Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  People began to mount the steps that led on to the platform where the horses stood. A woman, then a man and a boy, then two men, then two girls giggling together, then a man and a girl.

  And the stout fellow shouted: “Come along hup! Come along hup! Now, lidies and gents! A ‘alfpenny a ride! Come along hup!”

  Jeremy noticed then that the fine horse with the black mane had stopped close beside him. Impossible to say whether the horse had intended it or no! He was staring now in front of him with the innocent stupid gaze that animals can assume when they do not wish to give themselves away. But Jeremy could see that he was taking it for granted that Jeremy understood the affair. “If you’re such a fool as not to understand,” he seemed to say, “well, then, I don’t want you.” Jeremy gazed, and the reproach in those eyes was more than he could endure. And at any moment someone else might settle himself on that beautiful back! There, that stupid fat giggling girl! No — she had moved elsewhere... He could endure it no longer and, with a thumping heart, clutching a scalding penny in a red-hot hand, he mounted the steps. “One ride — little gen’elman. ’Ere you are! ‘Old on now! Oh, you wants that one, do yer? Eight yer are — yer pays yer money and yer takes yer choice.” He lifted Jeremy up. “Put yer arms round ’is neck now— ’e won’t bite yer!”

  Bite him indeed! Jeremy felt, as he clutched the cool head and let his hand slide over the stiff black mane, that he knew more about that horse than his owner did. He seemed to feel beneath him the horse’s response to his clutching knees, the head seemed to rise for a moment and nod to him and the eyes to say: “It’s all right. I’ll look after you. I’ll give you the best ride of your life!” He felt, indeed, that the gaze of the whole world was upon him, but he responded to it proudly, staring boldly around him as though he had been seated on merry-go-rounds all his days. Perhaps some in the gaping crowd knew him and were saying: “Why, there’s the Rev. Cole’s kid—” Never mind; he was above scandal. From where he was he could see the Fair lifted up and translated into a fantastic splendour. Nothing was certain, nothing defined — above him a canopy of evening sky, with circles and chains of stars mixed with the rosy haze of the flame of the Fair; opposite him was the Palace of “The Two-Headed Giant from the Caucasus,” a huge man as portrayed in the picture hanging on his outer walls, a giant naked, save for a bearskin, with one head black and one yellow, and white protruding teeth in both mouths. Next to him was the Fortune Teller’s, and outside this a little man with a hump beat a drum. Then there was “The Theatre of Tragedy and Mirth,” with a poster on one side of the door portraying a lady drowning in the swiftest of rivers, but with the prospect of being saved by a stout gentleman who leaned over from the bank and grasped her hair. Then there was the “Chamber of the Fat Lady and the Six Little Dwarfs,” and the entry to this was guarded by a dirty sour-looking female who gnashed her teeth at a hesitating public, before whom, with a splendid indifference to appearance, she consumed, out of a piece of newspaper, her evening meal.

  All these things were in Jeremy’s immediate vision, and beyond them was a haze that his eyes could not penetrate. It held, he knew, wild beasts, because he could hear quite clearly from time to time the lion and the elephant and the tiger; it held music, because from somewhere through all the noise and confusion the tune of a band penetrated; it held buyers and sellers and treasures and riches, and all the inhabitants of the world — surely all the world must be here to-night. And then, beyond the haze, there were the silent and mysterious gipsy caravans. Dark with their little square windows, and their coloured walls, and their round wheels, and the smell of wood fires, and the noise of hissing kettles and horses cropping the grass, and around them the still night world with the thick woods and the dark river.

  He did not see it all as he sat on his horse — he was, as yet, too young; but he did feel the contrast between the din and glare around him and the silence and dark beyond, and, afterwards, looking back, he knew that he had found in that same contrast the very heart of romance. As it was, he simply clutched his horse’s beautiful head and waited for the ride to begin...

  They were off! He felt his horse quiver under him, he saw the mansions of the Two-Headed Giant and the Fat Lady slip to the right, the light seemed to swing like the skirt of someone’s dress, upwards across the floor, and from the heart of the golden woman and the king and the minstrel a scream burst forth as though they were announcing the end of the world. After that he had no clear idea as to what occurred. He was swung into space, and all the life that had been so stationary, the booths, the lights, the men and women, the very stars went swinging with him as though to cheer him on; the horse under him galloped before, and the faster he galloped the wilder was the music and the dizzier the world. He was exultant, omnipotent, supreme. He had long known that this glory was somewhere if it could only be found, all his days he seemed to have been searching for it; he beat his horse’s neck, he drove his legs against his sides. “Go on! Go on! Go on!” he cried. “Faster! Faster! Faster!”

  The strangest things seemed to rise to his notice and then fall again — a peaked policeman’s hat, flowers, a sudden flame of gas, the staring eyes and dead white arms of the golden woman, the flying forms of the horses in front of him. All the world was on horseback, all the world was racing higher and higher, faster and faster. He saw someone near him rise on to his horse’s back and stand on it, waving his arms. He would like to have done that, but he found that he was part of his horse, as though he had been glued to it. He shouted, he cried aloud, he was so happy that he thought of no one and nothing... The flame danced about him in a circle, he seemed to rise so high that there was a sudden stillness, he was in the very heart of the stars; then came the supreme moment when, as he had always known, that one day he would be, he was master of the world... Then, like Lucifer, he fell. Slowly the stars receded, the music slackened, people rocked on to their feet again... The Two-Headed Giant slipped back once more into his place, he saw the sinister lady still devouring her supper, women looking up at him gaped. His horse gave a last little leap and died.

  This marvellous experience he repeated four times, and every time with an ecstasy more complete than the last. He rushed to a height, he fell, he rushed again, he fell, and at every return to a sober life his one intention was instantly to be off on his steed once more. He was about to start on his fifth journey, he had paid his halfpenny, he was sitting forward with his hands on the black mane, his eyes, staring, were filled already with the glory that he knew was coming to him, his cheeks were crimson, his hat on the back of his head, his hair flying. He heard a voice, quiet and cool, a little below him, but very near:

  “Jeremy... Jeremy. Come off that. You’ve got to go home.”

  He looked down and saw his Uncle Samuel.

  IV

  It was all over; he knew at once that it was all over.

  As he slipped down from his dear horse he gave the glossy dark mane one last pat; then, with a little sigh, he found his feet, stumbled over the wooden steps and was at his uncle’s side.

  Uncle Samuel looked queer enough with a squashy black hat, a black cloak flung over his shoulders, and a large cherry-wood pipe in his mouth. Jeremy looked up at him defiantly.

  “Well,” said Uncle Samuel sarcastically. “It’s nothing to you, I suppose, that the town-crier is at this moment ringing his bell for you up and down the Market Place?”

  “Does father know?” Jeremy asked quickly.

  “He does,” answered Uncle Samuel.

  Jeremy cast one last look around the place; the merry-go-round was engaged once more upon its wild course, the horses rising and falling, the golden woman clashing the cymbals, the minstrel striking, with his dead eyes fixed upon space, his harp. All about men were shouting; the noise of the coconut stores, of the circus, of the band, of the hucksters and the charlatans, the crying of children, the laughter of women — all the noise of the Fair bathed Jeremy up to his forehead.

  He swam in it for the last t
ime. He tried to catch one last glimpse of his coal-black charger, then, with a sigh, he said, turning to his uncle: “I suppose we’d better be going.”

  “Yes, I suppose we had,” said Uncle Samuel.

  They threaded their way through the Fair, passed the wooden stile, and were once again in the streets, dark and ancient under the moon, with all the noise and glare behind them. Jeremy was thinking to himself: “It doesn’t matter what Father does, or how angry he is, that was worth it.” It was strange how little afraid he was. Only a year ago to be punished by his father had been a terrible thing. Now, since his mother’s illness in the summer, his father had seemed to have no influence over him.

  “Did they bend you, or did you just come yourself, Uncle?” asked Jeremy.

  “I happened to be taking the air in that direction,” said Uncle Samuel.

  “I hope you didn’t come away before you wanted to,” said Jeremy politely.

  “I did not,” said his uncle.

  “Is Father very angry?” asked Jeremy.

  “It’s more than likely he may be. The Town Crier’s expensive.”

  “I didn’t think they’d know,” explained Jeremy. “I meant to get back in time.”

  “Your father didn’t go to church,” said Uncle Samuel. “So your sins were quickly discovered.”

  Jeremy said nothing.

  Just as they were climbing Orange Street he said:

  “Uncle Samuel, I think I’ll be a horse-trainer.”

  “Oh, will you?... Well, before you train horses you’ve got to train yourself. Think of others beside yourself. A fine state you’ve put your mother into to-night.”

  Jeremy looked distressed. “She’d know if I was dead, someone would come and tell her,” he said. “But I’ll tell Mother I’m sorry... But I won’t tell Father,” he added.

  “Why not?” asked Uncle Samuel.

  “Because he’ll make such a fuss. And I’m not sorry. He never told me not to.”

  “No, but you knew you hadn’t to.”

  “I’m very good at obeying,” explained Jeremy, “if someone says something; but if someone doesn’t, there isn’t anyone to obey.”

  Uncle Samuel shook his head. “You’ll be a bit of a prig, my son, if you aren’t careful,” he said.

  “I think it will be splendid to be a horse-trainer,” said Jeremy. “It was a lovely horse to-night... And I only spent a shilling. I had three and threepence halfpenny.”

  At the door of their house Uncle Samuel stopped and said:

  “Look here, young man, they say it’s time you went to school, and I don’t think they’re far wrong. There are things wiser heads than yours can understand, and you’d better take their word for it. In the future, if you want to go running off somewhere, you’d better content yourself with my studio and make a mess there.”

  “Oh, may I?” cried Jeremy delighted.

  That studio had been always a forbidden place to them, and had, therefore, its air of enchanting mystery.

  “Won’t you really mind my coming?” he asked.

  “I shall probably hate it,” answered his uncle; “but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the family.”

  The boy walked to his father’s study and knocked on the door. He did have then, at the sound of that knock, a moment of panic. The house was so silent, and he knew so well what would follow the opening of the door. And the worst of it was that he was not sorry in the least. He seemed to be indifferent and superior, as though no punishment could touch him.

  “Come in!” said his father.

  He pushed open the door and entered. The scene that followed was grave and sad, and yet, in the end, strangely unimpressive. His father talked too much. As he talked Jeremy’s thoughts would fly back to the coal-black horse and to that moment when he had seemed to fly into the very heart of the stars.

  “Ah, Jeremy, how could you?” said his father. “Is obedience nothing to you? Do you know how God punishes disobedience? Think what a terrible thing is a disobedient man!” Then on a lower scale: “I really don’t know what to do with you. You knew that you were not to go near that wicked place.”

  “You never said—” interrupted Jeremy.

  “Nonsense! You knew well enough. You will break your mother’s heart.”

  “I’ll tell her I’m sorry,” he interrupted quickly.

  “If you are really sorry—” said his father.

  “I’m not sorry I went,” said Jeremy, “but I’m sorry I hurt Mother.”

  The end of it was that Jeremy received six strokes on the hand with a ruler. Mr. Cole was not good at this kind of thing, and twice he missed Jeremy’s hand altogether, and looked very foolish. It was not an edifying scene. Jeremy left the room, his head high, his spirit obstinate; and his father remained, puzzled, distressed, at a loss, anxious to do what was right, but unable to touch his son at all.

  Jeremy went up to his room. He opened his window and looked out. He could smell the burnt leaves of the bonfire. There was no flame now, but he fancied that he could see a white shadow where it had been. Then, on the wind, came the music of the Fair.

  “Tum — te — Tum... Tum — te — Tum... Whirr — Whirr — Whirr — Bang — Bang.”

  Somewhere an owl cried, and then another owl answered.

  He rubbed his sore hand against his trousers; then, thinking of his black horse, he smiled.

  He was a free man. In a week he would go to school; then he would go to College; then he would be a horsetrainer.

  He was in bed; faintly into the dark room, stole the scent of the bonfire and the noise of the Fair.

  “Tum — te-Tum... Tum — te — Tum...”

  He was asleep, riding on a giant charger across boundless plains.

  CHAPTER XII. HAMLET WAITS

  I

  The last day! Jeremy, suddenly waking, realised this with a confusion of feeling as though he were sentenced to the dentist’s, but, oddly enough, looked forward to his visit. Going to school, one had, of course, long ago perceived, was a mixed business; but the balance was now greatly to the good. It was a step in the right direction towards liberty and freedom. Thank Heaven!

  No one in the family was likely to make a fuss about his departure, unless it were possibly Mary, and she had, of late, kept very much to herself and worried him scarcely at all. Indeed, he felt guilty about Mary. He was fond of her, really... Funny kid... If only she didn’t make fusses!

  Yes, it was unlike his family to make fusses. He realised that very plainly to-day. Everyone went about his or her daily business with no implication whatever that something extraordinary was going to happen tomorrow. Perhaps they were all secretly relieved that he was off. He had been, he knew, something of a failure during these last months; one trouble after another; the scandal of his visit to the Fair as the grand finale. He felt that there was, in some way, some injustice in all this. He had no desire to be bad or rebellious — on the contrary he wished to do all that his elders ordered him — but he could not prevent the rising of his own individuality, which showed him quite clearly whether he should do a thing or no. It was as though something inside him pushed him... whereas they, all of them, only checked him.

  He loved his mother best, and he was secretly disappointed to find how ordinary an affair his departure was to her. He realised, with a perception that was beyond his years, that the infant Barbara was now rapidly occupying the position, as centre of the family, that he had held. Barbara, everyone declared, was a charming baby — the house revolved, to some extent, round Barbara. But, then again, this isolation was entirely his own fault. During the summer holidays he had gone his own way, and had wanted no one but Hamlet as his companion. He had no right to complain.

  After breakfast he did not know quite what to do, and it was obvious, also, that no one knew quite what to do with him.

  Mrs. Cole said: “Jeremy, dear, Ponting has never sent that letter paper and envelopes that he promised, and Father must have them to-day. Would you go down and bring
them back with you? Father will write a note.”

  No one seemed to realise what an abysmal change from earlier conditions this casual sentence marked. That he should go to Footing’s, which was on the farther side of the town, alone and unattended, seemed to no one peculiar; and yet, only six months ago, a walk without Miss Jones was undreamt of; and, before her, no more than nine months back, there was the Jampot! He was delighted to go; but, of course, he did not show his delight.

  All he said was: “Yes, Mother.”

  He was in his new clothes: stiff black jacket, black knickerbockers, black stockings, black boots. No more navy suits with white braid and whistles! Perhaps he would see the Dean’s Ernest. It was his most urgent desire!

  He started off, accompanied by a barking, bounding Hamlet, who showed no perception of the calamity that threatened to tumble upon him. For Jeremy, leaving Hamlet was a dreadful affair. In three months a dog can change more swiftly than a human being, and Hamlet, although not a supremely greedy dog, had shown of late increasing signs of a love of good food, and a regrettable tendency to fawn upon the giver of the same, even when it was Aunt Amy. Jeremy had checked this tendency, and had issued punishments when necessary, and Hamlet had accepted the same without a murmur. So long as Jeremy was there Hamlet’s character was secure; but now, during this long absence, anything might happen. There was no one to whom Jeremy might leave him; no one who had the slightest idea what a dog should do and what he should not.