by Hugh Walpole
At this sudden softening Clarice burst into louder sobbing and nothing was to be heard but “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” proceeding from the middle of the handkerchief.
All might now have been well had not Victoria most unfortunately suddenly bethought herself of Mrs. Martin.
“All the same, Millie,” she said. “It wasn’t quite kindly of you to speak to Clarice like that when you knew that she must be tired after all the trouble she had with her acting, and I’m sure I thought it went very nicely indeed although there was a little confusion in the middle which I’m certain nobody noticed half as much as Clarice thought they did. And I do wish, Millie, that you hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Martin like that. I simply don’t know what we shall do without her. We’ll never get any one else as good. I’m sure she never spoke to me rudely. She only wants careful handling. I do so detest registry offices and seeing one woman worse than another. I do think you’re to blame, Millie!”
Whereupon Millie lost her temper for the third time that morning and on this occasion very thoroughly indeed.
“All right,” she said, “that finishes it. You can have my month’s notice, Victoria, as well as Mrs. Martin’s — I’ve endured it as well as I could and as long as I could. I’ve been nearly giving you notice a hundred times. And before I do go let me just tell you that I think you’re the greatest coward, Victoria, that ever walked upon two feet. How many secretaries have you had in the last two months? Dozens I should fancy. And why? Because you never support them in anything. You tell them to go and do a thing and then when they do it desert them because some one else in the house disapproves. You gave me authority over the servants, told me to dismiss them if they weren’t satisfactory, and then when at last I do dismiss one of them you tell me I was wrong to do it. I try to bring this house into something like order and then you upset me at every turn as though you didn’t want there to be any order at all. You aren’t loyal, Victoria, that’s what’s the matter with you — and until you are you’ll never get any one to stay with you. I’m going a month from to-day and I wish you luck with your next selection.”
She had sufficient time to perceive with satisfaction Victoria’s terrified stare and to hear the startled arrest of Clarice’s sobs. She had marched to the door, she had looked back upon them both, had caught Victoria’s “Millie! you can’t — —” The door was closed behind her and she was out upon the silent sunlit staircase.
Breathless, agitated with a confusion of anger and penitence, indignation and regret she ran downstairs and almost into the arms of young Mr. Baxter. Oh! how glad she was to see him! Here at any rate was a man — not one of these eternal women with their morbidities and hysterias and scenes! His very smile, his engaging youth and his air of humorous detachment were jewels beyond any price to Millie just then.
“Why! What’s the matter?” he cried.
“Oh, I don’t know!” she answered. “I don’t know whether I’m going to laugh or cry or what I’m going to do! Oh, those women! Those women! Bunny — take me somewhere. Do something with me. Out of this. I’m off my head this morning.”
“Come in here!” he said, drawing her with him towards a little poky room on the right of the hall-door that was used indifferently as a box-room, a writing-room and a room for Beppo to retire into when he was waiting to pounce out upon a ring at the door. It was dirty, littered with hat-boxes and feminine paraphernalia. An odious room, nevertheless this morning the sun was shining with delight and young Baxter knew that his moment had come.
He pushed Millie in before him, closed the door, flung his arms around her and kissed her all over her face. She pulled herself away.
“You . . . You . . . What is the matter with every one this morning?”
He looked at her with eyes dancing with delight.
“I’m sorry. I ought to have warned you. You looked so lovely I couldn’t help myself. Millie, I adore you. I have done so ever since I first met you. I love you. I love you. You must marry me. We’ll be happy for ever and ever.”
There were so many things that Millie should have said. The simple truth was that she had been in love with him for weeks and had no other thought but that.
“We can’t marry,” she said at last feebly. “We’re both very young. We’ve got no money.”
“Young!” said Bunny scornfully. “Why, I’m twenty-seven, and as to money I’ll soon make some. Millie, come here!”
She who had but now scolded the Miss Platts as though they were school children went to him.
“See!” he put his hands on her shoulders staring into her eyes, “I oughtn’t to have kissed you like that just now. It wasn’t right. I’m going to begin properly now. Dear Millicent, will you marry me?”
“What will your mother —— ?”
“Dear Millicent, will you marry me?”
“But if you haven’t any money?”
“Dear Millicent, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
She suddenly put her arms around him and hugged him as though he had been a favourite puppy or an infant of very tender years. She felt about him like that. Then they simply sat hand in hand on a pile of packing-cases in the corner of the room. He suddenly put his hand up and stroked her hair.
“Funny!” she said. “Some one did that the other day and I hated it.”
“Who dared?”
She laughed. “No one you need be jealous of.”
Poor Ellen! She felt now that she loved all the world, Clarice and Mrs. Martin included.
“You won’t mind if you keep our engagement dark for a week or two?” he asked.
“Why?” She turned round and looked at him.
“Oh! I don’t know. It would be more fun I think.”
“I don’t think it would. I hate concealing things.”
“Oh, darling Millie, please — only for a very little time — a week or two. My mother’s away in Scotland and I don’t want to write it to her, I want to tell her.”
“Very well.” She would agree to anything that he wanted, but for a very brief moment a little chill of apprehension, whence she knew not, had fallen upon her heart.
“Now I must go.” She got up. They stood in a long wonderful embrace. He would not let her go. She came back to him again and again; then she broke away and, her heart beating with ecstasy and happiness, came out into the hall that now seemed dark and misty.
She stood for a moment trying to collect her thoughts. Suddenly Victoria appeared out of nowhere as it seemed. She spoke breathlessly, as though she had been running.
“Millie . . . Millie . . . Oh, you’re not going? You can’t be. . . . You can’t mean what you said. You mustn’t go. We’ll never, never get on without you. Clarice is terribly sorry she was rude, and I’ve given Mrs. Martin notice. You’re quite right. She ought to have gone long ago. . . . You can’t leave us. You can do just what you like, have what you like. . . .”
“Oh, you darling!” Millie flung her arms around her. “I’m sorry I was cross. Of course I’ll stay. I’ll go and beg Clarice’s pardon — anything you like. I’ll beg Mrs. Martin’s if you want me to. Anything you like! I’ll even kiss Mr. Block if you like. . . . Do you mind? Bunny Baxter’s here. Can he stay to lunch?”
“Oh, I’m so glad!” Victoria was tearfully wiping her eyes. “I thought you might have gone already. We’ll never have a word again, never. Of course he can stay, for as long as he likes. Dear me, dear me, what a morning!”
The hoarse voice of Beppo was heard to announce that luncheon was ready.
These are some letters that Millicent and Henry wrote to one another at this time:
Metropolitan Hotel, Cladgate,
July 17, 1920.
Darling Henry — We got down here last night and now it’s ever so late — after twelve — and I’m writing in a bedroom all red and yellow, with a large picture of the Relief of Ladysmith over my bed, and it’s the very first moment I’ve had for writing to you. What a day and what a place to spend six weeks in! However,
Victoria seems happy and contented, which is the main thing.
It appears that she stayed in this very hotel years ago with her father when they were very poor, and they had two tiny rooms at the very top of the hotel. He wanted her to see gay life, and at great expense brought her here for a week. All the waiters were sniffy and the chambermaid laughed at her and it has rankled ever since. Isn’t it pathetic? So she has come now for six solid weeks, bringing her car and Mr. Andrew the new chauffeur and me with her, and has taken the biggest suite in the hotel. Isn’t that pathetic? Clarice and Ellen, thank God, are not here, and are to arrive when they do come one at a time.
We had so short a meeting before I came away that there was no time to tell one another anything, and I have such lots to tell. I didn’t think you were looking very happy, Henry dear, or very well. Do look after yourself. I’m glad your Baronet is taking you into the country very shortly. I’m sure you need it. But do you get enough to eat with him? His sister sounds a mean old thing and I’m sure she scrimps over the housekeeping. (Scrimps is my own word — isn’t it a good one?) Eat all you can when you’re in the country. Make love to the cook. Plunder the pantry. Make a store in your attic as the burglar did in our beloved Jim.
One of the things I hadn’t time to tell you is that I had an unholy row with every one before we came away. I told you that a storm was blowing up. It burst all right, and first the housekeeper told me what she thought and then I told the housekeeper and then Clarice had her turn and Victoria had hers and I had the last turn of all. I won a glorious victory and Victoria has eaten out of my hand ever since, but I’m not sure that I’m altogether glad. Since it happened Victoria’s been half afraid of me, and is always looking at me as though she expected me to burst out again, and I don’t like people being afraid of me — it makes me feel small.
However, there it is and I’ve got her alone here all to myself, and I’ll see that she isn’t frightened long. Then there’s something else. Something —— No, I won’t tell you yet. For one thing I promised not to tell any one, and although you aren’t any one exactly still —— But I shan’t be able to keep it from you very long. I’ll just tell you this, that it makes me very, very happy. Happier than I dreamt any one could ever be.
I shouldn’t think Cladgate was calculated to make any one very happy. However you never can tell. People like such odd things. All I’ve seen of it so far is a long, oily-grey sea like a stretch of linoleum, a pier with nobody on it, a bandstand with nobody in it, a desert of a promenade, and the inside of this hotel which is all lifts, palms, and messenger boys. But I’ve seen nothing yet, because I’ve been all day in Victoria’s rooms arranging them for her. I really think I’m going to love her down here all by myself. There’s something awfully touching about her. She feels all the time she isn’t doing the right thing with her money. She buys all the newspapers and gets shocks in every line. One moment it’s Ireland, another Poland, another the Germans, and then it’s the awful winter we’re going to have and all the Unemployed there are going to be. I try to read Tennis to her and all about the wonderful Tilden, and what the fashions are at this moment in Paris, and how cheerful Mr. Bottomley feels about everything, but she only listens to what she wants to hear. However, she really is cheerful and contented for the moment.
I had a letter from Katherine this morning. She says that mother is worse and isn’t expected to live very long. Aunt Aggie’s come up to see what she can do, and is fighting father and the nurse all the time. For the first time in my life I’m on Aunt Aggie’s side. Any one who’ll fight that nurse has me as a supporter. Katherine’s going to have another baby about November and says she hopes it will be a girl. If it is it’s to be called Millicent. Poor lamb! Philip’s gone in more and more for politics and says it’s everybody’s duty to fight the Extremists. He’s going to stand for somewhere in the next Election.
I must go to bed. I’ll write more in a day or two. Write to me soon and tell me all about everything — and Cheer Up! — Your loving Millie.
Have you seen Peter?
Panton St., July 21, ‘20.
Dear Millie — Thank you very much for your letter. Cladgate sounds awful, but I daresay it will be better later on when more people come. I’ll make you an awful confession, which is that there’s nothing in the world I like so much as sitting in a corner in the hall of one of those big seaside hotels and watching the people. So long as I can sit there and don’t have to do anything and can just notice how silly we all look and how little we mean any of the things we say, and how over-dressed we all are and how conscious of ourselves and how bent on food, money and love, I can stay entranced for hours. . . . However, this is off the subject. What is your secret? You knowing how inquisitive I am, are treating me badly. However, I see that you are going to tell me all about it in another letter or two, so I can afford to wait. How strangely do our young careers seem to go arm in arm together at present. What I wanted to tell you the other day, only I hadn’t time, is that I also have been having a row in the house of my employer — an actual fist-to-fist combat or rather in this case a chest-to-chest, because we were too close to one another to use our fists. “We” was not Sir Charles and myself, but his great bullock of a brother. It was a degrading scene, and I won’t go into details. The bullock tried to poke his nose into what I was told he wasn’t to poke his nose into, and I tried to stop him, and we fell to the ground with a crash just as Sir Charles came in. It’s ended all right for me, apparently — although I haven’t seen the bullock again since.
Sir Charles is a brick, Millie; he really is. I’d do anything for him. He’s awfully unhappy and worried. It’s hateful sitting there and not being able to help him. He’s had in a typist fellow to arrange the letters, Herbert Spencer by name. I asked him whether he were related to the great H. S. and he said no, that his parents wanted him to be and that’s why they called him Herbert, but that wasn’t enough. He has large spectacles and long sticky fingers and is very thin, but he’s a nice fellow with a splendid Cockney accent. I can now concentrate on the “tiddley-bits” which are very jolly, and what I shan’t know soon about the Edinburgh of 1800-1840 won’t be worth anybody’s knowing. Next week I go down with Duncombe to Duncombe Hall. Unfortunately Lady Bell-Hall goes down too. I’m sorry, because when I’m with some one who thinks poorly of me I always make a fool of myself, which I hate doing. I’ve been over to the house every day and enquired, but I haven’t seen mother yet. Aunt Aggie is having a great time. She has ordered the nurse to leave, and the nurse has ordered her to leave; of course they’ll both be there to the end. Poor mother. . . . But why don’t you and I feel it more? We’re not naturally hard or unfeeling. I suppose it’s because we know that mother doesn’t care a damn whether we feel for her or no. She put all her affection into Katherine years ago, and then when Katherine disappointed her she just refused to give it to anybody. I would like to see her for ten minutes and tell her I’m sorry I’ve been a pig so often, but I don’t think she knows any more what’s going on.
The worst of it is that I know that when she’s dead I shall hate myself for the unkind and selfish things I’ve done and only remember her as she used to be years ago, when she took me to the Army and Navy Stores to buy underclothes and gave me half-a-crown after the dentist.
I’m all right. Don’t you worry about me. The girl I told you about is in a terrible position, but I can’t do anything at present. I can only wait until there’s a crisis — and I detest waiting as you know. Peter’s all right. He’s always asking about you.
Norman and Forrest are going to reissue two of his early books, Reuben Hallard and The Stone House, and at last he’s begun his novel. He says he’ll probably tear it up when he’s done a little, but I don’t suppose he will. Do write to him. He thinks a most awful lot of you. It’s important with him when he likes anybody, because he’s shut up his feelings for so long that they mean a lot when they do come out. Write soon. — Your loving brother, Henry.
Me
tropolitan Hotel, Cladgate,
July 26, ‘21.
Dearest Henry — Thank you very much for your letters. I always like your letters because they tell me just what I want to know, which letters so seldom do do. Mary Cass, for instance, tells me about her chemistry and sheep’s hearts, and how her second year is going to be even harder than her first, but never anything serious.
The first thing about all this since I wrote last is that it has rained incessantly. I don’t believe that there has ever been such a wet month as this July since the Flood, and rain is especially awful here because so many of the ceilings seem to have glassy bits in them, and the rain makes a noise exactly like five hundred thunderstorms, and you have to shriek to make yourself heard, and I hate shrieking. Then it’s very depressing, because all the palms shiver in sympathy, and it’s so dark that you have to turn on the electric light which makes every one look hideous. But I don’t care, I don’t care about anything! I’m so happy, Henry, that I — There! I nearly let the secret out. I know that I shan’t be able to keep it for many more letters and I told him yesterday —— No, I won’t. I must keep my promise.
Here’s Victoria, — I must write to you again to-morrow.
Telegram:
July 27.
Who’s Him? Let me know by return.
Henry.
Cladgate, July 28.
Dearest Henry — You’re very imperative, aren’t you? Fancy wasting money on a telegram and your finances in the state they’re in. Well, I won’t tantalize you any longer; indeed, I can’t keep it from you, but remember that it’s a secret to the whole world for some time to come.