Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “I’m glad it’s not like Glebeshire,” said Maggie. “That’s a point in its favour. I want to be somewhere where everything is quiet and orderly, and every one knows their own mind and all the bells ring at the right time and no one’s strange or queer, and — most of all — where no one’s afraid of anything. All my life I’ve been with people who were afraid and I’ve been afraid myself. Now Paul and Grace are not afraid of anything.”

  “No, they’re not,” said Katherine, laughing.

  Suddenly Maggie broke out:

  “Katherine! Tell me truly. Does Paul want me, does he need me? Does he indeed?”

  The storm of appeal in Maggie’s voice made Katherine suddenly shy; there was a hint at loneliness and desolation there that was something beyond her reach. She wanted to help. She was suddenly frightened at her urging of Paul’s suit. Something seemed to say to her: “Leave this alone. Don’t take the responsibility of this. You don’t understand ...”

  But another voice said: “Poor child ... all alone, penniless, without a friend. What a chance for her! Paul such a kind man.”

  So she kissed Maggie, and said: “He wants you dreadfully, Maggie dear.”

  Maggie’s cheeks flushed.

  “That’s nice,” she said in her most ordinary voice. “Because no one ever has before, you know.”

  Paul’s proposal came the very next day. It came after luncheon in a corner of the drawing-room.

  Maggie knew quite well that it was coming. She was lying in a long chair near the fire, a shawl over her knees. It was a blustering day at the end of February. The windows rattled, and the wind rushing down the chimney blew the flame into little flags and pennants of colour.

  Paul came and stood by the fire, warming his hands, his legs spread out. Maggie looked at him with a long comprehensive glance that took him in from head to foot. She seemed to know then that she was going to marry him. A voice seemed to say to her: “Look at him well. This is the man you’re going to live with. You’d better realise him.”

  She did realise him; his white hair, his rosy cheeks, his boyish nose and mouth and rounded chin, his broad chest, thick long legs and large white hands — soft perhaps, but warm and comfortable and safe. Maggie could think of little else as she looked at him but of how nice it would be to lay her head back on that broad chest, feel his arms around her, and forget — forget — forget!

  That was what she needed — forgetfulness and work ... She did not love him — no, not one little atom. She had never felt less excitement about anybody, but she liked him, respected him, and trusted him. And he wanted her, wanted her desperately, Katherine had said, that was the chief thing of all.

  “Maggie!” he said suddenly, turning round to her. “Would you ever think of marrying me?”

  She liked that directness and simplicity, characteristic of him.

  She looked up at him.

  “I don’t think I’d be much of a success, Paul,” she said.

  He saw at once from that that she did not intend instantly to refuse him. His rosy cheeks took on an added tinge of colour and he caught a chair, drew it up to her long one and sat down, bending eagerly towards her.

  “Leave that to me,” he said.

  “I oughtn’t to think of it,” she answered, shaking her head. “And for very good reasons. For one thing I’m not in love with you, for another I’m not religious, and for a third I’m so careless that I’d never do for your wife.”

  “Of course I knew about the first,” he said eagerly. “I knew you didn’t love me, but that will come, Maggie. It MUST come ...”

  Maggie shook her head. “I love some one else,” she said, “and I always will. But he’s gone away and will never come back. I’ve made up my mind to that. But if he did come back and wanted me I couldn’t promise that I wouldn’t—” She broke off. “You can see that it wouldn’t do.”

  “No, I can’t see,” he said, taking her hand. “I can see that you like me, Maggie. I can see that we’re splendid friends. If your other — friend — has left you altogether, then — well, time makes a great difference in those things. I think after we’d been together a little — Oh, Maggie, do!” he broke off just like a boy. “Do! We suit each other so well that we MUST be happy, and then Grace likes you — she likes you very much. She does indeed.”

  “Let’s leave Grace out of this,” Maggie said firmly. “It’s between you and me, Paul. It’s nobody else’s affair. What about the other two objections? I don’t believe in your faith at all, and I’m unpunctual and forgetful, and break things.”

  Strangely she was wanting him urgently now to reassure her. She realised that if now he withdrew she would be faced with a loneliness more terrible than anything that she had known since Martin had left her. The warm pressure of his hand about hers reassured her.

  “Maggie dear,” he said softly, “I love you better because you’re young and unformed. I can help you, dear, and you can help me, of course; I’m a dreadful old buffer in many ways. I’m forty, you know, and you’re such a child. How old are you, Maggie?”

  “Twenty,” she said.

  “Twenty! Fancy! And you can like an old parson — well, well ... If you care for me nothing else matters. God will see to the rest.”

  “I don’t like leaving things to other people,” Maggie said slowly. “Now I suppose I’ve shocked you. But there you are; I shall always be shocking you.”

  “Nothing that you can say will shock me,” he answered firmly. “Do you know that that’s part of the charm you have for me, you dear little wild thing? If you will come and live with me perhaps you will see how God works, how mysterious are His ways, and what He means to do for you—”

  Maggie shivered: “Oh, now you’re talking like Aunt Anne. I don’t want to feel that I’m something that some one can do what he likes with. I’m not.”

  “No. I know you’re not,” Paul answered eagerly. “You’re very independent. I admire that in you — and so does Grace—”

  “Would Grace like us to marry?” asked Maggie.

  “It’s the desire of her heart,” said Paul.

  “But how can you want to marry me when you know I don’t love you?”

  “Love’s a strange thing. Companionship can make great changes. You like me. That is enough for the present. I can be patient. I’m not an impetuous man.”

  He was certainly not. He was just a large warm comfortable creature far, far from the terrified and strangely travelled soul of Martin ... Insensibly, hardly realising what she did, Maggie was drawn towards Paul. He drew close to her, moved on to the sofa, and then with one arm about her let her head rest against his chest. Maggie could neither move nor speak. She only felt a warm comfort, an intense desire for rest.

  Very, very gently he bent down and kissed her forehead. The clock ticked on. The flames of the fire spurted and fell. Maggie’s eyes closed, she gave a little sigh, and soon, her cheek against his waistcoat, like a little child, was fast asleep.

  The engagement was a settled thing. Every one in the house was relieved. Maggie herself felt as though she had found lights and safety, running from a wood full of loneliness and terror. She was sharp enough to see how relieved they all were that she was ‘settled.’ They were true kindly people, and now they were more kind to her than ever: that showed that they had been uneasy about her. She was ‘off their hands now.’

  Maggie, when she saw this in the faces of Philip and Mr. Trenchard, and even of Millicent, was glad that she was engaged. She was somebody’s now; she had friends and a home and work now, and she would banish all that other world for ever. For ever? ... How curious it was that from the moment of her engagement her aunts, their house, the Chapel, and the people around it began to press upon her attention with a pathos and sentiment that she had never felt before. She went to see the aunts, of course, and sat in the old drawing-room for half-an-hour, and they were kind and distant. They were glad that she was to be married; they hoped that she would be happy. Aunt Anne looked very ill
, and there was a terrible air of desertion about the house as though all the life had gone out of it. Maggie came away very miserable. Then she said to herself: “Now, look here. You’re in a new house now. You’ve got to think of nothing but that — nothing, nothing, nothing ...”

  She meant Martin. She might think of Martin (how indeed could she help it?) but she was not to long for him. No, no ... not to long for him. She did wish that she could go to sleep more quickly when she went to bed.

  Paul and Grace were very kind to her. Paul was just the big elder brother that she loved him to be. No more sentiment than that. A kiss morning, a kiss evening, that was all. Grace behaved to them both with a motherly indulgence. Maggie saw that she considered that she had arranged the whole affair. There were signs that she intended to arrange everything for Maggie. Well, it was rather pleasant just now to have things arranged for you. Maggie had only one wish — that Grace would not take so long to explain everything. Maggie always ran ahead of her long before she had finished her involved sentences and then had to curb her impatience. However one would get used to Grace; one would have to because she was going to live with them after they were married. Maggie had hoped that it would be otherwise, but it was at once obvious that neither Paul nor Grace dreamt of being separated.

  The wedding was to be as soon as possible, and very, very quiet. In a little church close by, no bridesmaids, everything very simple. Maggie was glad of that. She would have hated a church full of staring people. She enjoyed immensely buying her trousseau. Paul was very generous with his money; it was evident that Grace thought him too generous. Maggie and Katherine went together to buy things, and Katherine was a darling. Maggie fancied that Katherine was not quite easy in her mind about her share in the affair.

  “You won’t expect Skeaton to be wildly exciting, Maggie dear, will you?” she said. “You’ll find plenty to do and there are lots of nice people, I’m sure, and you’ll come up and stay with us here.”

  “I think it sounds delightful,” said Maggie. “If you’d lived for years in St. Dreot’s, Katherine, you wouldn’t talk about other places being dull. It isn’t excitement I want. It’s work.”

  “Don’t you let Grace bully you,” said Katherine.

  “Bully me? Grace?” Maggie was very astonished. “Why, she’s the kindest old thing. She wants me to do everything.”

  “So she says,” said Katherine doubtfully. “But she’s very jealous of Paul. How much she’ll really like giving up her authority when it comes to the point I don’t know. You stick up to her. Paul’s weak.”

  “I don’t think he is.” said Maggie rather indignantly. “Grace always does what he says.” “Yes, just now,” said Katherine.

  And Maggie had one funny little conversation with Henry Trenchard. That wild youth catching her alone one day said abruptly:

  “What the devil have you done it for?”

  “Done what?” asked Maggie, her heart beating a little faster. Strangely Henry reminded her of Martin. He alone of all the Trenchards had something that was of that other world.

  “Engaged yourself to Paul,” said Henry.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” asked Maggie.

  “You don’t love him — of course you couldn’t. You’re not his sort in the least. You’re worth a million Pauls.”

  This was so odd for Henry, who was certainly not given to compliments, that Maggie burst out laughing.

  “Yes, you may laugh,” said Henry. “I know what I’m talking about. Have you ever seen Paul asleep after dinner?”

  “No,” said Maggie.

  “I wish you had. That might have saved you. Have you ever seen Grace lose her temper?”

  “No,” said Maggie, this time a little uneasily.

  “Look here,” he came close to her, staring at her with those eyes of his that could be very charming when he liked. “Break it off. Say you think it’s a mistake. You’ll be miserable.”

  “Indeed I shan’t,” said Maggie, tossing her head. “Whatever happens I’m not going to be miserable. No one can make me that.”

  “So you think,” Henry frowned. “I can’t think what you want to be married for at all. These days women can have such a good time, especially a woman with character like you. If I were a woman I’d never marry.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Maggie. “You haven’t been lonely all your life as I have, and you’re not afraid of making yourself cheap and — and — looking for some one who doesn’t want — you. It’s so easy for you to talk. And Paul wants me — really he does—”

  “Yes, he does,” said Henry slowly. “He’s in love with you all right. I’m as sorry for Paul as I am for you.”

  Maggie laughed. “It’s very kind of you to be sorry,” she said, “but you needn’t trouble. I believe we can look after ourselves.”

  For a quarter of an hour after this conversation she was a little uneasy. He was a clever boy, Henry; he did watch people. But then he was very young, It was all guesswork with him.

  She became now strangely quiescent; her energy, her individuality, her strength of will seemed, for the time, entirely to have gone. She surrendered herself to Grace and Paul and Katherine and they did what they would with her.

  Only once was she disturbed. Two nights before the wedding she dreamt of Martin. It did not appear as a dream at all. It seemed to her that she had been asleep and that she suddenly woke. She was gazing, from her bed, into her own room, but at the farther end of it instead of the wall with the rosy trees and the gold mirror was another room. This room was strange and cheerless with bare boards, a large four-poster bed with faded blue hangings, two old black prints with eighteenth-century figures and a big standing mirror. In front of the bed, staring into the mirror, was Martin, He was dressed shabbily in a blue reefer coat. He looked older than when she had seen him last, was stouter and ill, with white puffy cheeks and dark shadows under his eyes. She saw him very clearly under the light of two candles that wavered a little in the draught.

  He was staring into the mirror, absorbed apparently in what he saw there. She cried his name and he seemed to start and turn towards the door listening. Then the picture faded. She woke to find herself sitting up in bed crying his name ...

  In the morning she drove this dream away from her, refusing to think of it or listen to it, but somewhere far down in her soul something trembled.

  The wedding was over so quickly that she scarcely realised it. There was the stuffy little church, very empty and dusty, with brass plates on the wall. She could hear, in the street, rumblings of carts and the rattle of wheels; somewhere a barrel-organ played. The clergyman was a little man who smiled upon her kindly. When Paul put the ring on her finger she started as though for a moment she awoke from a dream. She was glad that he looked so clean and tidy. Grace was wearing too grand a hat with black feathers. In the vestry Paul kissed her, and then they walked down the aisle together. She saw Katherine and Millie and Henry. Her fingers caught tightly about Paul’s stout arm, but she would have been more at home she thought with Uncle Mathew just then.

  It was a nice bright spring day, although the wind blew the dust about. They had a meal in Katherine’s house and some one made a speech, and Maggie drank some champagne. She hoped she looked nice in her grey silk dress, and then caught sight of herself in a glass and thought she was as ever a fright.

  “My little wild thing — mine now,” whispered Paul. She thought that rather silly; she was not a wild thing, but simply Maggie Cardinal. Oh, no! Maggie Trenchard ... She did not feel Maggie Trenchard at all and she did not suppose that she ever would.

  They were to have a fortnight alone at Skeaton before Grace came. Maggie was glad of that. Paul was really nicer when Grace was not there.

  They were all very kind to her. They had given her good presents — Millie some silver brushes, Henry some books, Philip a fan, and Katherine a most beautiful dressing-bag. Maggie had never had such things before. But she could have wished for something from her own people. She
had written to Uncle Mathew but had not heard from him.

  At the very last moment, on the morning of the wedding day, a present came from the aunts — an old box for handkerchiefs. The cover was inlaid with sea-shells and there was a little looking-glass inside.

  Very soon it was all over and then to her own intense surprise she was alone in the train with Paul. What had she expected? She did not know — but somehow not this.

  They were in a first-class carriage. Paul was doing the thing nobly. He sat close to her, his broad knee against her dress. How broad his knee was, a great expanse of black shining cloth. He took her hand and rested it on the expanse, and, at the touch of the stuff and the throb of the warm flesh beneath it, she shivered a little and would wish to have drawn her hand away. He seemed so much larger than she had expected; from his knee to his high shining white collar was an immense distance and midway there was a thick gold watch-chain rising and falling as he breathed. He smelt very faintly of tooth-powder.

  But on the whole she was comfortable; only the thin gold ring round her finger felt strange. Deep in a little pocket inside her blouse was the ring with the three little pearls.

  “I do hope, Maggie darling,” he said, “you don’t think it strange our not going somewhere else for our honeymoon. My lads will be expecting me back — I was kept longer in London than I should have been — by you, you little witch. My witch now—”

  He put his arm round her waist and urged her head towards his coat. But her hat, her beautiful hat that had cost so much more than she had ever spent on a hat before, was in the way. It struck into his chin. They were both uncomfortable and then, thank heaven, the train slowed down; they were at a station and some one got into their carriage, a stout man, all newspaper and creases to his trousers. That, in the circumstances, was a great relief and soon Maggie dozed, seeing the telegraph wires and the trees like waving hands through a mist of sleep.

  As she fell asleep she realised that this was only the second time in all her life that she had been in a train. Some one bawled in her car “Skeaton! Skeaton!” and she looked up to find a goat-faced porter gazing at her through the window. She was on a storm-driven platform, her husband’s arm was through hers, she was being helped into an old faded cab. Now they were driving down a hill, under a railway-arch, along a road with villas and trees, trees and villas, and then villas alone. What a wind! The bare branches were in a frenzy, and from almost every villa blew little pennons of white curtains. “They like to have their windows open any way,” she thought. Paul said very little; he was obviously nervous of how she would take it all. She took it all very well.