by Hugh Walpole
Well. I am engaged to a man called Baxter, and I love him terribly. He doesn’t know how much I love him, nor is he going to know — ever. That’s the way to keep men in their places. Who is he you say? Well, he’s a young man who came to help Clarice with her theatricals in London. I think I loved him the very first moment I saw him — he was so young and simple and jolly and honest, and such a relief after all the tantrums going on elsewhere. He says he loved me from the first moment, too, and I believe he did. His people are all right. His father’s dead, but his mother lives in a lovely old house in Wiltshire, and wears a lace white cap. He’s the only child, and his mother (whom I haven’t yet seen) adores him. It’s because of her that we’re keeping things quiet for the moment, because she’s staying up in Scotland with some relatives, and he wants to tell her all about it by word of mouth instead of writing to her. I hate mysteries. I always did — but it seems a small thing to grant him. He’s working at the Bar, but as there appears to be no chance of making a large income out of that for some time, he thinks he’ll help a man in some motor works — there’s nothing about motors that he doesn’t know. Meanwhile, he’s staying here in rooms near the hotel. Of course, Victoria has been told nothing, but I think she guesses a good deal. She’d be stupid if she didn’t.
I’ve never been in love before. I had no conception of what it means. I’m not going to rhapsodize — you needn’t be afraid, but in my secret self I’ve longed for some one to love and look after. Of course, I love you, Henry dear, and always will, and certainly you need looking after, but that’s different. I want to do everything for Ralph (that’s the name his mother gave him, but most people call him Bunny), mend his socks, cook his food, comfort him in trouble, laugh with him when he’s happy, be poor with him, be rich with him, anything, everything. Of course I mustn’t show him I want to do all that, it wouldn’t be good for him, and we must both keep our independence, but I never knew that love took you so entirely outside yourself, and threw you so completely inside some one else.
Now you’re quite different; I don’t mean that your way of being in love isn’t just as good as mine, but it’s different. With you it’s all in the romantic idea. I believe you like it better when she slips away from you, always just is beyond you, so that you can keep your idea without tarnishing it by contact. You want yours to be beautiful — I want mine to be real. And Bunny is real. There’s no doubt about it at all.
Oh! I do hope you’ll like him. You’re so funny about people. One never knows what you’re going to think. He’s quite different from Peter, of course — he’s much younger for one thing, and he isn’t intellectually clever. Not that he’s stupid, but he doesn’t care for your kind of books and music. I’m rather glad of that. I don’t want my husband to be cleverer than I am. I want him to respect me.
I’m terribly anxious for you both to meet. Bunny says he’ll be afraid of you. You sound so clever. It’s still raining, but of course I don’t care. Victoria is a sweet pet and will go to Heaven. — Your loving sister, Millicent.
P.S. — Don’t tell Peter.
Panton St., July 30.
My dear Mill — I don’t quite know what to say. Of course, I want you to be happy, and I’d do anything to make you so, but somehow he doesn’t sound quite the man I expected you to marry. Are you sure, Millie dear, that he didn’t seem nice just because everybody at the Platts seemed horrid? However, whatever will make you happy will please me. As soon as I come up from Duncombe I must meet him, and give you both my grand-paternal blessing. We go down to Duncombe to-morrow, and if it goes on raining like this, it will be pretty damp, I expect. I won’t pretend that I’m feeling very cheerful. My affair is in a horrid state. I can’t bear to leave her, and yet there’s nothing else for me to do. However, I shall be able to run up about once a week and see her. Her mother is still friendly, but I expect a row at any moment. This news of yours seems to have removed you suddenly miles away. It’s selfish of me to feel that, but it was all so grizzly at home yesterday that for the moment I’m depressed. Oh, Millie, I do hope you’ll be happy. . . . You must be, you must! — Your loving brother,
Henry.
CHAPTER VI
HENRY AT DUNCOMBE
In the late afternoon of Wednesday August 4 Henry found himself standing in the pouring rain on the little wind-driven platform of Salting Marting, the station for Duncombe.
He was trying to whistle as he stood under the eaves of the little hideous roof, his hands deep in his waterproof, his eyes fixed sternly upon a pile of luggage over which he was mounting guard. The car ordered to meet them had not appeared, the ancient Moffatt was staring down the wet road in search of it, Sir Charles was telephoning and Lady Bell-Hall shivering over the simulacrum of a fire in the little waiting-room.
Henry did not feel very cheerful; this was not a happy prelude to a month at Duncombe Hall, and the weather had been during the last few weeks more than even England’s reputation could tolerate.
Henry was very susceptible to atmosphere, and now the cold and wet and gathering dusk seem to have been sent towards him from Duncombe and to speak ominously in his ear of what he would find there.
He had seldom in all his young life felt so lonely, and he seemed to be back in the War again waiting in a muddy trench for dawn to break and . . .
“I’ve succeeded in procuring something,” wheezed Moffatt in his ear, “if you’d kindly assist with the luggage, Mr. Blanchard.”
(It was one of Moffat’s most trying peculiarities that he could not master Henry’s name.)
“Why, it’s a four-wheeler!” Henry heard Lady Bell-Hall miserably exclaim.
“It’s all I could do, m’lady,” creaked Moffatt. “Very difficult—’s time of the evening. Did m’ best, m’lady.”
They climbed inside and were soon rising and sinking in a grey dusk, whilst boxes, bags and packages surged around them. There was complete silence, and at last Lady Bell-Hall went to sleep on Henry’s shoulder, to his extreme physical pain, because a hatpin stuck sharply into his shoulder, and spiritual alarm, because he knew how deeply she would resent his support when she woke up. Strange thoughts flitted through his head as he bumped and jolted to the rattle of the wheels. They were dead, stumbling to the Styx, other coaches behind them; he could fancy the white faces peering from the windows, the dark coachman and yet other grey figures stealing from the dusky hedges and climbing in to their fore-destined places. The Styx? It would be cold and windy and the rain would hiss upon the sluggish waters. An exposed boat as he had always understood, the dim figures huddled together, their eyes straining to the farther shore. He nodded, nodded, nodded — Millie, Christina . . . Mrs. Tenssen . . . a strange young man called Baxter whom he hated at sight and tried to push from the Coach. The figure changed to Tom Duncombe, swelling to an enormous size, swelling, ever swelling, filling the coach so that they were breathless, crushed . . . a sharp pricking awoke him to a consciousness of Lady Bell-Hall’s hatpin and then, quite suddenly, to something else. The noise that he heard, not loud, but in some way penetrating beyond the rattle and mumble of the cab, was terrifying. Some one in great pain — grr — grr — grr — Ah! Ah! — grr — the noise compressed between the teeth and coming in little gasps of agony.
“What is it?” he said, in a whisper. “Is that you, sir?” He could see very little, the afternoon light faint and green behind the rain-blurred panes, but the black figure of Duncombe was hunched up against the cab-corner.
“What is it? Oh, sir, what is it?”
Then very far away a voice came to him, the words faltering from clenched teeth.
“It’s nothing. . . . Pain bad for a moment — —”
“Shall I stop the cab, sir?”
“No, no. . . . Don’t wake my — sister.”
The sound of agonizing pain behind the words was like something quite inhuman, unearthly, coming from the ground beneath the cab.
Henry, trembling with sympathy, and a blind eagerness to help, leant forw
ard. Could he change seats? He had wished to sit with his back to the horses but Duncombe had insisted on his present place.
“Please . . . can’t I do something?”
“No . . . nothing. It will pass in a moment.”
A hand, trembling, came out and touched his, then suddenly clutched it, jumping from its weak quiver into a frantic grasp, almost crushing Henry’s. The hand was hot and damp. For the moment in the contact with that trouble, the world seemed to stop — there was no sound, no movement — even the rain had withered away. . . . Then the hand trembled again, relaxed, withdrew.
Henry said nothing. He was shaking from head to foot.
Lady Bell-Hall awoke. “Oh, where am I? Who’s that? Is that the bell? . . .” Then very stiffly: “Oh, I’m very sorry, Mr. Trenchard. I’m afraid I was dozing. Are we nearly there? Are you there, Charles?”
Very faintly the voice came back.
“Yes . . . another half-mile. We’ve passed Brantiscombe.”
“Really, this cab. I wonder what Mortimers were doing, not sending us a taxi. On a day like this too.”
There was silence again. The cab bumped along. Henry could think of nothing but that agonizing whisper. Only terrible suffering could have produced that and from such a man as Duncombe. The affection and devotion that had grown through these months was now redoubled. He would do anything for him, anything. Had he known? Memories came back to him of hours in the library when Sir Charles had sat there, his face white, his eyes sternly staring. Perhaps then. . . . But surely some one knew? He moved impatiently, longing for this horrible journey to be ended. Then there were lights, a gate swung back, and they were jolting down between an avenue of trees. Soon the cab stopped with a jerk before a high grey stone building that stood in the half-light as a veiling shadow for a high black doorway and broad sweeping steps. Behind, in front and on every side they were surrounded, it seemed, by dripping and sighing trees. Lady Bell-Hall climbed out with many little tweaks of dismay and difficulty, then Henry. He turned and caught one revealing vision of Sir Charles’s face — white, drawn and most strangely aged — as he stood under the yellow light from a hanging square lantern before moving into the house.
At once standing in the hall Henry loved the house. It seemed immediately to come towards him with a gesture of friendliness and sympathy. The hall was wide and high with a deep stone fireplace and a dark oak staircase peering from the shadows. It was ill-lit; the central lamp had been designed apparently to throw light only on the portrait of a young man in the dress of the early eighteenth century that hung over the fireplace. Under his portrait Henry read— “Charles Forest Duncombe — October 13th, 1745.”
An elderly, grave-looking woman stood there and a young apple-cheeked footman to whom Moffatt was “tee-heeing, tut-tutting” in a supercilious whisper. Lady Bell-Hall recovered a little. “Ah, there you are, Morgan. Quite well? That’s right. And we’ll have tea in the Blue Boom. It’s very late because Mortimer never sent the taxi, but we’ll have tea all the same. I must have tea. Take Pretty One, please, Morgan. Don’t drop her. Ickle-Ickle-Ickle. Was it cold because we were in a nasty slow cab, was it then? There, then, darling. Morgan shall take her then — kind Morgan. Yes, tea in the Blue Room, please.”
At last Henry was in his room, a place to which he had come, as it seemed to him, through endless winding passages and up many corkscrew stairs. It was a queer-shaped little room with stone walls, a stone floor and very narrow high windows. There was, of course, no fire, because in England we keep religiously to the seasons whatever the weather may be. The rain was driving heavily upon the window-panes and some branches drove with irregular monotony against the glass. The furniture was of the simplest, and there was only one picture, an oil-painting over the fireplace, of a thin-faced, dark-browed, eighteenth-century priest, cadaverous, menacing, scornful.
Henry seemed to be miles away from any human company. Not a sound came to him save the rain and the driving branches. He washed his hands, brushed his hair, and prepared to find his way downstairs, but beside the door he paused. As he had fancied in the library in Hill Street, so now again it seemed to him that something was whispering to him, begging him for sympathy and understanding. He looked back to the little chill room, then up to the portrait of the priest, then to the window beyond which he could see the thin grey twilight changing to the rainy dark. He stood listening, then with a little shiver, half of pleasure, half of apprehension, he went out into the passage.
His journey, then, was full of surprises. The house was deserted. The passage in which he found himself was bordered with rooms, and after passing two or three doors he timidly opened one and peered in. In the dusk he could see but little, the air that met him was close and heavy, dust blew into his nostrils, and he could just discern a high four-poster bed. The floor was bare and chill. Another room into which he looked was apparently quite empty. The passage was now very dark and he had no candle; he stumbled along, knocking his elbow against the wall. “They might have put me in a livelier part of the house,” he thought; and yet he was not displeased, carrying still with him the sense that he was welcome here and not alone. In the dusk he nearly pitched forward over a sudden staircase, but finding an oak banister he felt his way cautiously downward. On the next floor he was faced with a large oak door, which would lead, he fancied, to the other part of the house. He pushed it slowly back and found himself in a chapel suffused with a dark purple light that fell from the stained-glass window above the altar.
He could see only dimly, but above the oaken seats he fancied that some tattered flags were hanging. Here the consciousness of sympathy that had been with him from the beginning grew stronger. Something seemed to be urging him to sit down there and wait. The air grew thicker and the windows, seats and walls were veiled in purple smoky mist. He crept out half-ashamedly as though he were deserting some one, found the stairs again, and a moment later was in a well-lit carpeted passage. With a sigh of relief he saw beyond him Moffatt and the footman carrying the tea.
He woke next day to an early morning flood of sunshine. His monastic little room with its stone walls and narrow windows swam in the light that sparkled, as though over water, above his faded blue carpet. He went to his window and looked out on to a boxwood garden with a bleached alley that led to a pond, a statue and a little green arbour. Beyond the garden there were woods, pale green, purple, black against the brightness of the early morning sky. Thousands of birds were singing and the grass was intensely vivid after the rain of the day before, running in the far distance around the arbour like a newly painted green board.
The impression that the next week made was all of colour, light and sunshine. That strange melancholy that had seemed to him to pervade everything on the night of his arrival was now altogether gone, although a certain touching, intangible wistfulness was there in everything that he saw and heard.
The house was much smaller than he had at first supposed — compact, square, resembling in many ways an old-fashioned doll’s house. Duncombe told him that small as it was they had closed some of the rooms, and apologized to him for giving him a bedroom in the unfurnished portion. “In reality,” he explained, “that part of the house where you are is the brightest and most cheerful side. Our mother, to whom my sister was devotedly attached, died in the room next to yours, and my sister cannot bear to cross those passages.”
The little chapel was especially enchanting to Henry; the stained glass of the east window was most lovely, deep, rich, seeming to sink into the inmost depths of colour; it gave out shadows of purple and red and blue that he had never seen before. The three old flags that hung over the little choir were tattered and torn, but proud. All the rooms in the house were small, the ceilings low, the fireplaces deep and draughty.
Henry soon perceived that Duncombe loved this house with a passionate devotion. He seemed to become another man as he moved about in it busied continually with tiny details, touching this, shifting that, having constant interviews wit
h Spiders, the gardener, a large, furry-faced man, and old Moffatt, and Simon, the apple-cheeked footman; an identity suddenly in its right place, satisfying its soul, knowing its true country as he had never seemed to do in London.
Henry saw no recurrence of the crisis in the cab. Duncombe made no allusion to it and gave no sign of pain — only Henry fancied that behind Duncombe’s eyes he saw a foreboding consciousness of some terror lying in wait for him and ready to spring.
The room in which he worked was a little library, diminutive in comparison with the one in London, on the ground floor, looking out on to the garden with the statue of Cupid and the pond — a dear little room with old black-faced busts and high glass-fronted bookcases. He had brought a number of books down with him, and soon he had settled into the place as though he had been there all his life.
The interval of that bright, sunny, bird-haunted week seemed, when afterwards he looked back to it, like a pause given to him in which to prepare for the events that were even then crowding, grey-shaped, face-muffled, to his door. . . .
CHAPTER VII
AND PETER IN LONDON
The Third of the Company meanwhile was feeling lonely and deserted in London. London in August is really depressing in spite of its being the conventional habit to say so. Around every worker’s brain there is a consciousness of the wires of captivity, and although the weather may be, and indeed generally is, cold, wet and dark, nevertheless it is hard to doubt but that it is bright and shining by the sea and on the downs.
Peter could have gone into the country — nothing really held him to London — but he had in literal truth no one with whom to go. In the past he had not grumbled at having no friends; that was after all his own choice — no one was to blame save himself — but during these last months something had happened to him. He was at length waking from a sleep that seemed to him as he looked back to have lasted ever since that terrible night that he had spent on the hill outside Tobias, the night of the day that Norah Monogue had died.