Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  But if Major Mereward was good Robin Bennett was most certainly bad. Millie very soon hated him with a hatred that made her shiver. She hated him, of course, for himself, but was it only that? Deep down in her soul there lurked a dreadful suspicion. Could it be that some of her hatred arose because in him she detected some vices and low qualities grown to full bloom that in twig, stem and leaf were already sprouting in a younger soil? Was there in Robin Bennett a prophecy? No, no. Never, never, never. . . . And yet. . . . Oh, how she hated him! His smart clothes, his neat hair, his white hands, his soft voice! And Bunny liked him. “Not half a bad fellow that man Bennett. Knows a motor-car when he sees one.”

  Millie had it not in her nature to pretend, and she did not disguise for a moment on whose side she was.

  “You don’t like me?” Bennett said to her one day.

  “No, indeed I don’t,” said Millie, looking him in the eyes.

  “Why not?”

  “Why? Because for one thing I’m very fond of Victoria. You’re after her money. She’ll be perfectly miserable if she marries you.”

  He laughed. Nothing in life could disconcert him!

  “Yes, of course I’m a Pirate.” (Hadn’t some one else somewhere said that once?) “This is the day for Pirates. There never was such a time for them. All sorts of people going about with money that they don’t know what to do with. All sorts of other people without any money ready to do anything to get it. No morality any more. Damned good thing for England. Hypocrisy was the only thing that was the matter with her — now she’s a hypocrite no longer! You see I’m frank with you, Miss Trenchard. You say you don’t like me. Well, I’ll return the compliment. I don’t like you either. Of course you’re damned pretty, about the prettiest girl in London I should say. But you’re damned conceited too. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? You don’t spare me you know. I tell young Baxter he’s a fool to marry you. He’ll be miserable with you.”

  “You tell him that?” Millie said furiously.

  “Yes, why not? You tell Victoria she’d be miserable with me, don’t you? Well, then. . . . You’re very young, you know. When you’re a bit older you’ll see that there’s not so much difference between people like me and people like yourself as you think. We all line up very much the same in the end. I mayn’t have quite your faults and you mayn’t have quite mine, but when it comes to the Judgment Day I don’t expect there’ll be much to choose between Piracy and Arrogance.”

  So far Mr. Bennett and a Victory cannot exactly be claimed for Millie in this encounter. She was furious. She was miserable. Was she so conceited? She’d ask Henry. She did ask the little doctor, who told her— “No. Only a little self-confident.” He was her only friend and support in these days.

  “Be patient with Victoria,” he said. “It’s only a phase. She’ll work through this.”

  “She won’t if she marries Mr. Bennett,” Millie said.

  Meanwhile the old artists’ colony was broomed right away. Eve was carried down to the cellar, the voice of Mr. Block was no longer heard in the land and the poor little Russian went and begged for meals in other districts. Victoria danced, went to the theatre and gave supper-parties.

  She was quite frank with Millie.

  “I don’t mind telling you, Millie, that all that art wasn’t quite genuine — not altogether. I do like pretty things, of course — you know me well enough to know that. And I do want to help poor young artists. But they’re so ungrateful. Now aren’t they, Millie? You can see it for yourself. Look at Mr. Block. I really did everything I could for him. But is he pleased? Not a bit. He’s as discontented as he can be.”

  “It’s very difficult doing kindnesses to people,” said Millie sententiously. “Sometimes you want to stop before they think you ought to.”

  “Now you’re looking at me reproachfully. That isn’t fine. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself and be gay a little? And I love dancing; I daresay I look absurd, but so do thousands of other people, so what does it matter? My Millie, I must be happy. I must. Do you know that this is positively the first time I’ve been happy in all my life and I daresay it’s my last. . . . I know you often think me a fool. Oh, I see you looking at me. But I’m not such a fool as you think. I know about my age and my figure and all the rest of it. I know that if I hadn’t a penny no one would look at me. You think that I don’t know any of these things, but indeed I do. . . . It’s my last fling and you can’t deprive me of it!”

  “Oh I don’t want to deprive you of it,” cried Millie, suddenly flinging her arms round the fat, red-faced woman, “only I don’t want you to go and do anything foolish — like marrying Mr. Bennett for instance.”

  “Now, why shouldn’t I marry Mr. Bennett? Suppose I’m in love with him — madly. Isn’t it something in these days when there are so many old maids to have a month of love even if he beats one all the rest of one’s days? And anyway I’ve got the purse — I could keep him in check. . . . No, that’s a nasty way of talking. And I’m certainly not in love with Bennett, nor with Mereward neither. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be in love with any one again.”

  “You’re lucky!” Millie broke out. “Oh, you are indeed! It isn’t happy to be in love. It’s miserable.”

  Indeed she was unhappy. She could not have believed that she would ever allow herself to be swung into such a swirl of emotions as were hers now. At one moment she hated him, feeling herself bound ignobly, surrendering weakly all that was best in herself; at such a moment she determined that she would be entirely frank with him, insisting on his own frankness, challenging him to tell her everything that he was, as she now knew, keeping back from her . . . then she loved him so that she wanted only his company, only to be with him, to hear him laugh, to see him happy, and she would accept any tie (knowing in her heart that it was a lie) if it would keep him with her and cause him to love her. That he did love her through all his weakness she was truly aware: it was that awareness that chained her to him.

  Very strange the part that Ellen played in all this. That odd woman made no further demonstrations of affection; she was always now ironically sarcastic, hurting Millie when she could, and she knew, as no one else in the place did, the way to hurt her. Because of her Bunny came now much less to the house.

  “I can’t stand that sneering woman,” he said, “and she loathes me.”

  Millie tried to challenge her.

  “Why do you hate Bunny?” she asked. “He’s never done you any harm.”

  “Hasn’t he?” Ellen answered smiling.

  “No, what harm has he done you?”

  “I’ll tell you one day.”

  “I hate these mysteries,” Millie cried. “Once you asked to be my friend. Now — —”

  “Now?” repeated Ellen.

  “You seem to want to hurt me any way you can.”

  Ellen had a habit of standing stiff against the wall, her heels together, her head back as though she were being measured for her height.

  “Perhaps I don’t like to see you so happy when I’m unhappy myself.”

  Millie came to her.

  “Why are you unhappy, Ellen? I hate you to be. I do like you. I do want to be your friend if you’ll let me. I offended you somehow in the early days. You’ve never forgiven me for it. But I don’t even now know what I did.”

  Ellen walked away. Suddenly she turned.

  “What,” she said, “can people like you know about people like us, how we suffer, how we hate ourselves, how we are thirstier and thirstier and for ever unsatisfied. . . . No, I don’t mean you any harm. I’ll save you from Baxter, though. You’re too pretty. . . . You can escape even though I can’t.”

  There was melodrama in this it seemed to Millie. It was quite a relief to have a fierce quarrel with Bunny five minutes later. The quarrel came, of course, from nothing — about some play which was, Bunny said, at Daly’s, and Millie at the Lyric.

  They were walking furiously down Knightsbridge. An omnibus passed. The play was at the Lyric.


  “Of course I was right,” said Millie.

  “Oh, you’re always right, aren’t you?”

  Millie turned.

  “I’m not coming on with you if you’re like that.”

  “Very well then.” He suddenly stepped back to her with his charming air of penitence.

  “Millie, I’m sorry. Don’t let’s fight to-day.”

  “Well, then, take me to see your mother.”

  The words seemed not to be hers. At their sudden utterance Knightsbridge, the trees of the Park were carved in coloured stone.

  His mouth set. “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s not — she’s not in London.”

  She knew that he was lying.

  “Then take me to where she is.”

  They were walking on again, neither seeing the other.

  “You know that I can’t. She’s down in the country.”

  “Then we’ll go there.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Yes, we can. Now. At once. If you ever want to speak to me again. . . .”

  “I tell you — I’ve told you a thousand times — we must wait. There are reasons — —”

  “What reasons?”

  “If you’re patient — —”

  “I’m tired of being patient. Take me now or I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “Well then, don’t.”

  They parted. After an evening of utter misery she wrote to him:

  My Darling Bunny — I know that I was hateful this afternoon. I know that I’ve been hateful other afternoons and shall be hateful again on afternoons to come. You’re not very nice either on these occasions. What are we to do about it? We do love one another — I know we do. We ought to be kinder to one another than we are to any one else and yet we seem to like to lash out and hurt one another. And I think this is because there’s something really wrong in our relationship. You make me feel as though you were ashamed to love me. Now why should you be ashamed? Why can’t we be open and clear before all the world?

  If you have some secret that you are keeping from me, tell me and we’ll discuss it frankly like friends. Take me to see your mother. If she doesn’t like me at first perhaps she will when she knows me better. Anyway we shall be sure of where we are. Oh, Bunny, we could be so happy. Why don’t you let us be? I know that it is partly my fault. I suppose I’m conceited and think I’m always right. But I don’t really inside — only if you don’t pretend to have an opinion of your own no one will ever listen to anything you say. Oh! I don’t know what I’m writing. I am tempted to telephone to you and see if you are in and if you are to ask you to come over here. Perhaps you will come of your own accord. Every footstep outside the door seems to be yours and then it goes on up the stairs. Don’t let us quarrel, Bunny. I hate it so and we say such horrid things to one another that we neither of us mean. Forgive me for anything I’ve done or said. I love you. I love you. . . . Bunny darling. — Your loving

  M.

  Her letter was crossed by one from him.

  Dearest Millie — I didn’t mean what I said this afternoon. I love you so much that when we quarrel it’s terrible. Do be patient, darling. You want everything to be right all in a moment. I’ll tell you one day how difficult it has been all these months. You’ll see then that it isn’t all my fault. I’m not perfect but I do love you. You’re the most beautiful thing ever made and I’m a lucky devil to be allowed to kiss your hand. I’ll be round at Cromwell Road five o’clock to-morrow afternoon. Please forgive me, Millie darling. — Your loving

  Bunny.

  “To-morrow afternoon at five o’clock” the reconciliation was complete. No secrets were revealed.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE RETURN

  Peter Westcott, meanwhile, had been passing his London summer in a strange state of half-expectant happiness and tranquillity. It was a condition quite new to him, this almost tranced state of pause as though he were hesitating outside the door of some room; was some one coming who would enter with him? Was he expecting to see some treasure within that might after all not be there? Was he afraid to face that realization?

  Throughout the whole of that solitary August he had with him three joys — London, the book that was now slowly day by day growing, and Millie. When he was young he had taken all he could get — then everything had been snatched from him — now in his middle age life had taught him to savour everything slowly, to expect nothing more than he perceived actually before him; he had grown selfish in his consciousness of his few treasures. If he shared with others perhaps the gods would grow jealous and rob him once again.

  People might deride or condemn. He was shy now; his heart went out as truly, as passionately as it had ever done, but he alone now must know that. Henry and Millie, yes — they might know something — had he not sworn comradeship with them? But not even to them could he truly speak of his secrets. He had talked to Henry of his book and even discussed it with him, but he would not put into spoken words the desires and ambitions that, around it, were creeping into his heart. He scarcely dared own them to himself.

  Of his feeling about London he did not speak to any one because he could not put it into words. There was something mysterious in the very soul of the feeling. He could tell himself that it was partly because London was a middle-aged man’s town. Paris was for youth, he said, and New York too and Berlin perhaps, but London did not love you until you were a little tired and had known trouble and sorrow and lost your self-esteem. Then the grey-smoked stone, the grey of pigeon’s wings and the red-misted sky and the faint dusty green of the trees settled about your heart and calmed you. Now when the past is something to you at last, and the scorn of the past that you had in your youth is over, London admits you into her comradeship. “There is no place,” he said to himself, “where one can live in such tranquillity. She is like a woman who was once your mistress, whom you meet again after many years and with whom at last, now that passion is gone, you can have kind, loving friendship. Against the grey-white stone and the dim smoke-stained sky the night colours come and go, life flashes and fades, sounds rise and fall, and kindliness of heart is there at the end.” He found now that he could watch everything with a passionate interest. Marylebone High Street might not be the most beautiful street in London, but it had the charm of a small country town where, closing your eyes you could believe that only a mile away there was the country road, the fir-wood, the high, wind-swept down. As people down the street stopped for their morning gossip and the dogs recognized their accustomed friends and the little bell of the tiny Post Office jangled its bell, London rolled back like a thick mist on to a distant horizon and its noise receded into a thin and distant whisper of the wind among the trees. Watching from his window he came to know faces and bodies and horses, he grew part of a community small enough to want his company, but not narrow enough to limit his horizon.

  His days during those months were very quiet and very happy. He worked in the morning at his book, at some reviewing, at an occasional article. His few friends, Campbell, Martha Proctor, Monteith perhaps, James Maradick, one or two more, came to see him or he went to them. There was the theatre (so much better than the highbrows asserted), there were concerts. There was golf at a cheap little course at Roehampton, and there were occasional week-ends in the country . . . as a period of pause before some great event — those were happy months. Perhaps the great event would never come, but never in his life before had he felt so deeply assured that he was moving towards something that was to change all his life. Even the finishing of his book would do that. It was called The Fiery Tree, and it began with a man who, walking at night towards a town, loses his way and takes shelter in an old farmhouse. In the farmhouse are two men and an old woman. They consent to put him up for the night. He goes to his room, and looking out from his window on to the moonlit garden he sees, hiding in an appletree. . . . What does he see? It does not matter. In the spring of 1922 the book will be published — The F
iery Tree, By Peter Westcott: Author of Reuben Hallard, etc.: and you be able to judge whether or no he has improved as a writer after all these years. Whether he has improved or no the principal fact is that day after day he got happiness and companionship and comfort from his book. It might be good: it might be bad: he said he did not know. Campbell was right. He did his best, secured his happiness. What came when the book was between its cover was another matter.

  Behind London and the book was Millie. She coloured all his day, all his thoughts: sometimes she came before him with her eyes wide and excited like a child waking on her birthday morning. Sometimes she stood in front of him, but away from him, her eyes watching him with that half-ironical suggestion that she knew all about life, that he and indeed all men were children to her whom she could not but pity, that suggestion that went so sweetly with the child in herself, the simplicity and innocence and confidence.

  And then again she would be before him simply in her beauty, her colour, gold and red and dark, her body so straight, so strong, so slim, the loveliness of her neck, her hands, her breast. Then a mist came before his eyes and he could see no more.

  Sometimes he ached to know how she was, whether she were happy with this man to whom she was engaged; he had no thought any more of having her for himself. That was one thing that his middle-age and his past trouble had brought him — patience, infinite, infinite patience.