking out with his fists — no, he simply grew sadder, and sadder, and sadder, and this melancholy had a way of reducing to despair all the people with whom he happened to be at the time.
“What does everyone say to our having lunch now?” cried Mrs. Cole cheerfully. “It’s after one, and I’m sure everyone’s hungry.”
No one said anything, so preparations were begun. A minute piece of shade was found for Mrs. Le Page, and here she sat on a flat piece of rock with her skirts drawn close about her as though she were afraid of rats or crabs. A tablecloth was laid on the sand and the provisions spread out — pasties for everybody, egg-sandwiches, seed-cake, and jam-puffs — and ginger beer. It looked a fine feast when it was all there, and Mrs. Cole, as she gave the final touch to it by placing a drinking glass containing two red rose-buds in the middle, felt proud of her efforts and hoped that after all the affair might pass off bravely. But alas, how easily the proudest plans fall to the ground.
“I hope, Alice, you haven’t forgotten the salt!”
Instantly Mrs. Cole knew that she had forgotten it. She could see herself standing there in Mrs. Monk’s kitchen forgetting it. How could she? And Mrs. Monk, how could SHE? It had never been forgotten before.
“Oh, no,” she said wildly. “Oh, no! I’m sure I can’t have forgotten it.”
She plunged about, her red face all creased with anxiety, her hat on one side, her hands searching everywhere, under the tablecloth, in the basket, amongst the knives and forks.
“Jim, you haven’t dropped anything?”
“No, mum. Beggin’ your pardon, mum, the basket was closed, so to speak — closed it was.”
No, she knew that she had forgotten it.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Le Page, I’m afraid—”
“My dear Mrs. Cole! What does it matter? Not in the least, I assure you. In this heat it’s impossible to feel hungry, isn’t it? I assure you I don’t feel as though I could touch a thing. A little fruit, perhaps — an apple or a peach—”
Fruit? Why hadn’t Mrs. Cole brought fruit? She might so easily have done so, and she had never thought about it. They themselves were rather tired of fruit, and so —
“I’m afraid we’ve no fruit, but an egg-sandwich—”
“Eggs need salt, don’t you think? Not that it matters in the very least, but so that you shouldn’t think me fussy. Really, dear Mrs. Cole, I never felt less hungry in my life. Just a drop of milk and I’m perfectly satisfied.”
“Jeremy shall run up to the farm for the milk. You don’t mind, Jeremy dear, do you? It’s only a step. Just take this sixpence, dear, and say we’ll send the jug back this afternoon if they’ll spare one.”
Jeremy did mind. He was enjoying his luncheon, and he was gazing at Charlotte, and he was teasing Hamlet with scraps — he was very happy. Nevertheless, he started off.
So soon as he left the sands the noise of the sea was shut off from him, and he was climbing the little green path up which the Scarlet Admiral had once stalked.
Suddenly he remembered — in his excitement about Charlotte he had forgotten the Admiral. He stood for a moment, listening. The green hedge shut off the noise of the sea — only above his head some birds were twittering. He fancied that he heard footsteps, then that beyond the hedge something was moving. It seemed to him that the birds were also listening for something. “Well, it’s the middle of the afternoon, anyway.” He thought to himself, “He never comes there — only in the morning or evening,” but he hurried forward after that, wishing that he had called to Hamlet to accompany him. It was a pleasant climb to the farm through the green orchard, and he found at the farm door an agreeable woman who smiled at him when she gave him the milk. He had to come down the hill carefully, lest the milk should be spilt. He walked along very happily, humming to himself and thinking in a confused summer afternoon kind of manner of Charlotte, Hamlet, Mrs. Le Page and himself. “Shall I give her the thimble or shan’t I? I could take her to the pools where the little crabs are. She’d like them. I wonder whether we’re going to bathe. Mrs. Le Page will look funny bathing...” Then he was in the green lane again, an
d at once his discomfort returned to him, and he looked around his shoulder and into the hedges, and stopped once and again to listen. There was no sound. The birds, it seemed, had all fallen to sleep. The hedges, he thought, were closer about him. It was very hot here, with no breeze and no comforting sound of the sea. “I wonder whether he really does come,” he thought. “It must be horrid to see him — coming quite close.” And the thought of the Fool also frightened him. The Fool with his tongue out and his shaking legs, like the idiot who lived near the Cathedral at home. At the thought of this Jeremy suddenly took to his legs and ran, covering the top of his jug with his hand; then, when he came out on to the strip of grass that crossed the top of the beach, he stopped, suddenly ashamed of himself. Scarlet Admirals! Scarlet Admirals! How could there be Scarlet Admirals in a world that also contained so blazing a sun, so blue a sea, and the gorgeous realities of the Le Page family. He arrived at the luncheon party hot and proud and smiling, so cheerful and stolid and agreeable that even Mrs. Le Page was compelled to say, “Really, Mrs. Cole, that’s a very nice little boy of yours. Come here, little Jeremy, and talk to me!” How deeply he hated being called “little Jeremy” only Mary and Helen knew. Their eyes flew to his face to see how he would take it. He took it very well. He sat down beside Mrs. Le Page, who very gracefully and languidly sipped at her glass of milk.
“How old are you, Jeremy dear?” she asked him.
“Eight,” he answered, wriggling.
“What a nice age! And one day you’ll go to school?”
“In September.”
“And what will you be when you’re a man?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll be a soldier, perhaps.”
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t like to be a soldier and kill people.”
“Yes, I would. There’s lots of people I’d like to kill.”
Mrs. Le Page drew her skirts back a little.
“How horrible! I’m sure your mother wouldn’t like to hear that.”
But Mr. Cole had caught the last words of the dialogue and interrupted with:
“But what could be finer, Mrs. Le Page, than the defence of one’s country? Would you have our young lads grow up faint-hearted and fail their Motherland when she calls? What can be finer, I say, than to die for Queen and country? Would not every mother have her son shed his blood for liberty and freedom?... No, Jeremy, not another. You’ve had quite enough. It would indeed be a disheartening sight if we elders were to watch our sons and grandchildren turning their swords into ploughshares—”
He was interrupted by a shrill cry from Mrs. Le Page:
“Charlotte, darling, do hold your sunshade up. All the left side of your face is exposed. That’s better, dear. I beg your pardon, Mr. Cole.”
But Mr. Cole was offended.
“I hope no son of mine will ever show himself a faint heart,” he concluded severely.
The luncheon, in fact, had been a most dismal failure. The Coles could fling their minds back to luncheons on this same beach that had been simply riotous successes. What fun they had had! What games! What bathes? Now the very sight of Mr. Le Page’s black beard was enough. Even Jeremy felt that things were wrong. Then he looked at Charlotte and was satisfied. There she sat, straight and stiff, her hands on her lap, her hair falling in lovely golden ripples down her back, her gaze fixed on distance. Oh! she was beautiful! He would do whatever she told him; he would give her Miss Noah and the apple tree; he would — A sound disturbed his devotions. He turned. Both Mr. and Mrs. Le Page were fast asleep.
IV
“Children,” whispered Mrs. Cole, “very quietly now, so that you don’t disturb anyone, run off to the farther beach and play. Helen, you’ll see that everything is all right, won’t you?”
It was only just in time that Jeremy succeeded in strangling Hamlet’s bark into a snort, and even then they all looked round for a moment at the sleepers in the greatest anxiety. But no, they had not been disturbed. If only Mr. Le Page could have known what he resembled lying there with his mouth open! But he did not know. He was doubtless dreaming of his property.
The children crept away. Charlotte and Jeremy together. Jeremy’s heart beat thickly. At last he had the lovely creature in his charge. It was true that he did not quite know what he was going to do with her, and that even now, in the height of his admiration, he did wish that she would not walk as though she were treading on red-hot ploughshares, and that she could talk a little instead of giving little shivers of apprehension at every step.
“I must say,” he thought to himself, “she’s rather silly in some ways. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fun to see her always.”
They turned the corner round a projecting finger of rock, and a new little beach, white and gleaming, lay in front of them.
“Well,” said Jeremy, “here we are. What shall we play?”
There was dead silence.
“We might play pirates,” he continued. “I’ll be the pirate, and Mary can sit on that rock until the water comes round her, and Charlotte shall hide in that cave—”
There was still silence. Looking about him, he discovered from his sisters’ countenances that they were resolved to lend no kind of assistance, and he then from that deduced the simple fact that his sisters hated Charlotte and were not going to make it pleasant for her in any way if they could help it. Oh! it was a miserable picnic! The worst that he’d ever had.
“It’s too hot to play,” said Helen loftily. “I’m going to sit down over there.”
“So am I,” said Mary.
They moved away, their heads in the air and their legs ridiculously stiff.
Jeremy gazed at Charlotte in distress. It was very wicked of his sisters to go off like that, but it was also very silly of Charlotte to stand there so helplessly. He was beginning to think that perhaps he would give the thimble to Miss Jones after all.
“Would you like to go and see the pool where the little crabs are?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered, her upper lip trembling as though she were going to cry. “I want to go home with Mother.”
“You can’t go home,” he said firmly, “and you can’t see your mother, because she’s asleep.”
“I’ve made my shoes dirty,” she said, looking down at her feet, “and I’m so tired of holding my sunshade.”
“I should shut it up,” Jeremy said without any hesitation. “I think it’s a silly thing. I’m glad I’m not a girl. Do you have to take it with you everywhere?”
“Not if it’s raining. Then I have an umbrella.”
“I think you’d better come and see the crabs,” he settled. “They’re only just over there.”
She moved along with him reluctantly, looking back continually to where her mother ought to be.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Jeremy asked politely.
“No,” she said, without any hesitation, “I want to go home.”
“She’s as selfish as anything,” he thought to himself. “We’re giving the party, and she ought to have said ‘Yes’ even if she wasn’t.”
“Do you like my dog?” he asked, with another effort at light conversation.
“No,” she answered, with a little shiver. “He’s ugly.”
“He isn’t ugly,” Jeremy returned indignantly. “He isn’t perhaps the very best breed, but Uncle Samuel says that that doesn’t matter if he’s clever. He’s better than any other dog. I love him more than anybody. He isn’t ugly!”
“He is,” cried Charlotte with a kind of wail. “Oh! I want to go home.”
“Well, you can’t go home,” he answered her fiercely. “So you needn’t think about it.”
They came to the little pools, three of them, now clear as crystal, blue on their surface, with green depths and red shelving rock.
“Now you sit there,” he said cheerfully. “No one will touch you. The crabs won’t get at you.”
He looked about him and noticed with surprise where he was. He was sitting on the farther corner of the
very beach where the Scarlet Admiral had landed with his men. It was out there beyond that bend of rock that the wonderful ship had rode, with its gold and silk, its jewelled masts and its glittering board. Directly opposite to him was the little green path that led up the hill, and above it the very field — Farmer Ede’s field!
For a long, long time they sat there in silence. He forgot Charlotte in his interest over his discovery, staring about him and watching how quickly the August afternoon was losing its heat and colour, so that already a little cold autumnal wind was playing about the sand, the colours were being drawn from the sky, and a grey web was slowly pulled across the sea.
“Now,” he said cheerfully at last, to Charlotte, “I’ll look for the crabs.”
“I hate crabs,” she said. “I want to go home.”
“You can’t go home,” he answered furiously. “What’s the good of saying that over and over again? You aren’t going yet, so it’s no use saying you are.”
“You’re a horrid little boy,” she brought out with a kind of inanimate sob.
He did not reply to that; he was still trying to behave like a gentleman. How could he ever have liked her? Why, her hair was not so much after all. What was hair when you come to think of it? Mary got on quite well with hers, ugly though it was. She was stupid, stupid, stupid! She was like someone dead. As he searched for the crabs that weren’t there he felt his temper growing. Soon he would lead her back to her mother and leave her there and never see her again.
But this was not the climax of the afternoon.
When he looked up from gazing into the pool the whole world seemed to have changed. He was still dazzled perhaps by the reflection of the water in his eyes, and yet it was not altogether that. It was not altogether because the day was slipping from afternoon into evening.
The lazy ripple of the water as it slutched up the sand and then broke, the shadows that were creeping farther and farther from rock to rock, the green light that pushed up from the horizon into the faint blue, the grey web of the sea, the thick gathering of the hills as they crept more closely about the little darkening beach... it was none of these things.