Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  She told Maggie that “she couldn’t help” being an idealist.

  “I know it’s foolish of me,” she said in her gentle voice, smiling her charming smile. “They all tell me so. But if life isn’t meant to be beautiful, where are we? Everything must have a meaning, mustn’t it, Mrs. Trenchard, and however often we fail — and after all we are only human — we must try, try again. I believe in seeing the best in people, because then they live up to that. People are what we make them, don’t you think?”

  “The woman’s a fool,” thought Maggie. Nevertheless, she liked her kindness. She was so strangely driven. She wished to think of Martin always, never to forget him, but at the same time not to think of the life that was connected with him. She must never think of him as some one who might return. Did that once begin all this present life would be impossible — and she meant to make this new existence not only possible but successful. Therefore she was building, so hard as she could, this new house; the walls were rising, the rooms were prepared, every window was barred, the doors were locked, no one from outside should enter, and everything that belonged to it — Paul, Grace, the Church, these women, Skeaton itself, her household duties, the servants, everything and every one was pressed into service. She must have so much to do that she could not think, she must like every one else so much that she could not want any one else — that other world must be kept out, no sound nor sight of it must enter ... If even she could forget Martin. What had he said to her. “Promise me whatever I am, whatever I do, you will love me always” — and she had promised. Here she was married to Paul and loving Martin more than ever! As she looked at Mrs. Constantine she wondered what she would say did she know that. Nevertheless, she had not deceived Paul ... She had told him. She would make this right. She would force this life to give her what she needed, work and friends and a place in the world. Her face a little white with her struggle to keep her house standing, she turned to her guests. She was afraid that she did not play the hostess very well. She felt as though she were play-acting. She repeated phrases that she had heard Katherine Mark use, and laughed at herself for doing so. She suspected that they thought her very odd, and she fancied that Mrs. Constantine looked at her short hair with grave suspicion.

  Afterwards, when she told Paul this, he was rather uncomfortable.

  “It’ll soon be long again, dear, won’t it?” he said.

  “Don’t you like it short then?” she asked.

  “Of course I like it, but there’s no reason to be unusual, is there? We don’t want to seem different from other people, do we, darling?”

  “I don’t know,” said Maggie. “We want to be ourselves. I don’t think I shall ever grow my hair long again. It’s so much more comfortable like this.”

  “If I ask you, dear,” said Paul.

  “No, not even if you ask me,” she answered, laughing.

  She noticed then, for the first time, that he could look sulky like a small school-boy.

  “Why, Paul,” she said. “If you wanted to grow a beard I shouldn’t like it, but I shouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

  “That’s quite different,” he answered. “I should never dream of growing a beard. Grace won’t like it if you look odd.”

  “Grace isn’t my teacher,” said Maggie with a sudden hot hostility that surprised herself.

  She discovered, by the way, very quickly that the three ladies had no very warm feelings for Grace. They showed undisguised pleasure at the thought that Maggie would now be on various Committees instead of her sister-in-law.

  “It will be your place, of course, as wife of the vicar,” said Mrs. Constantine. “Hitherto Miss Trenchard—”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t be on a Committee,” cried Maggie. “I’ve never been on one in my life. I should never know what to do.”

  “Never been on a Committee!” cried Miss Purves, quivering with interest. “Why, Mrs. Trenchard, where have you been all this time?”

  “I’m only twenty,” said Maggie. They certainly thought it strange of her to confess to her age like that. “At home father never had any Committees, he did it all himself, or rather didn’t do it.”

  Mrs. Constantine shook her head. “We must all help you,” she said. “You’re very young, my dear, for the responsibilities of this parish.”

  “Yes, I am,” said Maggie frankly. “And I’ll be very glad of anything you can tell me. But you mustn’t let me be Treasurer or Secretary of anything. I should never answer any of the letters, and I should probably spend all the money myself.”

  “My dear, you shouldn’t say such things even as a joke,” said Mrs. Constantine.

  “But it isn’t a joke,” said Maggie. “I’m terribly muddleheaded, and I’ve no idea of money at all. Paul’s going to teach me.”

  Paul smiled nervously.

  “Maggie will soon fit into our ways,” he said.

  “I’m sure she will.” said Mrs. Constantine very kindly, but as though she were speaking to a child of ten.

  The bell rang and Mr. Flaunders the curate came in. He was very young, very earnest, and very enthusiastic. He adored Paul. He told Maggie that he thought that he was the very luckiest man in the world for having, so early in his career, so wonderful a man as Paul to work under. He had also adored Grace, but very quickly showed signs of transferring that adoration to Maggie.

  “Miss Trenchard’s splendid,” he said. “I do admire her so, but you’ll be a great help to us all. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “Why, how do you know?” asked Maggie. “You’ve only seen me for about two minutes.”

  “Ah, one can tell,” said Mr. Flaunders, sighing.

  Maggie liked his enthusiasm, but she couldn’t help wishing that his knees wouldn’t crack at unexpected moments, that he wasn’t quite so long and thin, and that he wouldn’t leave dried shaving-soap under his ears and in his nostrils. She was puzzled, too, that Paul should be so obviously pleased with the rather naif adoration. “Paul likes you to praise him,” she thought a little regretfully.

  So, for the moment, these people, the house and the Church, fitted in her World. For the rest of the fortnight she was so busy that she never went on to the beach nor into the woods. She shopped every morning, feeling very old and grown-up, she went to tea with Mrs. Constantine and Mrs. Maxse, and she sat on Paul’s knee whenever she thought that he would like her to. She sat on Paul’s knee, but that did not mean that, in real intimacy, they approached any nearer to one another. During those days they stared at one another like children on different sides of a fence. They were definitely postponing settlement, and with every day Maggie grew more restless and uneasy. She wanted back that old friendly comradeship that there had been before their marriage. He seemed now to have lost altogether that attitude to her. Then on the very day of Grace’s return the storm broke. It was tea-time and they were having it, as usual, in his dusty study. They were sitting someway apart — Paul in the old leather armchair by the fire, his thick body stretched out, his cheerful good-humoured face puckered and peevish.

  Maggie stood up, looking at him.

  “Paul, what’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Matter,” he repeated. “Nothing.”

  “Oh yes, there is ... You’re cross with me.”

  “No, I’m not. What an absurd idea!” He moved restlessly, turning half away, not looking at her. She came close up to him.

  “Look here, Paul. There is something the matter. We haven’t been married a fortnight yet and you’re unhappy. Whatever else we married for we married because we were going to be friends. So you’ve just got to tell me what the trouble is.”

  “I’ve got my sermon to prepare,” he said, not looking at her, but half rising in his chair. “You’d better go, darling.”

  “I’m not going to,” she answered, “until you’ve told me why you’re worrying.”

  He got up slowly and seemed then as though he were going to pass her. Suddenly he turned, flung his arms round her, catching her, crushin
g her in his arms, kissing her wildly.

  “Love ... love me ... love me,” he whispered. “That’s what’s the matter. I didn’t know myself before I married you, Maggie. All these years I’ve lived like a fish and I didn’t know it. But I know it now. And you’ve got to love me. You’re my wife and you’ve got to love me.”

  She would have given everything that she had then to respond. She felt an infinite tenderness and pity for him. But she could not. He felt that she could not. He let her go and turned away from her. She thought for a moment wondering what she ought to say, and then she came up to him and gently put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Be patient, Paul,” she said. “You know we agreed before we married that we’d be friends at any rate and let the rest come. Wait ...”

  “Wait!” he turned round eagerly, clutching her arm. “Then there is a chance, Maggie? You can get to love me — you can forget that other man?”

  She drew back. “No, you know I told you that I should never do that. But he’ll never come back nor want me again and I’m very fond of you, Paul — fonder than I thought. Don’t spoil it all now by going too fast—”

  “Going too fast!” he laughed. “Why, I haven’t gone any way at all. I haven’t got you anywhere. I can hardly touch you. You’re away from me all the time. You’re strange — different from every one ...”

  “I don’t know anything about women. I’ve learnt a lot about myself this week. It isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.”

  She went up to him, close to him, and said almost desperately: “We MUST make this all right, Paul. We can if we try. I know we can.”

  He kissed her gently with his old kindness. “What a baby you are. You didn’t know what you were in for ... Oh, we’ll make it all right.”

  They sat close together then and drank their tea. After all, Grace would be here in an hour! They both felt a kind of relief that they would no longer be alone.

  Grace would be here in an hour! Strange how throughout all these last days Maggie had been looking forward to that event with dread. There was no definite reason for fear; in London Grace had been kindness itself and had shown real affection for Maggie. Within the last week she had written two very affectionate letters. What was this, then, that hung and hovered? It was in the very air of the house and the garden and the place. Grace had left her mark upon everything and every one, even upon the meagre person of Mitch the dog. Especially upon Mitch, a miserable creeping fox-terrier with no spirits and a tendency to tremble all over when you called him. He had attached himself to Maggie, which was strange, because animals were not, as a rule, interested in her. Mitch followed her about, looking up at her with a yellow supplicating eye. She didn’t like him and she would be glad when Grace collected him again — but why did he tremble?

  She realised, in the way that she had of seeing further than her nose, that Grace was going to affect the whole of her relations with Paul, and, indeed, all her future life. She had not realised that in London. Grace had seemed harmless there and unimportant. Already here in Skeaton she seemed to stand for a whole scheme of life.

  Maggie had moved and altered a good many of the things in the house. She had discovered a small attic, and into this she had piled pell-mell a number of photographs, cheap reproductions, cushions, worsted mats, and china ornaments. She had done it gaily and with a sense of clearing the air.

  Now as Grace’s hour approached she was not so sure.

  “Well, I’m not afraid,” she reassured herself with her favourite defiance. “She can’t eat me. And it’s my house.”

  Paul had not noticed the alterations. He was always blind to his surroundings unless they were what he called “queer.”

  There was the rattle of the cab-wheels on the drive and a moment later Grace was in the hall.

  “Dear Paul — Maggie, dear ...”

  She stood there, a very solid and assured figure. She was square and thick and reminded Maggie to-day of Mrs. Noah; her clothes stood cut out around her as though they had been cut in wood. She had her large amiable smile, and the kiss that she gave Maggie was a wet, soft, and very friendly one.

  “Now I think I’ll have tea at once without taking my hat off. In Paul’s study? That’s nice ... Maggie, dear, how are you? Such a journey! But astonishing! Just fancy! I got into Charing Cross and then — ! Why! Here’s the study! Fancy! ... Maggie, dear, how are you? Well? That’s right. Why, there’s tea! That’s right. Everything just as it was. Fancy! ...” She took off her gloves, smiled, seated herself more comfortably, then began to look about the room. Suddenly there came: “Why, Paul, where’s the Emmanuel football group?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Maggie felt her heart give a little bump, as it seemed to her, right against the roof of her mouth. Paul (so like him) had not noticed that the football group had vanished. He stared at the blank place on the wall where it had once been.

  “Why, Grace ... I don’t know. I never noticed it wasn’t there.”

  “I took it down,” said Maggie. “I thought there were too many photographs. It’s in the attic.”

  “In the attic? ... Fancy! You put it away, did you, Maggie? Well, fancy! Shan’t I make the tea, Maggie, dear? That tea-pot, it’s an old friend of mine. I know how to manage it.”

  They changed seats. Grace was as amiable as ever, but now her eyes flashed about from place to place all around the room.

  “Why, this is a new kind of jam. How nice! As I was saying, I got into Charing Cross and there wasn’t a porter. Just fancy! At least there was a porter, an old man, but when I beckoned to him he wouldn’t move. Well, I was angry. I can tell you, Paul, I wasn’t going to stand that, so I-what nice jam, dear. I never knew Mitchell’s had jam like this!”

  “I didn’t get it at Mitchell’s,” said Maggie. “I’ve changed the grocer. Mitchell hasn’t got anything, and his prices are just about double Brownjohn’s ...”

  “Brownjohn!” Grace stared, her bread and jam suspended. “Brownjohn! But, Maggie dear, he’s a dissenter.”

  “Oh. Maggie!” said Paul. “You should have told me!”

  “Why!” said Maggie, bewildered. “Father never minded about dissenters. Our butcher in St. Dreot’s was an atheist and—”

  “Well, well,” said Grace, her eyes still flashing about like goldfish in a pool. “You didn’t know, dear. Of course you didn’t. I’m sure we can put it right with Mitchell, although he’s a sensitive man. I’ll go and see him in the morning. I am glad I’m back. Well, I was telling you ... Where was I? ... about the porter—”

  Something drove Maggie to say:

  “I’d rather have a good grocer who’s a dissenter than a bad one who goes to church—”

  “Maggie,” said Paul, “you don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t realise what the effect in the parish would be.”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” said Grace consolingly. “She’ll understand in time. As I was saying, I was so angry that I caught the old man by the arm and I said to him, ‘If you think you’re paid to lean up against a wall and not do your duty you’re mightily mistaken, and if you aren’t careful I’ll report you — that’s what I’ll do,’ and he said — what were his exact words? I’ll remember in a minute. I know he was very insulting, and the taxi-cabman — why, Paul, where’s mother’s picture?”

  Grace’s eyes were directed to a large space high above the mantelpiece. Maggie remembered that there had been a big faded oil-painting of an old lady in a shawl and spectacles, a hideous affair she had thought it. That was now reposing in the attic. Why had she not known that it was a picture of Paul’s mother? She would never have touched it had she known. Why had Paul said nothing? He had not even noticed that it was gone.

  Paul stared, amazed and certainly — yes, beyond question — frightened.

  “Grace — upon my word — I’ve been so busy since my return—”

  “Is that also in the attic?” asked Grace.

  “Yes, it is,” said Maggie. “I’m so sorry.
I never knew it was your mother. It wasn’t a very good painting I thought, so I took it down. If I had known, of course, I never would have touched it. Oh Grace, I AM so sorry.”

  “It’s been there,” said Grace, “for nearly twenty years. What I mean to say is that it’s always been there. Poor mother. Are there many things in the attic, Maggie?”

  At that moment there was a feeble scratching on the door. Paul, evidently glad of anything that would relieve the situation, opened the door.

  “Why, it’s Mitch!” cried Grace, forgetting for the moment her mother. “Fancy! It’s Mitch! Mitch, dear! Was she glad to see her old friend back again? Was she? Darling! Fancy seeing her old friend again? Was she wanting her back?”

  Mitch stood shivering in the doorway, then, with her halting step, the skin of her back wrinkled with anxiety, she crossed the room. For a moment she hesitated, then with shamefaced terror, slunk to Maggie, pressed up against her, and sat there huddled, staring at Grace with yellow unfriendly eyes.

  CHAPTER IV

  GRACE

  Not in a day and not in a night did Maggie find a key to that strange confusion of fears, superstitions, and self-satisfactions that was known to the world as Grace Trenchard. Perhaps she never found it, and through all the struggle and conflict in which she was now to be involved she was fighting, desperately, in the dark. Fight she did, and it was this same conflict, bitter and tragic enough at the time, that transformed her into the woman that she became ... and through all that conflict it may be truly said of her that she never knew a moment’s bitterness — anger, dismay, loneliness, even despair-bitterness never.

  It was not strange that Maggie did not understand Grace; Grace never understood herself nor did she make the slightest attempt to do so. It would be easy enough to cover the ground at once by saying that she had no imagination, that she never went behind the thing that she saw, and that she found the grasping of external things quite as much as she could manage. But that is not enough. Very early indeed, when she had been a stolid-faced little girl with a hot desire for the doll possessed by her neighbour, she had had for nurse a woman who rejoiced in supernatural events. With ghost stories of the most terrifying kind she besieged Grace’s young heart and mind. The child had never imagination enough to visualise these stories in the true essence, but she seized upon external detail-the blue lights, the white shimmering garments, the moon and the church clock, the clanking chain and the stain of blood upon the board.