by Hugh Walpole
Under the trees she met a woman. She stopped and the woman stopped.
“You’re out late,” the woman said; then as Millie said nothing but only stared at her she went on, laughing affectedly— “good evening or morning I should say. It’s nearly four.”
She stared at Millie with curiosity. “Which way you going? I’m for home. Great Portland Street. Been back once to-night already. But I thought I’d make a bit more. Had no luck the second time.”
“Am I anywhere near Turner’s Hotel?” Millie asked politely.
“Turner’s Hotel, dear? And where might that be?”
“Off Jermyn Street.”
“Jermyn Street! You walk down Park Lane and then down Piccadilly. Are you new to London?”
“Oh, no, I’m not new,” said Millie very seriously. “I couldn’t sleep so I came out for a walk.”
The woman looked at her more closely. She was a very thin woman with a short tightly-clinging skirt and a face heavily powdered.
“Here, we’d better be moving a bit, dear, or the bobby will be on us. You do look tired. I don’t think I’ve seen you about before.”
“Yes, I am tired.”
“Well, so’s myself if you want to know. But I’ve been working a bit too hard lately. Want to save enough for a fortnight’s holiday. Glebeshire. That’s where I come from. Of course I wouldn’t go back to my own place — not likely. But I’d like to see the fields and hedges again. Bit different from the rotten country round London.”
Millie suddenly stopped.
“It’s very late to go now, isn’t it?” she asked. “In the middle of the night. He’ll think it strange, won’t he?”
“I should guess he would,” said the woman, tittering. “Why, you’re only a child. You’ve no right to be wandering about like this. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“It was just because I couldn’t sleep,” said Millie very gravely. “But I see I’ve done wrong. I can’t disturb him this hour of the night.”
She stumbled a little, her knees suddenly trembling. The woman put her arm around her. “Steady!” she said. “Here, you’re ill. You’d better be getting home. Where do you live?”
“One Hundred and Sixteen Baker Street.”
“I’ll take you. . . . There’s a taxi. Why, you’re nothing but a kid!”
In the taxi Millie leant her head on the woman’s shoulder.
“I’m very tired but I can’t sleep,” she said.
“You’re in some trouble I guess,” the woman said.
“Yes, I am. Terrible trouble,” said Millie.
“Some man I suppose. It’s always the men.”
“What’s your name?” asked Millie. “You’re very kind.”
“Rose Bennett,” said the woman. “But don’t you remember it. I’m much better forgotten by a child like you. Why, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
The taxi stopped. Millie paid for it.
“Give me a kiss, will you?” asked the woman.
“Why, of course I will,” said Millie. She kissed her on the lips.
“Don’t you go out alone at night like that,” said the woman. “It isn’t safe.”
“No, I won’t,” said Millie.
She let herself in. The sitting-room was just as it had been, very quiet, so terribly quiet.
She had no thought but that she must not be alone. She opened Mary’s door. She went in. Mary’s soft breathing came to her like the voice of the room.
She took a chair and sat down and stared at the bed. . . . The Marylebone Church struck half-past seven and woke Mary. She looked up, staring, then in the dim light saw Millie sitting there.
“Why, Millie! You! All dressed. . . . Good heavens, what’s the matter!”
She sprang out of bed.
“Why, you haven’t even taken off your hat! Millie darling, what is it?”
“I couldn’t sleep so I went out for a walk and then I didn’t want to be alone so I came in here.”
Mary gave her one look, then hurriedly throwing on her dressing-gown went into the next room, saying as she went:
“Stay there, Mill dear. . . . I’ll be back, in a moment.”
She carefully closed the door behind her then went to the telephone.
“6345 Gerrard, please. . . . Yes, is that — ? Yes, I want to speak to Mr. Trenchard, please — Oh, I know he’s asleep. Of course, but this is very serious. Illness. Yes. He must come at once. . . . Oh, is that you, Henry? Sorry to make you come down at this unearthly hour. Yes — it’s Mary Cass. You must come over here at once. It’s Millie. She’s very ill. No, I don’t know what the matter is, but you must come. Yes, at once.”
She went back to Millie. She persuaded her to come into the sitting-room, to take off her hat. After that, she sat there on the little sofa without moving, staring in front of her.
Half an hour later Henry came in, rough, tumbled, dishevelled. At the sight of that familiar face, that untidy hair, those eager devoted eyes, a tremor ran through Millie’s body.
He rushed across to her, flung his arms around her.
“Millie darling . . . darling. . . . What is it? Mill dearest, what’s the matter?”
She clung to him; she shuddered from head to foot; then she cried: “Oh, Henry, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Never again. Oh, Henry, I’m so unhappy!”
And at that the tears suddenly came, breaking out, releasing at once the agony and the pain and the fear, pouring them out against her brother’s face, clinging to him, holding him, never never to let him go again. And he, seeing his proud, confident, beloved Millie in desperate need of him held her close, murmuring old words of their childhood to her, stroking her hair, her face, her hands, looking at her with eyes of the deepest, tenderest love.
BOOK IV. KNIGHT-ERRANT
CHAPTER I
MRS. TENSSEN’S MIND IS MADE UP AT LAST
At the very moment in the afternoon when Millie was hiding herself from a horrible world in a taxi Henry and Lady Bell-Hall were entering the Hill Street house.
The house was still and unresponsive; even Lady Bell-Hall, who was not sensitive to atmosphere, gave a little shiver and hurried upstairs. Henry hung up his coat and hat in the little room to the right of the hall and went to the library.
Herbert Spencer was there, seated at Sir Charles’ table surrounded with little packets of letters all tied neatly with bright new red tape. He was making entries in a large book.
“Ah, Trenchard,” he said, and went on with his entries.
Henry felt depressed. Although the day was sunny and warm the library was cold. Spencer seemed most damnably in possession, his thin nose and long thin fingers pervading everything. Henry went to his own table, took his notes out of his despatch-box and sat down. He had a sudden desire to have a violent argument with Spencer — about anything.
“I say, Spencer — you might at least ask how Sir Charles is.”
Spencer carefully finished the note that he was making.
“How is he?” he asked.
Henry jumped up and walked over to the other table.
“You’re a cold-blooded fish!” he broke out indignantly. “Yes you are! You’ve no feelings at all. If he dies the only sensation you’ll have I suppose is whether you’ll still keep this job or no.”
Spencer said nothing but continued to write.
“Thank heaven I am inaccurate,” Henry went on. “It’s awful being as accurate as you are. It dries up all your natural feelings. There never was a warm-blooded man yet who was really accurate. And it’s the same with languages. Any one who’s a really good linguist is inhuman.”
“Indeed!” said Spencer, sniffing.
“Yes. Indeed. . . .” retorted Henry indignantly. “I think it’s disgusting. Here’s Duncombe, one of the finest men who’s ever lived. . . .”
“I can’t help feeling,” said Spencer slowly, “that one is best serving Sir Charles Duncombe’s interests by carrying out the work that he has left in our charge. I may be wrong, of course.�
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He then performed one of his most regular and most irritating habits — namely, he wiped a drop of moisture from his nose with the back of his hand.
“If you’ve made those notes on Cadell and Constable, Trenchard,” he added, “during these last days in the country, I shall be very glad to have them.”
“Well, I haven’t,” said Henry. “So you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything during the last two days, and I shan’t be able to either until the operation’s over.”
Spencer said nothing. He continued to work, then, as though suddenly remembering something, he opened a drawer and produced from it two sheets of foolscap paper thickly covered with writing.
“I believe this is your handwriting, Trenchard,” he said gravely. “I found them in the waste-paper basket, where they had doubtless gone by mistake.”
Trenchard took them and then blushed violently. The top of the first page was headed:
“Chapter XV. The Mystery of the Blue Closet.”
“Thanks,” he said shortly, and took them to his own table.
There was a silence for a long time while Henry, lost in a miserable vague dream, gazed with unperceptive eyes at the portrait of the stout, handsome Archibald Constable. Then came the luncheon-bell, and after that quite a horrible meal alone with Lady Bell-Hall, who only said two things from first to last. One: “The operation’s to be on Tuesday morning, I understand.” The other: “I see coal’s gone up again.”
After luncheon he felt that he could endure the terrible house no longer. He must get out into the air. He must try and see Christina.
Spencer returned from his luncheon just as Harry was leaving.
“Are you going?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” said Henry. “I can’t stand this house to-day.”
“What about Cadell and Constable?” asked Spencer, sniffing.
“Damn Cadell and Constable,” said Henry, rushing out.
In the street he thought suddenly of Millie. He stopped in Berkeley Square thinking of her. Why? He had the strangest impulse to go off to Cromwell Road and see her. But Christina drew him.
Nevertheless Millie . . . but he shook his head and hurried off towards Peter Street.
I have called this a Romantic Story because it is so largely Henry’s Story and Henry was a Romantic Young Man. He felt that it was his solemn duty to be modern, cynical and realistic, but his romantic spirit was so strong, so courageous, so scornful of the cynical parts of him that it has dominated and directed him to this very day, and will so continue to dominate, I suppose, until the hour of his death.
To many a modern young man Mrs. Tenssen would have been merely a nasty, dangerous, black-mailing woman, and Christina her pretty but possibly not-so-innocent-as-she-appears daughter. But there the young modern would have missed all the heart of the situation and Henry, guided by his romantic spirit, went directly to it. He still believed in the evil, spell-brewing, hag-like witch, the dusky wood, the beautiful imprisoned Princess — nothing in the world seemed to him more natural — and for once, just for once, he was exactly right!
The Witch on this present occasion was, even thus early in the afternoon, taking a cup of tea with her friend, Mrs. Armstrong. When Henry came in they were sitting close together, and their heads were turned towards the door as though they had suddenly been discovered in some kind of conspiracy. Mrs. Tenssen tightened her thin lips when she recognized her visitor, and Henry realized that a new crisis had arrived in his adventure and that he must be prepared for a dramatic interview.
Nevertheless, from the moment of his entry into that room his depression dropped from him like the pack off Christian’s back. Nothing was ever lost by politeness.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tenssen. Is Christina in?”
He stood in the doorway smiling at the two women.
Mrs. Tenssen finished her cup of tea before replying.
“No, she is not,” she at length answered. “Nor is she likely to be. Neither now nor later — not to-day and not to-morrow.”
“What’s he asking?” inquired Mrs. Armstrong in her deep bass voice.
“Whether Christina’s in.”
Both the women laughed. It seemed to them an excellent joke.
“Perhaps you will be kind enough to give her a message from me,” Henry said, suddenly involved in the strange miasma of horrid smell and hateful sound that seemed to be forever floating in that room.
“Perhaps I will not,” said Mrs. Tenssen, suddenly getting up from her chair and facing him. “Now you’ve been hanging around here just about enough, and it will please you to take yourself off once and for all or I’ll see that somebody makes you.” She turned round to Mrs. Armstrong. “It’s perfectly disgusting what I’ve had to put up with from him. You’ll recollect that first day he broke in here through the window just like any common thief. It’s my belief it was thieving he was after then and it’s been thieving he’s been after ever since. Damned little squab.
“Always sniffing round Christina and Christina fairly loathes the sight of him. Why, it was only yesterday she said to me: ‘Well, thank God, mother, it’s some weeks since we saw that young fool, bothering the life out of me,’ she said. Why, it isn’t decent.”
“It is not,” said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her tea. “I should have the police in if he’s any more of a nuisance.”
“That’s a lie,” said Henry, his cheeks flaming. Stepping forward, “And you know it is. Where is Christina? What have you done with her? I’ll have the police here if you don’t tell me.”
Mrs. Tenssen thrust her head forward, producing an extraordinary evil expression with her white powdered face, her heavy black costume and her hanging podgy fingers. “Call me a liar, do you? That’s a nice, pretty thing to call a lady, but I suppose it’s about as much manners as you have got. He’s always talking about the police, my dear,” turning round to Mrs. Armstrong. “It’s a mania he’s got. Although what good they’re going to do him I’m sure I don’t know. And a pretty thing for Christina to be dragged into the courts. He’s mad, my dear. That’s all there is about it.”
“I’m not mad,” said Henry, “as you’ll find out one day. You’re trying to do something horrible to Christina, but I’ll prevent it if it kills me.”
“And let me tell you,” said Mrs. Tenssen, standing now, her arms akimbo, “that if you set your foot inside that door again or bring your ugly, dirty face inside this room I’ll whip you out of it. I will indeed, and you can have as many of your bloody police in as you like to help you. All the police force if you care to. But I’ll tell you straight,” here her voice rose suddenly into a violent scream, “that I will bloody well scratch the skin off your face if you poke it in here again . . . and now get out or I’ll make you.”
Here I regret to say Henry’s temper, never as tightly in control as it should be, forsook him.
“And I tell you,” he shouted back, “that if you hurt a hair of Christina’s head I’ll have you imprisoned for life and tortured too if I can. And I’ll come here just as often as I like until I’m sure of her safety. You be careful what you do. . . . You’d better look out.”
He banged the door behind him and was stumbling down the dark stairs.
CHAPTER II
HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT
In the street he had to pause and steady himself for a moment against a wall. He was trembling from head to foot, trembling with an extraordinary mixture of anger, surprise, indignation, and then anger again. Christina had warned him months ago that this was coming. “When mother makes up her mind,” she said. Well, mother had made up her mind. And to what?
Where was Christina? Perhaps already she was being imprisoned in the country somewhere and could not get word to him — punished possibly until she consented to marry that horrible old man or some one equally disgusting.
The fear that he might now be too late — felt by him for the first time — made him cold with dread. H
itherto, from the moment when he had first seen the crimson feather in the Circus he had been sure that Fate was with him, that the adventure had been arranged from the beginning by some genial, warm-hearted Olympian smiling down from his rosy-tipped cloud, seeing Henry Trenchard and liking him in spite of his follies, and determining to make him happy. But suppose after all, it should not be so? What if Christina’s life and happiness were ruined through his own weakness and dallying and delay? He was so miserable at the thought that he started back a step or two half-determining to face the horrible Mrs. Tenssen again. But there was nothing at that moment to be gained there. He turned down Peter Street, baffled as ever by his own ridiculous inability to deal with a situation adequately. What was there lacking in him, what had been lacking in him from his birth? Good, practical common sense, that was what he needed. Would he ever have it?
He decided that Peter was his need. He would put his troubles to him and do what he advised. Outside the upper part in Marylebone High Street he rang the little tinkly bell, and then waited an eternity. Nobody stirred. The house was dead. A grey, sleepy-eyed cat came and rubbed itself against his leg. He rang again, and then again.
Suddenly Peter appeared. He could not see through the dim obscurity of the autumn afternoon.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“It’s me. I mean I. Henry.”
“Henry?”
“Yes, Henry. Good heavens, Peter, it’s as difficult to pass your gate as Paradise’s.”
Peter came forward.
“Sorry, old man,” he said. “I couldn’t see. Look here — —”
He put his hand on Henry’s shoulder hesitating. “Oh, all right. Come in.”
“What! don’t you want me?” said Henry, instantly, as always, suspicious of an affront. “All right, I’ll — —”
“No, you silly cuckoo. Come in.”
They passed in, and at once Henry perceived that something was different. What was different? He could not tell. . . .
He looked about him. Then in the middle of his curiosity the thought of his many troubles overcame him and he began: