by Hugh Walpole
Henry climbed the little staircase into the gallery and moved into the dusky corners. He came to the place that he always loved best, where the old English novelists were, Bage and Mackenzie and absurd Clara Reeved and Mrs. Opie and Godwin.
He took out Barham Downs and turned over the leaves, repeating to himself the old artificial sentences, the redundant moralizing; the library closed about him, put its arms around him, and told him once again, as it had told him once before, that death is not the end and that friendship and love know no physical boundaries.
Hearing a step he looked up and saw below him Lady Bell-Hall. She raised her little pig-face to the gallery and then waited, a black doll, for him to come down to her.
When he was close to her she said very quietly: “My brother died under the operation.”
“Yes, I have heard,” Henry said.
She put out her hand and timidly touched him on the arm: “Every one matters now for whom he cared,” she said. “And he cared for you very much. Only yesterday when I saw in the nursing-home he said how much he owed to you. He wanted us to be friends. I hope that we shall be.”
“Indeed, indeed we will be,” said Henry.
“What I want,” she said, her upper lip trembling like a child’s, “is for every one to know how good he was — how wonderfully good! So few people knew him — they thought him stiff and proud. He was shy and reserved. But his goodness! There never was any one so good — there never will be again. You knew that. You felt it. . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t believe that we shall never — never again . . . see . . . hear . . .”
She began to cry, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and he suddenly, as though he were many years older than she, put his arm around her. She leant her head against him and he stood there awkwardly, longing to comfort her, not knowing what to say. But that moment between them sealed a friendship.
Nevertheless when he left the house he was in a curious rage with life. On so many occasions he himself had been guilty of spoiling life, and even in his worst moods of arrogance and ill-temper he had recognised that.
But often during the War he had seen cloven hoofs pushing the world, now here, now there, and had heard the laughter of the demons watching from their dusky woods. At such times his imagination had faded as the sunlit glow fades from the sky, leaving steel-grey and cold horizons all sharply defined and of a menacing reality.
In his imagination he had seen Duncombe depart, and the picture had been coloured with soft-tinted promises and gentle prophecies — now in the harsh fact Duncombe was gone just as the letter-box stood in Hill Street and the trees were naked in Berkeley Square. Life had no right to do this, and even, so arrogantly certain are we all of our personalities, he felt that this desire should be important enough to defeat life’s purpose.
Christina and her mother, Millie and her lover, Duncombe and his operation, what was life about to permit these things? How strongly he felt in his youth his own certainty of survival, but one cock of life’s finger and where was he?
Well, he was in Piccadilly Circus, and once again, as many months before, he stopped on the edge of the pavement looking across at the winged figure, feeling all the eddy of the busy morning life about him, swaying now here, now there, like strands of coloured silk, above which were human faces, but impersonal, abstracted, like fish in a shining sea. The people, the place, then suddenly through his own anger and soreness and sense of loss that moment of expectation again when he rose gigantic above the turmoil, when beautiful music sounded. The movement, suddenly apprehensive, ceased! like God he raised his hand, the fountain swayed, the ground opened and ——
Standing almost at his side, unconscious of him, waiting apparently for an omnibus, was Baxter.
At the sight of that hated face, seen by him before only for a moment but never to be forgotten, rage took him by the throat, his heart pounded, his hands shook; in another instant he had Baxter by the waistcoat and was shaking him.
“You blackguard! You blackguard! You blackguard!” he cried. Then he stepped back; “Come on, you swine! You dirty coward! . . .” With his hand he struck him across the face.
At that moment Baxter must have been the most astonished man in England. He was waiting for his omnibus and suddenly some one from nowhere had caught him by the throat, screamed at him, smacked his cheek. He was no coward; he responded nobly, and in a whirl of sky, omnibuses, women, shop-window and noise they were involved, until, slipping over the edge of the kerb, they fell both into the road.
Baxter, rising first, muttered: “Look here! What the devil . . .” then suddenly realized his opponent.
They had no opportunity for a further encounter. A crowd had instantly gathered and was pressing them in. A policeman had his hand on Henry’s collar.
“Now, then, what’s all this?”
No one can tell what were Baxter’s thoughts, the tangle of his emotions, regrets, pride, remorse, since that last scene with Millie. All that is known is that he pushed aside some small boy pressing up with excited wonder in his face, brushed through the crowd and was gone.
Henry remained. He stood up, the centre of an excited circle, the policeman’s hand on his shoulder. His glasses were gone and the world was a blur; he had a large bump on his forehead, his breath came in confused, excited pants, his collar was torn. So suddenly had the incident occurred that no one could give an account of it. Some one had been knocked down by some one — or had some one fallen? Was it a robbery or an attempted murder? Out of the mist of voices and faces the large, broad shoulders of the policeman were the only certain fact.
“Now, then, clear out of this. . . . Move along there.” The policeman looked at Henry; Henry looked at the policeman. Instantly there was sympathy between them. The policeman’s face was round and red like a sun; his eyes were mild as a cow’s.
Henry found that his hat was on his head, that he was withdrawn from the crowd, that he and the policeman together were moving towards Panton Street. Endeavours had been made to find the other man. There was apparently no Other Man. There had never been one according to one shrill-voiced lady.
“Now what’s all this about?” asked the policeman. His tone was fatherly and even affectionate.
“I — hit him,” said Henry, panting.
“Well, where is ’e?” asked the policeman, vaguely looking about.
“I don’t know. I don’t care. You can arrest me if you like,” panted Henry.
“Well, I ought to give you in charge by rights,” said the policeman, “but seeing as the other feller’s ‘ooked it —— What did you do it for?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“You’ll have to say if I take you to Bow Street.”
“You can if you like.”
The policeman looked at Henry, shaking his head. “It’s the War,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe what a number of seemingly peaceable people are knocking one another about. You don’t look very savage. You’ll have to give me your name and address.”
Henry gave it.
“Why, here’s your lodging. . . . You seem peaceable enough.” He shook his head again. “It don’t do,” he said, “just knocking people down when you feel like it. That’s Bolshevism, that is.”
“I’m glad I knocked him down,” said Henry.
“You’d feel differently to-morrow morning after a night in Bow Street. But I know myself how tempting it is. You’ll learn to restrain yourself when you come to my age. Now you go in and ‘ave a wash and brush up. You need it.” He patted Henry paternally on the shoulder. “I don’t expect you’re likely to hear much more of it.”
With a smile of infinite wisdom he moved away. Henry stumbled up to his room.
Perhaps he had been a cad to hit Baxter when he wasn’t expecting it. But he felt better. His head was aching like hell. But he felt better. And to-morrow he would work at those letters like a fanatic. He washed his face and realized with pleasure that although it was only the middle of the morning he was e
xtremely hungry. Millie — yes, he was glad that he had hit Baxter.
CHAPTER IV
MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH
On the next afternoon about four of the clock Millie was writing letters with a sort of vindictive fury at Victoria’s desk. Beppo had just brought her a cup of tea; there it stood at her side with the bread and butter badly cut as usual. But she did not care. She must work, work, work.
Like quicksilver were her fingers, her eyes flashed fire, the rain beat upon the windows and the loneliness and desolation were held at bay.
The door opened and in came Major Mereward; he looked as usual, untidy, with his hair towselled, his moustache ragged and his trousers baggy — not a military major at all — but now a light shone in his eyes and his eyebrows gleamed with the reflection of it. He knew that Millie was his friend, and coming close to her and stammering, he said:
“Miss Trenchard. It’s all right. It’s all right. Victoria will marry me.”
Her heart leaped up. She was astonished at the keenness of her pleasure. She could then still care for other people’s happiness.
“Oh, I am glad! I am glad!” she cried, jumping up and shaking him warmly by the hand. “I never was more pleased about anything.”
“Well, now, that is nice — that’s very nice of you. It will be all right, won’t it? You know I’ll do my best to make her happy.”
“Why, of course you will,” cried Millie. “You know that I’ve wanted her to marry you from ever so long ago. It’s just what I wanted.”
He set back his shoulders, looking so suddenly a man of strength and character that Millie was astonished.
“I know that I’m not very clever,” he said. “Not in your sort of way, but cleverness isn’t everything when you come to my time of life and Victoria’s.”
“No, indeed it isn’t,” said Millie with conviction.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said, sighing so hastily that quite a little breeze sprang up. “I thought you’d feel otherwise. But I know Victoria better than she thinks. I’m sure I shall make her happy.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Millie. They shook hands again. Mereward looked about him confusedly.
“Well, I mustn’t keep you from your work. Hard at it, I see. Hum, yes . . . Hard at it, I see,” and went.
Millie sat at her desk, her head propped on her hands. She wasn’t dead then? She drank her tea and smoked a cigarette. Not dead as far as others were concerned. For herself, of course, life was entirely over. She must drag herself along, like a wounded bird, until death chose to come and take her. The tea was delicious. She got up and looked at herself in the glass. She was wearing an old orange jumper to-day; she’d put it on just because it was old and it didn’t matter what she wore. Yes, it was old. Time to buy another one. There was one — a kind of purple — in Debenham & Freebody’s window. . . . But why think of jumpers when her life was over? Only five days ago she had died, and here she was thinking of jumpers. Well, that was because she was so glad about Victoria. However finished your own personal life might be that did not mean that you could not be interested in the lives of others. She loved Victoria, and it would have been horrible had she married that terrible Bennett. Now Victoria was safe and Millie was glad. She must find her and tell her so.
She found her, as she expected, in her bedroom. Victoria had been wonderful to her during those three days, using a tact that you never would have expected. She must have known what had occurred but she had made no allusion to it, had not asked where He was, had watched over Millie with a tenderness and solicitude that, even though a little irritating, was very touching.
Now she sat in her bedroom armchair, still wearing her gay hat with peacocks’ feathers; she was near laughter, nearer tears and altogether in a considerable confusion. Millie flung her arms around her and kissed her.
“Well, now, you’ve got your way,” said Victoria, “and I hope you’re glad. If the marriage is a terrible failure it will be all your fault; I hope you realize your responsibility. It was simply because I couldn’t go on being nagged by you any longer. Poor man. He did look so funny when he proposed to me, and when I said yes he just ran out of the room. He didn’t kiss me or anything.”
“He’s just mad with delight,” said Millie.
“Is he? Well, it’s settled.” She sat up, pushing her hat straight. “All my adventures are over, my Millie. It’s a very sad thing, when you come to think of it. A quiet life for me now. It certainly wouldn’t have been quiet with Mr. Bennett.”
“Now don’t you go sighing over him,” said Millie. “Make the most of your Major.”
“Oh, I shan’t sigh after him,” said Victoria, sighing nevertheless. “But it would be lovely to feel wildly in love. I don’t feel wildly in love at all. Do you know, Millie mine, it’s exactly what I feel if I want to buy a dress that’s too expensive for me. Excited for days and days as to whether I will or I won’t. And then I decide that I will and the excitement’s all over. Of course I have the dress. But it isn’t as nice as the excitement.”
“Perhaps the excitement will come with marriage,” said Millie, feeling infinitely old. “It often does.”
“Now how ridiculous,” cried Victoria, jumping up, “to talk of excitement at my age. I ought to be thankful that I can be married at all. I’m sure he’s a good man. Perhaps I wish that he weren’t quite so good as he is.”
“You wait,” said Millie, “he may develop terribly after marriage. They often do. He may beat you and spend your money riotously and leave you for weeks at a time.”
“Oh, do you think so?” said Victoria, her cheeks flushing. “That would be splendid. Just the risk of it, I mean. But I’m afraid there isn’t much hope. . . .”
“You never know,” Millie replied. “And now, dear, if you’ll let me I’ll be off. You’ll find all the letters answered in a pile on the desk waiting for you to sign. The one from Mr. Block I’ve left you to answer for yourself.” She paused. “After your marriage you won’t be wanting me any more, I suppose?”
“Want you! I shall want you more than ever. You darling! I’m never going to let you go unless you — —” Here she felt on dangerous ground and ended, “unless you want to go yourself, I mean.”
“No, you didn’t mean that,” said Millie. “What you meant was unless I marry. Well, you can make your mind easy — I’m never going to marry. Never! I’m going to die an old maid.”
“And you so beautiful!” cried Victoria. “I don’t think so,” and she threw her arms round Millie’s neck and gave her one of those soft and soapy kisses that Millie so especially detested.
But on her way home she forgot the newly-engaged. The full tide of her own personal wretchedness swept up and swallowed her in dark and blinding waters. She had noticed that it was always like that. She seemed free — coldly, indifferently free — independent of the world, standing and watching with scorn humanity, and then of a sudden the waters caught, at her feet, the tide drew her, the foam was in her eyes and with agony she drowned in the flood of recollection, of vanished tenderness, of frustrated hope.
It was so now: she did not see the people with her in the Tube nor hear their voices. Only she saw Bunny and heard his voice and felt his cheek against hers.
Then there followed, as there always followed, the fight to return to him, not now reasoning nor recalling any definite fact or argument, but only, as it had been that first night, the impulse to return, to find him again, to be with him and near him at all possible cost or sacrifice.
She was fighting her own misery, staring in front of her, her hands clenched on her lap, when she heard her name called. At first the voice seemed to call from far away: “Millie! Millie!” Then quite close to her. Some one, sitting almost opposite to her was leaning forward and speaking to her. She raised her head out of her own troubles and looked and saw that it was Peter.
Peter! The very sight of his square shoulders and thick, resolute figure reassured her. Peter! Strangely she had not
actually thought of him in all this recent trouble, but the consciousness of him had nevertheless been there behind her. She smiled, her face breaking into light, and then, with that swift sympathy that trouble gives, she realized that he himself was unhappy. Something had happened to him, and how tired he was! His eyes were pinched with grey lines, his head hung forward a little as though it was tumbling to sleep.
Just then Baker Street Station arrived and they got out together. He caught her arm and they went up in the lift together. They came out to a lovely autumn evening, the sky dotted with silver stars and the wall of Tussaud’s pearl-grey against the faint jade of the fading light. “What’s the matter, Millie?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for a fortnight. I was watching you before I spoke to you. You looked too tragic before I spoke to you. What’s up?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” she said.
“Oh, I’m only tired. Here, I’ll walk with you as far as your rooms. I want to get an evening paper anyway.”
“Only tired? What’s made you?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. But tell me your trouble first. That is, if you want to.”
“Oh, my trouble!” she shrugged her shoulders. “Ordinary enough, Peter. But I don’t think I can talk about it, if you don’t mind — at least not yet. Only this. That I’m not engaged and I’m never going to be again. I’m a free woman Peter.”
She felt then his whole body tremble against hers. For an instant his hand pressed against her side with such force that it hurt. Then he took his hand from her arm and walked apart. He walked in silence, rolling a little from leg to leg as was his way. And he said nothing. She waited. She expected him to ask some question. He said nothing. Then, when at last they were turning down into Baker Street, his voice husky, he said: