by Hugh Walpole
All these were there, but behind them, on the outskirts of them and yet in the very heart of them, there were other unaccustomed things.
Some said that a ship from the East had arrived at Drymouth, and that certain jugglers and Chinese and foreign merchants, instead of going on to London as they had intended, turned to Polchester. How do I know at this time of day? How do we, any of us, know how anything gets here, and what does it matter? But there is at this very moment, living in the magnificently renovated Seatown, an old Chinaman, who came in Jubilee Year, and has been there ever since, doing washing and behaving with admirable propriety, no sign of opium about him anywhere. One element that they introduced was Colour. Our modern Fairs are not very strong in the element of Colour. It is true that one of the roundabouts was ablaze with gilt and tinsel, and in the centre of it, whence comes the music, there were women with brazen faces and bosoms of gold. It is true also that outside the Circus and the Fat Sisters and Battling Edwardes there were flaming pictures with reds and yellows thrown about like temperance tracts, but the modern figures in these pictures spoilt the colour, the photography spoilt it — too much reality where there should have been mystery, too much mystery where realism was needed.
But here, only two yards from the Circus, was a booth hung with strange cloths, purple and yellow and crimson, and behind the wooden boards a man and a woman with brown faces and busy, twirling, twisting, brown hands, were making strange sweets which they wrapped into coloured packets, and on the other side of the Fat Sisters there was a tent with Li Hung above it in letters of gold and red, and inside the tents, boards on trestles, and on the boards a long purple cloth, and on the cloth little toys and figures and images, all of the gayest colours and the strangest shapes, and all as cheap as nothing.
Farther down the lane of booths was the tent of Hayakawa the Juggler. A little boy in primrose-coloured tights turned, on a board outside the tent, round and round and round on his head like a teetotum, and inside, once every half-hour, Hayakawa, in a lovely jacket of gold and silver, gave his entertainment, eating fire, piercing himself with silver swords, finding white mice in his toes, and pulling ribbons of crimson and scarlet out of his ears.
Farther away again there were the Brothers Gomez, Spaniards perhaps, dark, magnificent in figure, running on one wire across the air, balancing sunshades on their noses, leaping, jumping, standing pyramid-high, their muscles gleaming like billiard-balls.
And behind and before and in and out there were strange figures moving through the Fair, strange voices raised against the evening sky, strange smells of cooking, strange songs suddenly rising, dying as soon as heard.
Only a breath away the English fields were quietly lying safe behind their hedges and the English sky changed from blue to green and from green to mother-of-pearl, and from mother-of-pearl to ivory, and stars stabbed, like silver nails, the great canopy of heaven, and the Cathedral bells rang peal after peal above the slowly lighting town.
Brandon was conscious of little of this as he moved on. Even the thought of Morris had faded from him. He could not think consecutively. His mind was broken up like a mirror that had been smashed into a thousand pieces. He was most truly in a dream. Soon he would wake up, out of this noise, away from these cries and lights, and would find it all as he had for so many years known it. He would be sitting in his drawing-room, his legs stretched out, his wife and daughter near to him, the rumble of the organ coming through the wall to them, thinking perhaps of to-morrow’s duties, the town quiet all around them, friends and well-wishers everywhere, no terrible pain in his head, happily arranging how everything should be... happy...happy.... Ah! how happy that real life was! When he awoke from his dream he would realise that and thank God for it. When he awoke.... He stumbled over something, and looking up realised that he was in a very crowded part of the Fair, a fire was blazing somewhere near, gas-jets, although the evening was bright and clear, were naming, screams and cries seemed to make the very sky rock above his head.
Where was he? What was he doing here? Why had he come? He would go home. He turned.
He turned to face the fire that leapt close at his heel. It was burning at the back of a caravan, in a dark cul-de-sac away from the main thoroughfare; to its blazing light the bare boards and ugly plankings of the booth, splashed here and there with torn paper that rustled a little in the evening breeze, were all that offered themselves. Near by a horse, untethered, was quietly nosing at the trodden soil.
Behind the caravan the field ran down to a ditch and thick hedging.
Brandon stared at the fire as though absorbed by its light. What did he see there? Visions perhaps? Did he see the Cathedral, the Precincts, the quiet circle of demure old houses, his own door, his own bedroom? Did he see his wife moving hurriedly about the room, opening drawers and shutting them, pausing for a moment to listen, then coming out, closing the door, listening again, then stepping downstairs, pausing for a moment in the hall to lay something on the table, then stepping out into the green wavering evening light? Or did the flames make pictures for him of the deserted railway-station, the long platform, lit only by one lamp, two figures meeting, exchanging almost no word, pacing for a little in silence the dreary spaces, stepping back as the London express rolled in — such a safe night to choose for escape — then burying themselves in it like rabbits in their burrow?
Did his vision lead him back to the deserted house, silent save for its ticking clocks, black in that ring of lights and bells and shouting voices?
Or was he conscious only of the warmth and the life of the fire, of some sudden companionship with the woman bending over it to stir the sticks and lift some pot from the heart of the flame? He was feeling, perhaps, a sudden peace here and a silence, and was aware of the stars breaking into beauty one by one above his head.
But his peace, if for a moment he had found it, was soon interrupted. A voice that he knew came across to him from the other side of the fire.
“Why, Archdeacon, who would have thought to find you here?”
He looked up and saw, through the fire, the face of Davray the painter.
He turned to go, and at once Davray was at his side.
“No. Don’t go. You’re in my country now, Archdeacon, not your own. You’re not cock of this walk, you know. Last time we met you thought you owned the place. Well, you can’t think you own this. Fight it out, Mr. Archdeacon, fight it out.”
Brandon answered:
“I have no quarrel with you, Mr. Davray. Nor have I anything to say to you.”
“No quarrel? I like that. I’d knock your face in for two-pence, you blasted hypocrite. And I will too. All free ground here.”
Davray’s voice was shrill. He was swaying on his legs. The woman looked up from the fire and watched them.
Brandon turned his back to him and saw, facing him, Samuel Hogg and some men behind him.
“Why, good evening, Mr. Archdeacon,” said Hogg, taking off his hat and bowing. “What a delightful place for a meeting!”
Brandon said quietly, “Is there anything you want with me?” He realised at once that Hogg was drunk.
“Nothing,” said Hogg, “except to give you a damned good hiding. I’ve been waiting for that these many weeks. See him, boys,” he continued, turning to the men behind him. “‘Ere’s this parson who ruined my daughter — as fine a girl as ever you’ve seen — ruined ‘er, he did — him and his blasted son. What d’you say, boys? Is it right for him to be paradin’ round here as proud as a peacock and nobody touchin’ him? What d’you say to givin’ him a damned good hiding?”
The men smiled and pressed forward. Davray from the other side suddenly lurched into Brandon. Brandon struck out, and Davray fell and lay where he fell.
Hogg cried, “Now for ’im, boys — —”, and at once they were upon him. Hogg’s face rose before Brandon’s, extended, magnified in all its details. Brandon hit out and then was conscious of blows upon his face, of some one kicking him in the back, of himself
hitting wildly, of the fire leaping mountains-high behind him, of a woman’s cry, of something trickling down into his eye, of sudden contact with warm, naked, sweating flesh, of a small pinched face, the eyes almost closed, rising before him and falling again, of a shout, then sudden silence and himself on his knees groping in darkness for his hat, of his voice far from him murmuring to him, “It’s all right.... It’s my hat...it’s my hat I must find.”
He wiped his forehead. The back of his hand was covered with blood.
He saw once again the fire, low now and darkly illumined by some more distant light, heard the scream of the merry-go-round, stared about him and saw no living soul, climbed to his feet and saw the stars, then very slowly, like a blind man in the dark, felt his way to the field’s edge, found a gate, passed through and collapsed, shuddering in the hedge’s darkness.
Chapter VII
Tuesday, June 22: III. Torchlight
Joan came home about seven o’clock that evening. Dinner was at half-past seven, and after dinner she was going to the Deanery to watch the Torchlight Procession from the Deanery garden. She had had the most wonderful afternoon. Mrs. Combermere, who had been very kind to her lately, had taken her up to the Flower Show in the Castle grounds, and there she had had the most marvellous and beautiful talk with Johnny. They had talked right under his mother’s nose, so to speak, and had settled everything. Yes — simply everything! They had told one another that their love was immortal, that nothing could touch it, nor lessen it, nor twist it — nothing!
Joan, on her side, had stated that she would never be engaged to Johnny until his mother consented, and that until they were engaged they must behave exactly as though they were not engaged, that is, never see one another alone, never write letters that might not be read by any one; but she had also asserted that no representations on the part of anybody that she was ruining Johnny, or that she was a nasty little intriguer, or that nice girls didn’t behave “so,” would make the slightest difference to her; that she knew what she was and Johnny knew what he was, and that was enough for both of them.
Johnny on his side had said that he would be patient for a time under this arrangement, but that the time would not be a very long one, and that she couldn’t object to accepting a little ring that he had bought for her, that she needn’t wear it, but just keep it beside her to remind her of him.
But Joan had said that to take the ring would be as good as to be engaged, and that therefore she would not take it, but that he could keep it ready for the day of their betrothal.
She had come home, through the lovely evening, in such a state of happiness that she was forced to tell Mrs. Combermere all about it, and Mrs. Combermere had been a darling and assured her that she was quite right in all that she had done, and that it made her, Mrs. Combermere, feel quite young again, and that she would help them in every way that she could, and parting at the Arden Gate, she had kissed Joan just as though she were her very own daughter.
So Joan, shining with happiness, came back to the house. It seemed very quiet after the sun and glitter and laughter of the Flower Show. She went straight up to her room at the top of the house, washed her face and hands, brushed her hair and put on her white frock.
As she came downstairs the clock struck half-past seven. In the hall she met Gladys.
“Please, miss,” said Gladys, “is dinner to be kept back?”
“Why,” said Joan, “isn’t mother in?”
“No, miss, she went out about six o’clock and she hasn’t come in.”
“Isn’t father in?”
“No, miss.”
“Did she say that she’d be late?”
“No, miss.”
“Oh, well — we must wait until mother comes in.”
“Yes, miss.”
She saw then a letter on the hall-table. She picked it up. It was addressed to her father, a note left by somebody. She thought nothing of that — notes were so often left; the hand-writing was exactly like her mother’s, but of course it could not be hers. She went into the drawing- room.
Here the silence was oppressive. She walked up and down, looking out of the long windows at the violet dusk. Gladys came in to draw the blinds.
“Didn’t mother say anything about when she’d be in?”
“No, miss.”
“She left no message for me?”
“No, miss. Your mother seemed in a hurry like.”
“She didn’t ask where I was?”
“No, miss.”
“Did she go out with father?”
“No, miss — your father went out a quarter of an hour earlier.”
Gladys coughed. “Please, miss, Cook and me’s wanting to go out and see the Procession.”
“Oh, of course you must. But that won’t be until half-past nine. They come past here, you know.”
“Yes, miss.”
Joan picked up the new number of the Cornhill Magazine and tried to settle down. But she was restless. Her own happiness made her so. And then the house was “queer.” It had the sense of itself waiting for some effort, and holding its breath in expectation.
As Joan sat there trying to read the Cornhill serial, and most sadly failing, it seemed to her stranger and stranger that her mother was not in. She had not been well lately; Joan had noticed how white she had looked; she had always a “headache” when you asked her how she was. Joan had fancied that she had never been the same since Falk had been away. She had a letter in her dress now from Falk. She took it out and read it over again. As to himself it had only good news; he was well and happy, Annie was “splendid.” His work went on finely. His only sadness was his breach with his father; again and again he broke out about this, and begged, implored Joan to do something. If she did not, he said, he would soon come down himself and risk a row. There was one sentence towards the end of the letter which read oddly to Joan just now. “I suppose the old man’s in his proper element over all the Jubilee celebrations. I can see him strutting up and down the Cathedral as though he owned every stone in it, bless his old heart! I tell you, Joan, I just ache to see him. I do really. Annie’s father hasn’t been near us since we came up here. Funny! I’d have thought he’d have bothered me long before this. I’m ready for him if he comes. By the way, if mother shows any signs of wanting to come up to town just now, do your best to prevent her. Father needs her, and it’s her place to look after him. I’ve special reasons for saying this....”
What a funny thing for Falk to say! and the only allusion to his mother in the whole of the letter.
Joan smiled to herself as she read it. What did Falk think her power was? Why, her mother and father had never listened to her for a single moment, nor had he, Falk, when he had been at home. She had never counted at all — to any one save Johnny. She put down the letter and tried to lose herself in the happy country of her own love, but she could not. Her honesty prevented her; its silence was now oppressive and heavy-weighted. Where could her mother be? And dinner already half an hour late in that so utterly punctual house! What had Falk meant about mother going to London? Of course she would not go to London — at any rate without father. How could Falk imagine such a thing? More than an hour passed.
She began to walk about the room, wondering what she should do about the dinner. She must give up the Sampsons, and she was very hungry. She had had no tea at the Flower Show and very little luncheon.
She was about to go and speak to Gladys when she heard the hall door open. It closed. Something — some unexpressed fear or foreboding — kept her where she was. Steps were in the hall, but they were not her father’s; he always moved with determined stride to his study or the stairs. These steps hesitated and faltered as though some one were there who did not know the house.
At last she went into the hall and saw that it was indeed her father now going slowly upstairs.
“Father!” she cried; “I’m so glad you’re in. Dinner’s been waiting for hours. Shall I tell them to send it up?”
He did
not answer nor look back. She went to the bottom of the stairs and said again:
“Shall I, father?”
But still he did not answer. She heard him close his door behind him.
She went back into the drawing-room terribly frightened. There was something in the bowed head and slow steps that terrified her, and suddenly she was aware that she had been frightened for many weeks past, but that she had never owned to herself that it was so.
She waited for a long time wondering what she should do. At last, calling her courage, she climbed the stairs, waited, and then, as though compelled by the overhanging silence of the house, knocked on his dressing-room door.
“Father, what shall we do about dinner? Mother hasn’t come in yet.” There was no answer.
“Will you have dinner now?” she asked again.
A voice suddenly answered her as though he were listening on the other side of the door. “No, no. I want no dinner.”
She went down again, told Gladys that she would eat something, then sat in the lonely dining-room swallowing her soup and cutlet in the utmost haste.
Something was terribly wrong. Her father was covering all the rest of her view — the Jubilee, her mother, even Johnny. He was in great trouble, and she must help him, but she felt desperately her youth, her inexperience, her inadequacy.
She waited again, when she had finished her meal, wondering what she had better do. Oh! how stupid not to know instantly the right thing and to feel this fear when it was her own father!
She went half-way upstairs, and then stood listening. No sound. Again she waited outside his door. With trembling hand she turned the handle. He faced her, staring at her. On his left temple was a big black bruise, on his forehead a cut, and on his left cheek a thin red mark that looked like a scratch.