Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “Well—” he hesitated. “It’s very good of you, Mr. Cardinal — very kind. As a matter of fact I was going to dine alone to-night — just a chop, you know, somewhere — if it’s really not inconvenient I’ll be delighted—”

  They walked on together.

  As they passed into Garrick Street, she knew that she had never in all her life been so glad to be with any one, that she had never so completely trusted any one, that she would like to be with him often, to look after him, perhaps, and to be looked after by him.

  Her feeling for him was almost sexless, because she had never thought, as most girls do, of love and the intrigue and coquetry of love. She was so simple as to be shameless, and at once, if he had asked her then in the street to marry him she would have said yes without hesitation or fear, or any analysis. She would like to look after him as well as herself — there were things she was sure that she could do for him — and she would be no burden to him because she intended, in any case, to lead her own life. She would simply lead it with a companion instead of without one.

  He must have felt as he walked with her this trust and simplicity. She was certainly the most extraordinary girl whom he had ever met, and he’d met a number ...

  He could believe every word she said; he had never known any one so direct and simple and honest, and yet with that she was not a fool, as most honest girls were. No, she was not a fool. He would have given anything to be as sure of himself ...

  She was plain — but then was she? As they passed beneath the light of a street lamp his heart gave a sudden beat. Her face was so GOOD, her eyes so true, her mouth so strong. She was like a boy, rather — and, of course, she was dressed badly. But he wanted to look after her. He was sure that she knew so little of the world and would be so easily deceived ...But who was he to look after any one?

  He knew that she would trust him utterly, and trust him not only because she was ignorant of the world, but also because she was herself so true. At the thought of this trust his heart suddenly warmed, partly with shame and partly with pride.

  They walked very happily along laughing and talking. They turned into Henrietta Street, misty with lamps that were dim in a thin evening fog, and at the corner of the street, facing the Square, was Uncle Mathew’s hotel. It was a place for the use, in the main, of commercial gentlemen, and it was said by eager searchers after local colour, to have retained a great deal of the Dickens spirit. In the hall there was a stout gentleman with a red nose, a soiled waiter, a desolate palm and a large-bosomed lady all rings and black silk, in a kind of wooden cage. Down the stairs came a dim vapour that smelt of beef, whisky and tobacco, and in the distance was the regular click of billiard-balls and the brazen muffled tones of a gramophone. Uncle Mathew seemed perfectly at home here, and it was strange to Maggie that he should be so nervous with Aunt Anne, his own sister, when he could be so happily familiar with the powdered lady in the black silk.

  “We’re to have dinner in a private room upstairs,” said Uncle Mathew in a voice that was casual and at the same time important. He led the way up the stairs.

  Maggie had read in some old bound volume at home a very gruesome account of the “Life and Misdeeds of Mr. Palmer, the Rugeley Poisoner.” The impression that still remained with her was of a man standing in the shadowy hall of just such an hotel as this, and pouring poison into a glass which he held up against the light. This picture had been vividly with her during her childhood, and she felt that this must have been the very hotel where those fearful deeds occurred, and that the ghost of Mr. Palmer’s friend must, at this very moment, be writhing in an upstairs bedroom— “writhing,” as she so fearfully remembered, bent “like a hoop.”

  However, these reminiscences did not in the least terrify her; she welcomed their definite outlines in contrast with the shadowy possibilities of her aunts’ house. And she had Martin Warlock ... She had never been so happy in all her life.

  A dismal little waiter with a very soiled shirt and a black tie under his ear, guided them down into a dark passage and flung open the door of a sitting-room. This room was dark and sizzling with strange noises; a gas-jet burning low was hissing, some papers rustled in the breeze from the half-opened window, and a fire, overburdened with the weight of black coal, made frantic little spurts of resistance.

  A white cloth was laid on the table, and there were glasses and knives and forks. A highly-coloured portrait of her late Majesty Queen Victoria confronted a long-legged horse desperately winning a race in which he had apparently no competitors. There was a wall-paper of imitation marble and a broken-down book-case with some torn paper editions languishing upon it. Beyond the open window there was a purple haze and a yellow mist — also a bell rang and carts rattled over the cobbles. The waiter shut out these sights and sounds, gave the tablecloth a stroke with his dirty hand, and left the room.

  They continued their cheerful conversation, Martin laughing at nothing at all, and Maggie smiling, and Uncle Mathew stroking his mouth and sharpening his eyes and standing, in his uneasy fashion, first on one leg and then on the other. Maggie realised that her uncle was trying to be most especially pleasant to young Warlock. She wondered why; she also remembered what he had said to her about Martin’s father ... No, he had changed. She could not follow his motives as she had once been able to do. Then he had simply been a foolish, drunken, but kindly-intentioned old man.

  Then Mr. Warlock on his side seemed to like her uncle. That was an extraordinary thing. Or was he only being friendly because he was happy? No, she remembered his face as he had joined them that evening. He had not been happy then. She liked him the more because she knew that he needed help ... The meal, produced at last by the poor little waiter, was very merry. The food was not wonderful — the thick pea-soup was cold, the sole bones and skin, the roast beef tepid and the apple-tart heavy. The men drank whiskies and sodas, and Maggie noticed that her uncle drank very little. And then (with apologies to Maggie) they smoked cigars, and she sat before the dismal fire in an old armchair with a hole in it.

  Martin Warlock talked in a most delightful way about his travels, and Uncle Mathew asked him questions that were not, after all, so stupid. What had happened to him? Had Maggie always undervalued him, or was it that he was sober now and clear-headed? His fat round thighs seemed stronger, his hands seemed cleaner, the veins in his face were not so purple. She remembered the night when he had come into her room. She had been able to manage him then. Would she be able to manage him now?

  After dinner he grew very restless. His eyes wandered to the door, then to his watch, then to his companions; he smiled uneasily, pulling his moustache; then — jumping to his feet, tried to speak with an easy self-confidence.

  “I must leave you for a quarter of an hour ... A matter of business, only in this hotel. Downstairs. Yes. A friend of mine and a little matter. Urgent. I’m sure you’ll forgive me.”

  For a moment Maggie was frightened. She was here in a strange hotel in a strange room with a man whom she scarcely knew. Then she looked up into young Warlock’s face and was reassured. She could trust him.

  He stood with his arm on the shabby, dusty mantelpiece, looking down upon her with his good-natured kindly smile, so kindly that she felt that he was younger than she and needed protection in a world that was filled with designing Uncle Mathews and mysterious Aunt Annes and horrible Miss Warlocks.

  He, on his side, as he looked down at her, was surprised at his own excitement. His heart was beating, his hand trembling — before this plain, ordinary, unattractive girl! Unattractive physically — but not uninteresting. One of the most interesting human beings whom he had ever met, simply because she was utterly unlike any one else. He felt shame before her, because he knew that she would believe every word that he said. In that she was simple, but “he would be bothered if she was simple in anything else.” She had made up her mind — he knew it as well as though she had told him — to trust him absolutely, and he knew well enough how little he was to be trusted.
And because of that faith and because of that trust he felt that she was more reliable than he could have believed that changing fickle human being would ever be. How secure he might feel with her!

  Then, as he thought that, he realised how troubled he was about his life at home during the last weeks. Amy hated him, his mother hid herself from him, and his father’s love frightened him. Already he had found himself telling lies to avoid the chapel services and the meetings with Thurston and the rest. His father’s love for him had something terrible in it, and, although he returned it, he could not live up to that fire and heat.

  No; he saw that he would not be able to remain for long at home. On the other hand, go back to the old wandering life he would not. He had had enough of that and its rotten carelessness and shabbiness. What a girl this would be to settle down with somewhere! So strange that she would be always interesting, so faithful that she would be always there! Nor was he entirely selfish. Her childishness, her ignorance, appealed to him for protection. She had no one but those old aunts to care for her, she was poor and rebellious and ignorant. Warlock was kind-hearted beyond the normal charity of man — much of his weakness came from that very kindness.

  As he saw which way he was going he tried to pull himself back. He could not protect her — he had the best of reasons for knowing why. He could do her nothing but harm ... and yet he went on.

  He took a chair close to her and sat down. He, who had known in his time many women, could see how happy she was. That happiness excited him. Suddenly he held her hand. She did not remove it.

  “Look here,” he began, and he was surprised at the hoarseness of his voice, “your uncle will be back in a moment, and we never have a chance of being alone. I’ve wanted to talk to you ever since I first saw you.”

  He felt her hand move in his. That stir was so helpless that he suddenly determined to be honest.

  “I think you’ll trust me, won’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Well, you mustn’t,” he went on hurriedly, his eyes on the door. “I’m not worse, I suppose, than other men, but all the same I’m not to be trusted. And when I say I’m not to be trusted I mean that I myself don’t know whether I’ll keep my word from one minute to another. I’m sure you don’t know very much about men. I could see it at once from the way you spoke.”

  She looked up, her clear, unconfused, unquestioning eyes facing him.

  “I knew my father well,” she said. “We were quite alone for years together. And then Uncle Mathew—”

  “Oh, your father, your uncle,” he answered quickly. “They don’t count. What I mean is that you mustn’t think men are scoundrels just because they act badly. I swear that nine out of ten of them never mean to do any harm.”

  “And they think they’re speaking the truth at the time. But anything ‘does’ for them and then they’re in a mess, and all they think about is how to get out of it. Then it’s every man for himself ...”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “I’ve always known that I’d have to manage for myself,” she said. “I’ve never expected any one to do anything for me, so I’m not likely to be disappointed now.”

  He moved a little closer to her and held her hand more firmly; even as he did so something in his heart reproached him, but now the reproach was very far away, like an echo of some earlier voice.

  “Do you know you’re a wonderful girl?” he said. “I knew you were from the first moment I saw you. You’re the most independent person I’ve ever known. You can’t guess how I admire that! And all the same you’re not happy, are you? You want to get out of it, don’t you?”

  She thought for a little while before she nodded her head.

  “I suppose as a fact.” she said, “I do. If you want to know — and you mustn’t tell anybody — I’ve posted a letter to a lady whom I met once who told me if ever I wanted anything to write to her. I’ve asked her for some work. I’ve got three hundred pounds of my own. It isn’t very much, I know, but I could start on it ... I don’t want to do wrong to my aunts, who are very kind to me, but I’m not happy there. It wouldn’t be true to say I’m happy. You see,” she dropped her voice a little, “they want to make me religious, and I’ve had so much of that with father already. I feel as though they were pressing me into it somehow, and that I should wake up one morning and find I should never escape again. There’s so much goes on that I don’t understand. And it isn’t only the chapel. Aunt Anne’s very quiet, but she makes you feel quite helpless sometimes. And perhaps one will get more and more helpless the longer one stays. I don’t want to be helpless ever — nor religious!” she ended.

  “Why, that’s just my position,” he continued eagerly. “I came home as happily as anything. I’d almost forgotten all that had been when I was a boy, how I was baptized and thought I belonged to God and was so proud and stuck up. That all seems nonsense when you’re roughing it with other men who think about nothing but the day’s work. Then I came home meaning to settle down. I wanted to see my governor too. I’ve always cared for him more than any one else in the world ... but I tell you now I simply don’t know what’s going on at home. They want to catch me in a trap. That’s what it feels like. To make me what I was as a kid. It’s strange, but there’s more in it than you’d think. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve thought of my young days since I’ve been home. It’s as though some one was always shoving them up in front of my face. All I want, you know, is to be jolly. To let other people alone and be let alone myself. I wouldn’t do any one any harm in the world — I wouldn’t really. But it’s as though father wanted me to believe all the things he believes, so that he could believe them more himself. Perhaps it’s the same with your aunt ...” Then he added, “But they’re sick people. That explains a lot.”

  “Sick?” asked Maggie.

  “Yes. My governor’s got heart — awfully bad. He might go off at any moment if he had a shock. And your aunt — don’t you know?”

  “No,” said Maggie.

  “Cancer. They all say so. I thought you’d have known.”

  “Oh!” Maggie drew in her breath. She shuddered. “Poor Aunt Anne! Oh, poor Aunt Anne! I didn’t know.”

  She felt a sudden rush of confused emotion. A love for her aunt, desire to help her, and at the same time shrinking as though she saw the whole house which had been, from the first, unhappy to her was now diseased and evil and rotten. The hot life in her body told her against her moral will that she must escape, and her soul, moving in her and speaking to her, told her that now, more than ever, she must stay.

  “Oh, poor, poor Aunt Anne,” she said again.

  He moved and put his arm around her. He had meant it simply as a movement of sympathy and protection, but when he felt the warmth of her body against his, when he realised how she went to him at once with the confidence and simplicity of a child, when he felt the hot irregular beat of her heart, his own heart leapt, his arm was strengthened like a barrier of iron against the world.

  He had one moment of desperate resistance, a voice of protest calling to him far, far away. His hand touched her neck; he raised her face to his and kissed her, once gently, kindly, then, passionately again and again.

  She shivered a little, as though surrendering something to him, then lay quite still in his arms.

  “Maggie! Maggie!” he whispered.

  Then she raised her head and herself kissed him.

  There was a noise on the door. They separated; the door opened and in the sudden light a figure was visible holding a glass.

  For a blind instant Maggie, returning from her other world, thought it the figure of Mr. Palmer of Rugeley.

  It was, of course, Uncle Mathew.

  CHAPTER IV

  MR. CRASHAW

  Uncle Mathew saw Maggie back to her door, kissed her and left her. On their way home he did not once mention Martin Warlock to her.

  He left her as he heard the bolt turn in the door, hurrying away as though he
did not want to be seen. Maggie went in to find old Martha with her crabbed face watching her sourly. But she did not care, nothing could touch her now. Even the old woman, cross with waiting by the fading kitchen fire, noticed the light in the girl’s eyes. She had always thought the girl hard and ungracious, but now that face was soft, and the mouth smiling over its secret thoughts, and the eyes sleepy with happiness.

  Maggie could have said: “I’m wild with joy, Martha. I know what love is. I had never thought that it could be like this. Be kind to me because it’s the greatest night of my life.”

  Martha said: “There’s some milk hotted for you, Miss, and some biscuits. There on the table by the stairs.”

  “Oh, I don’t want anything, Martha, thank you!”

  “Your aunt said you was to have it.”

  Maggie drank it down, Martha watching her. Then she went upstairs softly, as though her joy might awaken the whole house. She lay wide-eyed on her bed for hours, then fell into a heavy sleep, deep, without dreams.

  When, in the quieter light of the morning, she considered the event, she had no doubts nor hesitations. She loved Martin and Martin loved her. Soon Martin would marry her and they would go away. Her aunt would be sorry of course, and his father, perhaps, would be angry, but the sorrow and anger would be only for a little while. Then Martin and she would live happily together always — happily because they were both sensible people, and her own standard of fidelity and trust was, she supposed, also his. She did not think very deeply about what he had said to her; it only meant that he wanted to escape from his family, a desire in which she could completely sympathise. She had loved him, as she now saw, from the first moment of meeting, and she would love him always. She would never be alone again, and although Martin had told her that he was weak, and she knew something about men, she was aware that their love for one another would be a thing apart, constant, unfaltering, eternal. She had read no modern fiction; she knew nothing about psychology: she was absolutely happy ...