Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  “Oh no,” said Henry hurriedly. “My grandfather’s dead — he died a few years ago — but he was a very fine old man indeed. We all thought a great deal of him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. That will make you perhaps the more sympathetic to this work that I have for you. There are several black boxes in the cupboard over there filled with letters. Walter Scott was an intimate friend of his — of course, you despise Walter Scott?”

  “Oh, no,” said Henry fervently, “I don’t, I assure you.”

  “Hum. Quite. When one of you young men writes something better than he did I’ll begin to read you. Not before.”

  “No,” said Henry, who nevertheless longed to ask Sir Charles how he knew that the young men of to-day did not write better seeing that he never read them.

  “In those boxes there are letters from Byron and Wordsworth and Crabbe and Hogg and many other great men of the time. There are also many letters of no importance. I intend to edit my grandfather’s letters and I wish you to prepare them for me.”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “I wish you to be here punctually at nine every morning. I may say that I consider punctuality of great importance. You will help me with my own correspondence until ten-thirty; from ten-thirty until one you will be engaged on my grandfather’s letters. My sister will be very glad that you should have luncheon with us whenever you care to. I shall not generally require you in the afternoon, but sometimes I shall expect you to remain here all day. I shall wish you always to be free to do so when I need you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Henry.

  “Sometimes I shall be at Duncombe Hall in Wiltshire and shall want you to stay with me there at certain periods. I hope that you will not ask more questions than are absolutely necessary as I dislike being disturbed. You are of course at liberty to use any books in this library that you please, but I hope that you will always put them back in their right places. I dislike very much seeing books bent back or laid face downwards.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “So do I.”

  “Quite. . . . And now, are there any questions that you will like to ask?”

  “No,” said Henry. “If there are any questions that I want to ask would you prefer that I asked them when I thought of them or kept them until the end of the morning and asked them all together?”

  “That had better depend on your own judgment.”

  There was a pause.

  “That table over there,” said Sir Charles, pointing to one near the window, “is a good one for you to work at. I should suggest that you begin this morning with the box labelled 1816-1820. That is the cupboard to your right. It is not locked.”

  The first movement across the floor to the cupboard was an agonizing one. Henry felt as though everything in the room were listening to him, as though the gentleman with the nose on the mantelpiece was saying to him: “You’ll never do here. Look at the noise your boots make. Of course you won’t do.”

  However he got safely across, opened the cupboard which creaked viciously, found the black boxes and the one that he needed. It was very heavy, but he brought it to the table without much noise. Down he sat, carefully opened it and looked inside. Pile upon pile of old yellow letters lay there, packet after packet of them tied with faded red tape. Something within him thrilled to their age, to their pathos, to their humility, to the sense that they carried up to him of the swift passing of time, the touching childishness of human hopes, despair and ambitions. He felt suddenly like an ant crawling laboriously over a gleaming and slippery globe of incredible vastness. The letters seemed to rebuke him as though he had been boasting of his pride and youth and his confidence in his own security. He took out the first bundle, reverently undid the tape and began to read. . . .

  Soon he was absorbed even as his sister Millicent, at that same moment in the Cromwell Road, was absorbed in a very different collection of letters, on this her second Platt morning. The library with its thousands of books enfolded Henry as though now it approved of him and might love him did he stay reverently in its midst caring for the old things and the old people — the old things that pass, the old people who seem to die but do not. At first every letter thrilled him. The merest note:

  15 Castle St., Edinburgh,

  June 4, 1816.

  My dear Ronald — What about coming in to see us? All at Hartley well and easy — Mamma has been in Edinburgh after a cook — no joking matter — and to see Benjie who was but indifferent, but has recovered. . . . I will write a long letter soon, but my back and eyes ache with these three pages. . . .

  Then a note about a dinner-party, then about a parcel of books, then a letter from Italy full of the glories of Florence; then (how Henry shivered with pleasure as he saw it!) the hand and sign of the Magician himself!

  Dear Sir Ronald Duncombe — I am coming to town I trust within the fortnight, but my trees are holding me here for the moment. I have been saddened lately by the death of my poor brother, Major John Scott, who was called home after a long illness. All here wish to be remembered to you. — Most truly yours,

  Walter Scott.

  A terrible temptation came to Henry — so swift that it seemed to be suggested by some one sitting beside him — to slip the letter into his pocket. This was the first time in all his days that he had had such a letter in his hand, because, although his father had been for many years a writer of books on this very period, his material had been second-hand, even third-hand material. Henry felt a slight contempt for his father as he sat there.

  Then, as the minutes swung past, he was aware that he should be doing something more than merely looking at the old letters and complimenting them on their age and pretty pathos. He should be arranging them. Yes, arranging them, but how? He began helplessly to pick them up, look at them and lay them on the table again. Many of them had no dates at all, many were signed only with Christian names, some were not signed at all. And how was he to decide on the important ones? How did he know that he would not pass, through ignorance and inexperience, some signature of world-significance? The letters began to look at him with less approval, even with a certain cynical malevolence. They all looked the same with their faded yellow paper and their confusing handwriting. He had many of them on the table, unbound from their red tape, lying loosely about him and yet the box seemed as full as ever. And there were many more boxes! . . . Suddenly, from the very bowels of the house, a gong sounded.

  “You can wash your hands in that little room to the right,” said Sir Charles, whose personality suddenly returned as though Henry had pressed a button. “Luncheon will be waiting for us.”

  And this was the conclusion of Henry’s first appearance as a private secretary.

  CHAPTER V

  THE THREE FRIENDS

  Upon the afternoon of that same day at five of the clock they were gathered together in Mr. King’s friendly attic — Henry, Millicent and Westcott. Because there was so little room Henry and Millie sat on the bed, Peter Westcott having the honour of the cane-bottomed chair, which looked small enough under his large square body.

  The attic window was open and the spring afternoon sun came in, bringing with it, so Henry romantically fancied, a whiff from the flower-baskets in Piccadilly and the bursting buds of the St. James’s Church trees — also petrol from the garage next door and, as Peter asserted, patchouli and orange-peel from the Comedy Theatre.

  At first, as is often the case with tea-parties, there was a little stiffness. It was absurd that on this occasion it should be so; nevertheless the honest fact was that Millie did not care very greatly for Peter and that Henry knew this. She did not care for him, Henry contended, because she did not know him, and this might be because in all their lives they had only met once or twice, Millie generally making some excuse when she knew that Peter would be present.

  Was this jealousy? Indignantly she would have denied it. Rather she would have said that it was because she did not think that he made a very good friend for her dear Henry. He was, i
n her eyes, a rather battered, grumpy, sulky, middle-aged man who was here married and there not married at all, distinctly a failure, immoral probably and certainly a cynic. None of these things would she mind for herself of course, but Henry was so much younger than she, so much more innocent, she happily fancied, about the wicked ways of the world. Westcott would spoil him, take the bloom off him, make him old before his time — that is what she liked to tell him. And perhaps if they had not met on this special afternoon that little barrier would never have been leaped, but to-day they had so much to tell and to hear that restraint was soon impossible, and Henry himself had so romantic a glow in his eyes, and his very hair, that it made at once the whole meeting exceptional. This glow was indeed the very first thing that Millie noticed.

  “Why, Henry,” she said as soon as she sat down on the bed, “what has happened to you?”

  He was swinging on the bed, hugging his knees.

  “There’s nothing the matter,” he said. “I’m awfully happy, that’s all.”

  “Happy because of the Baronet?”

  “No, not so much the Baronet although he’s all right, and it’s awfully interesting if I can only do the work. No, it’s something else. I’ll tell you all about it when we’ve had tea. I say, Millie, how stunning you look in that orange jumper. You ought always to wear orange. Oughtn’t she, Peter?”

  “Yes,” said Peter, his eyes fixed gravely upon her.

  Millie flushed a little. She didn’t want Westcott’s approval. A nuisance that he was here at all! It would be so much easier to discuss everything with Henry were he not here.

  Mr. King arrived, very solemn, very superior, very dead.

  He put down the tray upon the rather rickety little table. They all watched him in silence. When he had gone Henry chuckled.

  “He thinks I’m awful,” Henry said. “Too awful for anything. I don’t suppose he’s ever despised any one before as he despises me, and it makes him happy. He loves to have some one who’s awful. And now about Miss Platt — every bit about Miss Platt from her top to her toe!”

  He went to the tea-table and began to pour out the tea, wishing that Millie and Peter would like one another better and not look so cross.

  Millie began. She had come that afternoon burning to tell everything about the Platt household, and then when she saw Westcott there she was closed like an oyster. However, for Henry’s sake she must do something, so she began because in her own way she was as truly creative as Henry was in his. She found that she was enjoying herself and it grew under her hand, the Platt house, the Platt rooms, the Platt family, Victoria and Ellen and Clarice, and the little doctor and Beppo and the housekeeper and the statue of Eve and all the letters. . . .

  They began to laugh; she was laughing so that she could not speak and Henry was laughing so that the two brazen and unsympathetic muffins which Mr. King had provided fell on to the carpet, and then Peter laughed and laughed more than that, and more again, and any ice that there had ever been was cracked, riven, utterly smashed!

  They all fell into the Pond together and found it so warm and comfortable that they decided to stay there for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Of course,” said Millie, “it entirely remains to be seen whether I’m up to the job. I’m not even sure that I can manage the correspondence, I’m almost certain that I can’t manage the servants. The housekeeper hates me already — and then there are the sisters.”

  “Ellen and Clarice.”

  Millie nodded her head. “They are queer. But then the situation’s queer. Victoria’s got all the money and likes the power. They have to do what she says or leave the house and start all alone in a cold and unsympathetic world. They couldn’t do that, they couldn’t earn their livings for five minutes. Clarice thinks she can sing and act. You should hear her! Ellen does little but sulk. Victoria gives them fine big allowances, but she likes to feel they are her slaves. They’d give anything for their freedom, marry anybody anywhere — but they won’t plunge! How can they? They’d starve in a week.”

  “And would their sister let them?” asked Peter.

  “No, I don’t think she would,” said Millie. “But she’d have them back and they’d be no better off than before. She’s a kind-hearted creature, but just loves the power her money gives her — and hasn’t the least idea what to do with it! She’s as bewildered as though, after being in a dark room all her life, she were suddenly flung into the dancing-hall in Hampstead. . . . Oh, it’s a queer time!”

  Millie sprang up from the bed.

  “Every one’s bewildered, the ones that have money and didn’t have it, the ones that haven’t money and used to have it, the ones with ideas and the ones without, the ones with standards and the ones without, the cliché ones and the old-fashioned ones, the ones that want fun and the ones that want to pray, the ugly ones and the pretty ones, the bold ones and the frightened ones. . . . Everything’s breaking up and everything’s turning into new shapes and new colours. And I love it! I love it! I love it! I oughtn’t to, it’s wrong to, I can’t help it! . . . . It’s enchanting!”

  As she stood there, the sun streaming in upon her from the little window and illuminating her gay colours and her youth and health and beauty she seemed to Peter Westcott a sudden flame and fire burning there, in that little attic to show to the world that youth never dies, that life is eternal, that hope and love and beauty are stronger than governments and wars and the changing of forms and boundaries. It was an unforgettable moment to him, and even though it emphasized all the more his own loneliness it seemed to whisper to him that that loneliness would not be for ever.

  “Hold on!” said Henry. “Look out, Millie! The table’s very shaky and if the plates are broken King will make me pay at least twice what they’re worth. You know it’s a funny thing, but I’m seeing just the other side of the picture. Your people have just got all their money, my people have just lost all theirs. Before the war, so far as I can make out, Duncombe was quite well off. Most of it came from land, and that’s gone down and the Income Tax has come up, and there’s hardly anything left. They think they’ll have to sell Duncombe Hall which has been in the family for centuries, and that will pretty well break their hearts I fancy.”

  “They? Who’s they?” asked Millie.

  “There’s a sister,” said Henry. “Lady Bell-Hall — Margaret She’s the funniest little woman you ever saw. She’s a widow. Her husband died in the war — of general shock I should fancy — air-raids and money and impertinence from the lower classes. The widow nearly died from the same thing. She always wears black and a bonnet, and jumps if any one makes the least sound. At the same time she’s as proud as Lucifer and good too. She’s just bewildered. She can’t understand things at all. The word written on her heart when she comes to die will be Bolshevist. She talks all the time and it’s from her I know all this!”

  “And Duncombe himself? What’s he like?” asked Millie.

  “Oh, he’s queer! I like him but I can’t make out what he thinks. He never shows any sign. He will, I suppose, before long. I shall make so many muddles and mistakes that I shall just be shown the door at the end of the month. However, he can’t say I didn’t warn him. I told him from the beginning just what I was. I know I’m going to have an awful time with those letters. They all look so exactly alike, and many of them haven’t got any dates at all, and then I go off dreaming. It’s almost impossible not to in that library. It’s full of ghosts, and the letters are full of ghosts as well. And I’m sorry for those two. It must be awful, everything that you believe in going, the only world you’ve ever known coming to an end before your eyes, every one denying all the things you’ve believed in and laughing at them. He’s brave, old Duncombe. He’ll go down fighting.”

  “And what’s the other thing?” said Millie, sitting down on the bed again, “that you were going to tell me?”

  Henry told his adventure. He did not look at Millie as he told it; he did not want to see whether she approved or disa
pproved; he was afraid that she would laugh. She laughed at so many things, and most of all he was afraid lest she should say something about the girl. If she did say anything he would have to stand it.

  After all Millie had not seen her. . . . So he talked, staring at the little pink clouds that were now forming beyond the window just over the “Comedy” roof — they were like lumps of coral against the sky — three, four, five . . . then they merged into two billowing pillows of colour, slowly fading into a deep crimson, then breaking into long strips of orange lazily forming against a blue that grew paler and paler and at last, as he ended, was white like water under glass.

  He stopped.

  “How long ago was all this?” Millie asked at last.

  “Two days back.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  “No. I’ve been round that street several times. I know it by heart. I haven’t dared go up — not so soon again.”

  “I wish I’d seen her,” Millie said slowly. Then she added, “Anyway you must go on with it, Henry. You’ve promised to help her and so of course you must. If she’s taking you in it will do you good to be taken in. It will teach you not to be such an ass another time. If she’s not taking you in — —”

  “Of course she’s not taking me in,” Henry answered hotly. “I know that you and Peter think me a baby and that I haven’t any idea of things. You’ve always thought that, Millie, but I’m sure I don’t know what you base it on. I’m hardly ever wrong. Wasn’t I right about Philip? Isn’t he just the prig I always thought him, and didn’t he take Katherine away from us and break us all up just as I said he would?

  “And as to girls you both look so learned as though you knew such a lot, but when have I ever been foolish about girls? I’ve never cared the least bit about them until now. I’ve been waiting, I think, until she came along. Because I’m not always tidy and break things, you both think I’m an ass. But I’m not an ass, as I’ll show you.”