Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  If, after all, she was to dance with Him, that made anything right. Were she sent to prison because she could not pay for them it would not matter. She had done the only possible thing.

  And so she looked into the mirror and saw the dark glitter in her hair and the red in her cheeks and the whiteness of her shoulders and the silver blobs of the little shoes, and she was happy — happy with an almost fearful ecstasy.

  Mrs. Brandon also was in her bedroom. She was sitting on a high stiff- backed chair, staring in front of her. She had been sitting there now for a long time without making any movement at all. She might have been a dead woman. Her thin hands, with the sharply marked blue veins, were clasped tightly on her lap. She was feeding, feverishly, eagerly feeding upon the thought of Morris.

  She would see him that evening, they would talk together, dance together, their hands would burn as they touched; they would say very little to one another; they would long, agonize for one another, to be alone together, to be far, far away from everybody, and they would be desperately unhappy.

  She wondered, in her strange kind of mouse-in-the-trap trance, about that unhappiness. Was there to be no happiness, for her anywhere? Was she always to want more than she got, was all this passion now too late? Was it real at all? Was it not a fever, a phantom, a hallucination? Did she see Morris? Did she not rather see something that she must seize to slake her burning feverish thirst? For one moment she had known happiness, when her arms had gone around him and she had been able to console and comfort him. But comfort him for how long? Was he not as unhappy as she, and would they not always be unhappy? Was he not weighed down by the sin that he had committed, that he, as he thought, had caused her to commit?...At that she sprang up from the chair and paced the room, murmuring aloud: “No, no, I did it. My sin, not his. I will care for him, watch over him — watch over him, care for him. He must be glad.”...She sank down by the bed, burying her face in her hands.

  Brandon was in his study finishing his letters. But behind his application to the notes that he was writing his brain was moving like an animal steathily investigating an unlighted house. He was thinking of his wife — and of himself. Even as he was writing “And therefore it seems to me, my dear Ryle, that with regard to the actual hour of the service, eight o’clock — —” his inner consciousness was whispering to him. “How you miss Falk! How lonely the house seems without him! You thought you could get along without love, didn’t you? or, at least, you were not aware that it played any very great part in your life. But now that the one person whom you most sincerely loved is gone, you see that it was not to be so simply taken for granted, do you not? Love must be worked for, sacrificed for, cared for, nourished and cherished. You want some one to cherish now, and you are surprised that you should so want...yes, there is your wife — Amy...Amy.... You had taken her also for granted. But she is still with you. There is time.”

  His wife was illuminated with tenderness. He put down his pen and stared in front of him. What he wanted and what she wanted was a holiday. They had been too long here in this place. That was what he needed, that was the explanation of his headaches, of his tempers, of his obsession about Ronder.

  As soon as this Pybus St. Anthony affair was settled he would take his wife abroad. Just the two of them. Another honeymoon after all these years. Greece, Italy...and who knows? Perhaps he would see Falk on his way through London returning...Falk....

  He had forgotten his letters, staring in front of him, tapping the table with his pen.

  There was a knock on the door. The maid said, “A lady to see you, sir. She says it’s important” — and, before he could ask her name, some one else was in the room with him and the door was closed behind her.

  He was puzzled for a moment as to her identity, a rather seedy, down-at- heels-looking woman. She was wearing a rather crumpled white cotton dress. She carried a pink parasol, and on her head was a large straw hat overburdened with bright red roses. Ah, yes! Of course! Miss Milton — who was the Librarian. Shabby she looked. Come down in the world. He had always disliked her. He resented now the way in which she had almost forced her way into his room.

  She looked across at him through her funny half-closed eyes.

  “I beg your pardon, Archdeacon Brandon,” she said, “for entering like this at what must be, I fear, an unseemly time. My only excuse must be the urgency of my business.”

  “I am very sorry, Miss Milton,” he said sternly; “it is quite impossible for me to see you just now on any business whatever. If you will make an appointment with me in writing, I will see what can be done.”

  At the sound of his voice her eyes closed still further. “I’m very sorry, Archdeacon,” she said. “I think you would do well to listen to what I am going to tell you.”

  He raised his head and looked at her. At those words of hers he had once again the sensation of being pushed down by strong heavy hands into some deep mire where he must have company with filthy crawling animals — Hogg, Davray, and now this woman....

  “What do you mean?” he asked, disgust thickening his voice. “What can you have to tell me?”

  She smiled. She crossed the floor and came close to his desk. Her fingers were on the shabby bag that hung over her arm.

  “I was greatly puzzled,” she said, “as to what was the right thing to do. I am a good and honest woman, Archdeacon, although I was ejected from my position most wrongfully by those that ought to have known better. I have come down in the world through no fault of my own, and there are some who should be ashamed in their hearts of the way they’ve treated me. However, it’s not of them I’ve to speak to-day.” She paused.

  Brandon drew back into his chair. “Please tell me, Miss Milton, your business as soon as possible. I have much to do.”

  “I will.” She breathed hard and continued. “Certain information was placed in my hands, and I found it very difficult to decide on the justice of my course. After some hesitation I went to Canon Ronder, knowing him to be a just man.”

  At the name “Ronder” the Archdeacon’s lips moved, but he said nothing.

  “I showed him the information I had obtained. I asked him what I should do. He gave me advice which I followed.”

  “He advised you to come to me.”

  Miss Milton saw at once that a lie here would serve her well. “He advised me to come to you and give you this letter which in the true sense of the word belongs to you.”

  She fumbled with her bag, opened it, took out a piece of paper.

  “I must tell you,” she continued, her eyes never for an instant leaving the Archdeacon’s face, “that this letter came into my hands by an accident. I was in Mr. Morris’s house at the time and the letter was delivered to me by mistake.”

  “Mr. Morris?” Brandon repeated. “What has he to do with this affair?”

  Miss Milton rubbed her gloved hands together. “Mrs. Brandon,” she said, “has been very friendly with Mr. Morris for a long time past. The whole town has been talking of it.”

  The clock suddenly began to strike the hour. No word was spoken.

  Then Brandon said very quietly, “Leave this house, Miss Milton, and never enter it again. If I have any further trouble with you, the police will be informed.”

  “Before I go, Archdeacon,” said Miss Milton, also very quietly, “you should see this letter. I can assure you that I have not come here for mere words. I have my conscience to satisfy like any other person. I am not asking for anything in return for this information, although I should be perfectly justified in such an action, considering how monstrously I have been treated. I give you this letter and you can destroy it at once. My conscience will be satisfied. If, on the other hand, you don’t read it — well, there are others in the town who must see it.”

  He took the letter from her.

  DEAREST — I am sending this by a safe hand to tell you that I cannot possibly get down to-night. I am so sorry and most dreadfully disappointed, but I will explain everything when we meet
to-morrow. This is to prevent your waiting on when I’m not coming.

  It was in his wife’s handwriting.

  “Dearest...cannot possibly get down tonight....” In his wife’s handwriting. Certainly. Yes. His wife’s. And Ronder had seen it.

  He looked across at Miss Milton. “This is not my wife’s handwriting,” he said. “You realise, I hope, in what a serious matter you have become involved — by your hasty action,” he added.

  “Not hasty,” she said, moistening her lips with her tongue. “Not hasty, Archdeacon. I have taken much thought. I don’t know if I have already told you that I took the letter myself at the door from the hand of your own maid. She has been to the Library with books. She is well known to me.”

  He must exercise enormous, superhuman, self-control. That was his only thought. The tide of anger was rising in him so terribly that it pressed against the skin of his forehead, drawn tight, and threatened to split it. What he wanted to do was to rise and assault the woman standing in front of him. His hands longed to take her! They seemed to have life and volition of their own and to move across the table of their own accord.

  He was aware, too, once more, of some huge plot developing around him, some supernatural plot in which all the elements too were involved — earth, sun and sky, and also every one in the town, down to the smallest child there.

  He seemed to see behind him, just out of his sight, a tall massive figure directing the plot, a figure something like himself, only with a heavy black beard, cloudy, without form....

  They would catch him in their plot as in a net, but he would escape them, and he would escape them by wonderful calm, and self-control, and the absence of all emotion.

  So that, although his voice shook a little, it was quietly that he repeated:

  “This is not in my wife’s handwriting. You know the penalties for forgery.” Then, looking her full in the face, he added, “Penal servitude.”

  She smiled back at him.

  “I am sure, Archdeacon, that all I require is a full investigation. These wickednesses are going on in this town, and those principally concerned should know. I have only done what I consider my duty.”

  Her eyes lingered on his face. She savoured now during these moments the revenge for which, in all these months, she had ceaselessly longed. He had moved but little, he had not raised his voice, but, watching his face, she had seen the agony pass, like an entering guest, behind his eyes. That guest would remain. She was satisfied.

  “I have done my duty, Archdeacon, and now I will wish you good-evening.”

  She gave a little bow and retired from the room, softly closing the door behind her.

  He sat there, looking at the letter....

  The Assembly Rooms seemed to move like a ship on a sunset sea. Hanging from the ceiling were the two great silver candelabra, in some ways the most famous treasure that the town possessed. Fitted now with gas, they were nevertheless so shaded that the light was soft and mellow. Round the room, beneath the portraits of the town’s celebrities in their heavy gold frames, the lights were hidden with shields of gold. The walls were ivory white. From the Minstrels’ Gallery flags with the arms of the Town, of the Cathedral, of the St. Leath family fluttered once and again faintly. In the Minstrels’ Gallery the band was playing just as it had played a hundred years ago. The shining floor was covered with moving figures. Every one was there. Under the Gallery, surveying the world like Boadicea her faithful Britons, was Lady St. Leath, her white hair piled high above her pink baby face, that had the inquiring haughty expression of a cockatoo wondering whether it is being offered a lump of sugar or an insult. On either side of her sat two of her daughters, Lady Rose and Lady Mary, plain and patient.

  Near her, in a complacent chattering row, were some of the more important of the Cathedral and County set. There were the Marriotts from Maple Durham, fat, sixty, and amiable; old Colonel Wotherston, who had fought in the Crimea; Sir Henry Byles with his large purple nose; little Major Garnet, the kindest bachelor in the County; the Marquesas, who had more pedigree than pennies; Mrs. Sampson in bright lilac, and an especially bad attack of neuralgia; Mrs. Combermere, sheathed in cloth of gold and very jolly; Mrs. Ryle, humble in grey silk; Ellen Stiles in cherry colour; Mrs. Trudon, Mrs. Forrester and Mrs. D’Arcy, their chins nearly touching over eager confidences; Dr. Puddifoot, still breathless from his last dance; Bentinick-Major, tapping with his patent-leather toe the floor, eager to be at it again; Branston the Mayor and Mrs. Branston, uncomfortable in a kind of dog-collar of diamonds; Mrs. Preston, searching for nobility; Canon Martin; Dennison, the head-master of the School; and many others.

  It was just then a Polka, and the tune was so alluring, so entrancing, that the whole world rose and fell with its rhythm.

  And where was Joan? Joan was dancing with the Reverend Rex Forsyth, the proposed incumbent of Pybus St. Anthony. Had any one told her a week ago that she would dance with the elegant Mr. Forsyth before a gathering of all the most notable people of Polchester and Southern Glebeshire, and would so dance without a tremor, she would have derided her informant. But what cannot excitement and happiness do?

  She knew that she was looking nice, she knew that she was dancing as well as any one else in the room — and Johnny St. Leath had asked her for two dances and then wanted more, and wanted these with the beautiful Claire Daubeney, all radiant in silver, standing close beside him. What, then, could all the Forsyths in the world matter? Nevertheless he was elegant. Very smart indeed. Rather like a handsome young horse, groomed for a show. His voice had a little neigh in it; as he talked over her shoulder he gave a little whinny of pleasure. She found it very difficult to think of him as a clergyman at all.

  You should SEE me DANCE the POLKA,

  Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA.

  Yes, she should. And he should. And he was very pleasant when he did not talk.

  “You dance — very well — Miss Brandon.”

  “Thank you. This is my first Ball.”

  “Who would — think that? Ta-ram-te-tum-te-TA.... Jolly tu-une!”

  She caught glimpses of every one as they went round. Mrs. Combermere’s cloth of gold, Lady St. Leath’s white hair. Poor Lady Mary — such a pity that they could not do something for her complexion. Spotty. Joan liked her. She did much good to the poor in Seatown, and it must be agony to her, poor thing, to go down there, because she was so terribly shy. Her next dance was with Johnny. She called him Johnny. And why should she not, secretly to herself? Ah, there was mother, all alone. And there was Mr. Morris coming up to speak to her. Kind of him. But he was a kind man. She liked him. Very shy, though. All the nicest people seemed to be shy — except Johnny, who wasn’t shy at all.

  The music stopped and, breathless, they stayed for a moment before finding two chairs. Now was coming the time that she so greatly disliked. Whatever to say to Mr. Forsyth?

  They sat down in the long passage outside the ballroom. The floor ran like a ribbon from under their feet into dim shining distance. Or rather, Joan thought, it was like a stream, and on either side the dancers were sitting, dabbling their toes and looking self-conscious.

  “Do you like it where you are?” Joan asked of the shining black silk waistcoat that gleamed beside her.

  “Oh, you know....” neighed Mr. Forsyth. “It’s all right, you know. The old Bishop’s kind enough.”

  “Bishop Clematis?” said Joan.

  “Yes. There ain’t enough to do, you know. But I don’t expect I’ll be there long. No, I don’t.... Pity poor Morrison at Pybus dying like that.”

  Joan of course at once understood the allusion. She also understood that Mr. Forsyth was begging her to bestow upon him any little piece of news that she might have obtained. But that seemed to her mean — spying — spying on her own father. So she only said:

  “You’re very fond of riding, aren’t you?”

  “Love it,” said Mr. Forsyth, whinnying so exactly like a happy pony that Joan jumped. “Don’t you?”

  �
��I’ve never been on horseback in my life,” said Joan. “I’d like to try.”

  “Never in your life?” Mr. Forsyth stared. “Why, I was on a pony before I was three. Fact. Good for a clergyman, riding — —”

  “I think it’s nearly time for the next dance,” said Joan. “Would you kindly take me back to my mother?”

  She was conscious, as they plunged down-stream, of all the burning glances. She held her head high. Her eyes flashed. She was going to dance with Johnny, and they could look as much as they liked.

  Mr. Forsyth delivered her to her mother and went cantering off. Joan sat down, smoothed her dress and stared at the vast shiny lake of amber in which the silver candelabra were reflected like little islands. She looked at her mother and was suddenly sorry for her. It must be dull, when you were as old as mother, coming to these dances — and especially when you had so few friends. Her mother had never made many friends.