Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “You have not written to any of us for months. Won’t you come just for a night to see your aunts? At least let us know that you are happy.”

  She cried that night in bed, squeezing her head into the pillow so that no one should hear her. She seemed to have lost all her pluck. She must do something, but what? She did not know how to deal with people. If they were kind and friendly there were so many things that she could do, but this silent creeping away from her paralysed her. She remembered how she had said to Katherine: “No one can make me unhappy if I do not wish it to be.” Now she did not dare to think how unhappy she was. She knew that they all thought her strange and odd, and she felt that strangeness creeping upon her. She MUST be odd if many people thought her so. She became terribly self-conscious, wondering whether her words and movements were strange.

  She was often so tired that she could not drag one foot after another.

  A few weeks before Christmas something happened. A terrible thing, perhaps — but she was delivered by it ...

  She was sitting one afternoon a few weeks before Christmas in the drawing-room alone with Grace. It was her “At Home” day, a Friday afternoon. Grace was knitting a grey stocking, a long one that curled on her lap. She knitted badly, clumsily, twisting her fingers into odd shapes and muddling her needles. Now and then she would look up as though she meant to talk, and then remembering that it was Maggie who was opposite to her she would purse her lips and look down again. The fire hummed and sputtered, the clock ticked, and Grace breathed in heavy despairing pants over the difficulties of her work. The door opened and the little maid, her eyes nervously wandering towards Grace, murmured, “Mr. Cardinal, mum.”

  The next thing of which Maggie was conscious was Uncle Mathew standing clumsily just inside the door shifting his bowler hat between his two hands.

  The relief of seeing him was so great that she jumped up and ran towards him crying, “Oh, Uncle Mathew! I’m so glad! At last!”

  He dropped his bowler in giving her his hand. She noticed at once that he was looking very unhappy and had terribly run to seed.

  He was badly shaved, his blue suit was shabby and soiled. He was fatter, and his whole body was flabby and uncared for. Maggie saw at once that he had been drinking, not very much, but enough to make him a little uncertain on his feet and unsteady in his gaze. Maggie, when she saw him, felt nothing but a rush of pity and desire to protect him. Very strangely she felt the similarity between him and herself. Nobody wanted either of them — they must just love one another because there was no one else to love them.

  She was aware then that Grace had risen and was standing looking at them both.

  She turned round to her saying, “Grace, this is my uncle. You’ve heard me speak of him, haven’t you? He was very kind to me when I was a little girl ... Uncle, this is my sister-in-law, Miss Trenchard.”

  Uncle Mathew smiled and, rather unsteadily, came forward; he caught her hand in both his damp, hot ones. “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Trenchard. I know you’ve been very good to my little Maggie; at least when I say ‘my little Maggie’ she’s not mine any longer. She belongs to your brother now, doesn’t she? Of course she does. I hope you’re well.”

  Maggie realised then the terrified distress in Grace’s eyes. The grey stocking had fallen to the ground, and Grace stared at Uncle Mathew in a kind of fascinated horror. She realised of course at once that he was what she would call “tipsy.” He was not “tipsy,” but nevertheless “tipsy” enough for Grace. Maggie saw her take in every detail of his appearance — his unshaven cheeks, the wisps of hair over the bald top of his head, the spots on his waistcoat, the mud on his boots, and again as she watched Grace make this summary, love and protection for that unhappy man filled her heart. For unhappy he was! She saw at once that he had had a long slide downhill since his last visit to her. He was frightened — frightened immediately now of Grace and the room and the physical world — but frightened also behind these things at some spectre all his own. Grace sat down and tried to recover herself. She began to talk in her society voice. Maggie knew that she was praying, over and over again, with a monotony possible only to the very stupid, that there would be no callers that afternoon.

  “And so you know Glebeshire, Mr. Cardinal! Fancy! I’ve never been there — never been there in my life. Fancy that! Although so many of my relations live there. I once nearly went down, one wet Christmas, and I was going to stay with my aunt, but something happened to prevent me. I think I caught a cold at the time. I can’t quite remember. But fancy you knowing Glebeshire so well!”

  All this came out in a voice that might have issued from a gramophone, so little did it represent Grace’s real feelings or emotions. Maggie knew so well that inside her head these exclamations were rising and falling: “What a horrible man! What a dreadful man! Maggie’s uncle! We’re lost if any one calls! Oh! I do hope no one calls!”

  It was obvious meanwhile that Mathew was urgently wishing for a moment alone with Maggie. He looked at her with pleading eyes, and once he winked towards Grace. He talked on, however, running some of his words into one another and paying very little attention to anything that Grace might say: “No, I haven’t seen my little niece, Miss Trenchard, for a long time — didn’t like to interfere, in a way. Thought she’d ask for me when she wanted me. We’ve always been the greatest friends. I’m a bachelor, you see — never married. Not that I’d like you to fancy that I’ve no interest in the other sex, far from it, but I’m a wanderer by nature. A wife in every port, perhaps. Well, who knows? But one’s lonely at times, one is indeed. A pretty tidy little place you’ve got here. Yes, you have — with a garden too.”

  Paul came in, and Maggie saw him start as Mathew’s stout figure surprised him. She felt then a rush of hostility against Paul. It was as though, at every point, she must run in fiercely to defend her uncle.

  Meanwhile Grace’s worst fears were realised. The little maid announced Miss Purves and Mrs. Maxse. A terrible half-hour followed. Miss Purves, as soon as she understood that this strange man was Mrs. Trenchard’s uncle, was all eager excitement, and Uncle Mathew, bewildered by so many strangers, confused by a little unsteadiness in his legs that would have been nothing had he not been in a small room crowded with furniture, finally clasped Mrs. Maxse by the shoulder in his endeavour to save himself from tumbling over the little table that held the cakes and bread-and-butter. His hot, heavy hand pressed into Mrs. Maxse’s flesh, and Mrs. Maxse, terrified indeed, screamed.

  He began to apologise, and in his agitation jerked Miss Purves’ cup of tea from the table on to the floor.

  After that he realised that it would be better for him to go. He began elaborate apologies. Paul saw him to the door. He gripped Paul by the hand. “I’m delighted to have met you,” he said in full hearing of the trembling ladies. “You’ve given me such a good time. Give my little Maggie a good time too. She’s not looking over well. Send her up to London to stay with me for a bit.”

  Maggie saw him to the gate. In the middle of the little drive he stopped, turning towards her, leaning his hands heavily upon her. “Maggie dear,” he said, “I’m in a bad way, a very bad way. You won’t desert me?”

  “Of course I won’t,” she answered. “I may want your help in a week or two.”

  He looked dismally about him, at the thick, dull laurel bushes and the heavy, grey sky. “I don’t like this place, Maggie,” he said, “and all those women. It’s religion again, and it’s worse than that Chapel. You don’t seem to be able to get away from religion. You’re not happy, my dear.”

  “Yes, I am,” she answered firmly.

  “No, you’re not. And I’m not. But it will be all right in the end, I’ve no doubt. You’ll never desert me, Maggie.”

  “I’ll never desert you,” Maggie answered.

  He bent down and kissed her, his breath whisky-laden. She kissed him eagerly, tenderly. For a moment she felt that she would go with him, just as she was, and leave them all.

&n
bsp; “Uncle,” she said, “you understand how it is, don’t you? We’d have asked you to stay if we’d known.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” He looked at her mysteriously. “That new sister-in-law of yours was shocked with me. They wouldn’t have me in the house. I saw that. And I only had one glass at the station. I’m not much of a man in society now. That’s the trouble ... But next time I’ll come down and just send you a line and you’ll come to see me in my own little place — won’t you? I’m in the devil of a mess, Maggie, that’s the truth, and I don’t know how to get out of it. I’ve been a bit of a fool, I have.”

  She saw the look of terror in his eye again.

  “Would some money—” she suggested.

  “Oh, I’m afraid it’s past five pounds now, my dear.” He sighed heavily. “Well, I must be getting along. You’ll catch your death of cold standing out here. We ought to have been together all this time, you know. It would have been better for both of us.”

  He kissed her again and left her. She slowly returned into the house. Curiously, he had made her happier by his visit. Her pluck returned. She needed it. Grace was now stirred by the most active of all her passions — fear.

  Nevertheless Grace and Paul behaved very well. Maggie understood the shock that visit must have given them. She watched Grace imagining the excited stories that would flow from the lips of Miss Purves and Mrs. Maxse. She was determined, however, that Grace and Paul should not suffer in silence — and Uncle Mathew must be vindicated.

  At supper that night she plunged:

  “Uncle Mathew’s been very ill,” she began, “for a long time now. He wasn’t himself this afternoon, I’m afraid. He was very upset at some news that he’d just had. And then meeting so many strangers at once—”

  Maggie saw that Grace avoided her eyes.

  “I don’t think we’ll discuss it, Maggie, if you don’t mind. Mr. Cardinal was strange in his behaviour, certainly. It was a pity that Miss Purves came. But it’s better not to discuss it.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Maggie. “If you think that I’m ashamed of Uncle Mathew you’re quite wrong. He’s very unhappy and lonely—” She felt her voice tremble. “He hasn’t got any one to look after him—”

  Grace’s hand was trembling as she nervously crumbled her bread. Still without looking at Maggie she said:

  “By the way, you did the church flowers this morning didn’t you, eh?”

  Maggie turned white and, as always on these occasions, her heart thumped, leaping, as it seemed, into the very palms of her hands.

  “But it was to-morrow—” she began.

  “You remember that I told you three days ago that it was to be this morning instead of the usual Thursday because of the Morgans’ wedding.”

  “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry! I had remembered, I had indeed, and then Lucy suddenly having that chill — .”

  Paul struck in. “Really, Maggie, that’s too bad. No flowers to-morrow? Those others were quite dead yesterday. I noticed at evensong ... Really, really. And the Morgans’ wedding!”

  Maggie sat there, trembling.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said, almost whispering. Why did fate play against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which to strike?

  “I’ll go and do them now,” she said. “I can take those flowers out of the drawing-room.”

  “It’s done,” Grace slowly savouring her triumph. “I did them myself this afternoon.”

  “Then you should have told me that!” Maggie burst out. “It’s not fair making me miserable just for your own fun. You don’t know how you hurt, Grace. You’re cruel, you’re cruel!”

  She had a horrible fear lest she should burst into tears. To save that terrible disaster she jumped up and ran out of the room, hearing behind her Paul’s admonitory “Maggie, Maggie!”

  It is to be expected that Mrs. Maxse and Miss Purves made the most of their story. The Rector’s wife and a drunken uncle! No, it was too good to be true ... but it was true, nevertheless. Christmas passed and the horrible damp January days arrived. Skeaton was a dripping covering of emptiness — hollow, shallow, deserted. Every tree, Maggie thought, dripped twice as much as any other tree in Europe. It remained for Caroline Purdie to complete the situation. One morning at breakfast the story burst upon Maggie’s ears. Grace was too deeply moved and excited to remember her hostility. She poured out the tale.

  It appeared that for many many months Caroline had not been the wife she should have been. No; there had been a young man, a Mr. Bennett from London. The whole town had had its suspicions, had raised its pointing finger, had peeped and peered and whimpered. The only person who had noticed nothing was Mr. Purdie himself. He must, of course, have seen that his house was filled with noisy young men and noisier young women; he must have realised that his bills were high, that champagne was drunk and cards were played, and that his wife’s attire was fantastically gorgeous. At any rate, if he noticed these things he said nothing. He was a dull, silent, slow-thinking man, people said. Then one day he went up to London or rather, in the manner of the best modern problem play, he pretended to go, returned abruptly, and discovered Caroline in the arms of Mr. Bennett.

  He flung Mr. Bennett out of the bedroom window, breaking his leg and his nose, and that was why every one knew the story. What he said to Caroline was uncertain. He did not, however, pack her off, as Miss Purves said he should have done, but rather kept her in the big ugly house, just as he had done before, only now without the young men, the young women, the champagne and the flowers.

  “I must go and see her,” said Maggie when she heard this story.

  Grace turned the strange pale yellow that was her colour when she was disturbed.

  “Maggie,” she said, “I warn you that if you go to see this abandoned woman you will be insulting Paul and myself before the whole town.”

  “She is my friend,” said Maggie.

  “She is a wicked woman,” said Grace, breathing very heavily, “and you’re a wicked woman if you go to see her. You have already made Paul miserable.”

  “That is untrue,” Maggie said fiercely. “It is I that have been miserable. Not that it hasn’t been my own fault. I should never have married Paul.”

  “No, you should not,” said Grace, breathing as though she had been running very hard. “And for that I was partly to blame. But fancy what you’ve done since you’ve been with us! Just fancy! It’s terrible ... never a greater mistake ... never, never.”

  Maggie tossed her head. “Well, if it was a mistake,” she said, “the end of pretending has come at last. I’ve been trying for nearly two years now to go your way and Paul’s. I can’t do it. I can’t alter myself. I’ve tried, and I can’t. It’s no use. Grace, we’d never get on. I see it’s been hopeless from the first. But you shan’t make Paul hate me. You’ve been trying your hardest, but you shan’t succeed. I know that I’m stupid and careless, but it’s no use my pretending to be good and quiet and obedient. I’m not good. I’m not quiet. I’m not obedient. I’m going to be myself now. I’m going to have the friends I want and do the things I want.”

  Grace moved back as though she thought that Maggie were going to strike her.

  “You’re wicked,” she said. “What about those letters in your drawer? You’ve never loved Paul.”

  “So you’ve been opening my drawers?” said Maggie. “You’re worse than I, Grace. I never opened any one’s drawers nor read letters I shouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I want to hide. Paul knows all about it. I’m not ashamed.”

  “No, you’re not,” Grace’s eyes were large with terror. “You’re ashamed at nothing. You’ve made every one in the place laugh at us. You’ve ruined Paul’s life here — yes, you have. But you don’t care. Do you think I mind for myself? But I love Paul, and I’ve looked after him all his life, and he was happy until you came — yes, he was. You’ve made us all laughed at. You’re bad a
ll through, Maggie, and the laws of the Church aren’t anything to you at all.”

  There was a pause. Maggie, a little calmer, realised Grace, who had sunk into a chair. She saw that stout middle-aged woman with the flat expressionless face and the dull eyes. She saw the flabby hands nervously trembling, and she longed suddenly to be kind and affectionate.

  “Oh, Grace,” she cried. “I know I’ve been everything I shouldn’t, only don’t you see I can’t give up my friends? And I told Paul before we married that I’d loved some one else and wasn’t religious. But perhaps it isn’t too late. Let’s be friends. I’ll try harder than ever before—”

  Then she saw, in the way that Grace shrank back, her eyes staring with the glazed fascination that a bird has for a snake, that there was more than dislike and jealousy here, there was the wild unreasoning fear that a child has for the dark.

  “Am I like that?” was her own instinctive shuddering thought. Then, almost running, she rushed up to her bedroom.

  CHAPTER VII

  DEATH OF AUNT ANNE

  Maggie, after that flight, faced her empty room with a sense of horror. Was there, truly, then, something awful about her? The child (for she was indeed nothing more) looked into her glass, standing on tip-toe that she might peer sufficiently and saw her face, pale, with its large dark eyes rimmed by the close-clipped hair. Was she then awful? First her father, then her aunts, then the Warlocks, now Grace and Paul — not only dislike but fright, terror, alarm!

  Her loneliness crushed her in that half-hour as it had never crushed her since that day at Borhedden. She broke down altogether, kneeling by the bed and her head in her pillow sobbing: “Oh, Martin, I want you! Martin, I want you so!”

  When she was calmer she thought of going down to Paul and making another appeal to him, but she knew that such an appeal could only end in his asking her to change herself, begging her to be more polite to Grace, more careful and less forgetful, and of course to give up such people as the Toms and Caroline, and then there would come, after it all, the question as to whether she intended to behave better to himself, whether she would be more loving, more ... Oh no! she could not, she could not, she could not!