by Hugh Walpole
He was bothered, too, by the affectionate sentiment (still disguised, but ever, as the days proceeded, more thinly) of his mother and sisters. The girls, May and Clare, adored young John. His elder brother was away with a school friend. John, therefore, was left to feminine attention, and very tiresome he found it. May and Clare, girls of no imagination, saw only the drama that they might extract for themselves out of the affair. They knew what school was like, especially at first — John was going to be utterly wretched, miserably homesick, bullied, kept in over horrible sums and impossible Latin exercises, ill-fed, and trodden upon at games. They did not really believe these things — they knew that their brother, Tom, had always had a most pleasant time, and John was precisely the type of boy who would prosper at school, but they indulged, just for this fortnight, their romantic sentiment, never alluded in speech to school and its terrors, but by their pitying avoidance of the subject filled the atmosphere with their agitation. They were working things for John — May, handkerchiefs, and Clare, a comforter; their voices were soft and charged with omens, their eyes were bright with the drama of the event, as though they had been supporting some young Christian relation before his encounter with the lions. John hated more and more and more.
But more terrible to him than his sisters was his mother. He was too young to understand what his departure meant to her, but he knew that there was something real here that needed comforting. He wanted to comfort her, and yet hated the atmosphere of emotion that he felt in himself as well as in her. They ought to know, he argued, that the least little thing would make him break down like an ass and behave as no man should, and yet they were doing everything.... Oh, if only Tom were here! Then, at any rate, would be brutal common-sense. There were special meals for him during this fortnight, and an eager inviting of his opinion as to how the days should be spent. On the last night of all they were to go to the theatre — a real play this time, none of your pantomime!
There was, moreover, all the business of clothes — fine, rich, stiff new garments — a new Eton jacket, a round black coat, a shining bowler-hat, new boots. He watched this stir with a brave assumption that he had been surveying it all his life, but a horrible tight pain in the bottom of his throat told him that he was a bravado, almost a liar.
He found himself, now that the “twenty-third” was gaping right there in front of him, with its fiery throat wide and flaming, doing the strangest thing. He was frightened of the dusk, he would run through the passage and up the stairs at breathless speed, he would look for a moment at the lamp-lit square with the lights of the opposite houses tigers’ eyes, and the trees filmy like smoke, then would hastily draw the curtains and greet the warm inhabited room with a little gasp of reassurance. Strangest of all, he found himself often in the old nursery at the top of the house. Very seldom did any one come there now, and it had the pathos of a room grown cold and comfortless. Most of the toys were put away or given to hospitals, but the rocking-horse with his Christmas-tree tail was there, and the doll’s-house, and a railway with trains and stations.
He was here. He was saying to himself: “Yes, it was just over there, by the window, that He came that time. He talked to me there. That other time it was when I was down by the doll’s-house. He showed me the smoke coming up from the chimneys when the sun stuck through, and the moon was all red one night, and the stars.”
He found himself gazing out over the square, over the twisted chimneys, that seemed to be laughing at him, over the shining wires and glittering roofs, out to the mist that wrapped the city beyond his vision — so vast, so huge, so many people — March Square was nothing. He was nothing — John Scarlett nothing at all.
Then, with a sigh, he turned back. His Friend, the other night, had been real enough. Fairies, ghosts, goblins and dragons — everything was real. Everything. It was all terrible, terrible to think of, but, above and beyond all else, he must not forget, on the day of his departure, that farewell; something disastrous would come upon him were he so ungrateful.
And then he would go downstairs again, down to newspapers and fires, toast and tea, the large print of Frith’s “Railway Station,” and the coloured supplement of Greiffenhagen’s “Idyll,” and the tattered numbers of the Windsor and the Strand magazines, and, behold, all these things were real and all the things in the nursery unreal. Could it be that both worlds were real? Even now, at his tender years, that old business of connecting the Dream and the Business was at his throat.
“Teal Tea! Tea!” Frantic screams from May. “There’s some new jam, and, John, mother says she wants you to try on some underclothes afterwards. Those others didn’t do, she said....”
There came then the disastrous hour — an hour that John was never, in all his after-life, to forget. On a wild stormy evening he found himself in the nursery. A week remained now — to-day fortnight he would be in another world, an alarming, fierce, tremendous world. He looked at the rocking-horse with its absurd tail and the patch on its back, that had been worn away by its faithful riders, and suddenly he was crying. This was a thing that he never did, that he had strenuously, persistently refrained from doing all these weeks, but now, in the strangest way, it was the conviction that the world into which he was going wouldn’t care in the least for the doll’s-house, and would mock brutally, derisively at the rocking-horse, that defeated him. It was even the knowledge that, in a very short time, he himself would be mocking.
He sat down on the floor and cried. The door opened; before he could resist or make any movement, his mother’s arms were about him, his mother’s cheek against his, and she was whispering: “Oh, my darling, my darling!”
The horrible thing then occurred. He was savage, with a wild, fierce, protesting rage. His cheeks flamed. His tears were instantly dried. That he should have been caught thus! That, when he had been presenting so brave and callous a front to the world, at the one weak and shameful moment he should have been discovered! He scarcely realised that this was his mother, he did not care who it was. It was as though he had been delivered into the most horrible and shameful of traps. He pushed her from him; he struggled fiercely on his feet. He regarded her with fiery eyes.
“It isn’t — I wasn’t — you oughtn’t to have come in. You needn’t imagine — —”
He burst from the room. A shameful, horrible experience.
But it cannot be denied that he was ashamed afterwards. He loved his mother, whereas he merely liked the rest of the family. He would not hurt her for worlds, and yet, why must she ——
And strangely, mysteriously, her attitude was confused in his mind with his dreams, and his Friend, and the red moon, and the comic chimneys.
He knew, however, that, during this last week he must be especially nice to his mother, and, with an elaborate courtesy and strained attention, he did his best.
The last night arrived, and, very smart and excited, they went to the theatre. The boxes had been packed, and stood in a shining and self-conscious trio in John’s bedroom. The new play-box was there, with its stolid freshness and the black bands at the corners; inside, there was a multitude of riches, and it was, of course, a symbol of absolute independence and maturity. John was wearing the new Eton jacket, also a new white waistcoat; the parting in his hair was straighter than it had ever been before, his ears were pink. The world seemed a confused mixture of soap and starch and lights. Piccadilly Circus was a cauldron of bubbling colour.
His breath came in little gasps, but his face, with its snub nose and large mouth, was grave and composed; up and down his back little shivers were running. When the car stopped outside the theatre he gave a little gulp. His father, who was, for once, moved by the occasion, said an idiotic thing;
“Excited, my son?”
With his head high he walked ahead of them, trod on a lady’s dress, blushed, heard his father say: “Look where you’re going, my boy,” heard May giggle, frowned indignantly, and was conscious of the horrid pressure of his collar-stud against his throat; arrived, hot
, confused, and very proud, in the dark splendour of the box.
The first play of his life, and how magnificent a play it was! It might have been a rotten affair with endless conversations — luckily there were no discussions at all. All the characters either loved or hated one another too deeply to waste time in talk. They were Roundheads and Cavaliers, and a splendid hero, who had once been a bad fellow, but was now sorry, fought nine Roundheads at once, and was tortured “off” with red lights and his lady waiting for results before a sympathetic audience.
During the torture scene John’s heart stopped entirely, his brow was damp, his hand sought his mother’s, found it, and held it very hard. She, as she felt his hot fingers pressing against hers, began to see the stage through a mist of tears. She had behaved very well during the past weeks, but the soul that she adored was, to-morrow morning, to be hurled out, wildly, helter-skelter, to receive such tarnishing as it might please Fate to think good.
“I can’t let him go! I can’t let him go!”
The curtain came down.
John turned, his eyes wide, his cheeks pale with a pink spot on the middle of each.
“I say, pass those chocolates along!” he whispered hoarsely. Then, recovering himself a little: “I wonder what they did to him? They must have done something to his legs, because they were all crooked when he came out.”
EPILOGUE
Hugh Seymour
I
It happened that Hugh Seymour, in the month of December, 1911, found himself in the dreamy orchard-bound cathedral city of Polchester. Polchester, as all its inhabitants well know, is famous for its cathedral, its buns, and its river, the cathedral being one of the oldest, the buns being among the sweetest, and the Pol being amongst the most beautiful of the cathedrals, buns and rivers of Great Britain.
Seymour had known Polchester since he was five years old, when he first lived there with his father and mother, but he had only once during the last ten years been able to visit Glebeshire, and then he had been to Rafiel, a fishing village on the south coast. He had, therefore, not seen Polchester since his childhood, and now it seemed to him to have shrivelled from a world of infinite space and mystery into a toy town that would be soon packed away in a box and hidden in a cupboard. As he walked up and down the cobbled streets he was moved by a great affection and sentiment for it. As he climbed the hill to the cathedral, as he stood inside the Close with its lawns, its elm trees, its crooked cobbled walks, its gardens, its houses with old bow windows and deep overhanging doors, he was again a very small boy with soap in his eyes, a shining white collar tight about his neck, and his Eton jacket stiff and unfriendly. He was walking up the aisle with his mother, his boots creaked, the bell’s note was dropping, dropping, the fat verger with his staff was undoing the cord of their seat, the boys of the choir-school were looking at him and he was blushing, he was on his knees and the edge of the kneeler was cutting into his trousers, the precentor’s voice, as remote from things human as the cathedral bell itself, was crying, “Dearly beloved brethren.” He would stop there and wonder whether there could be any connection between that time and this, whether those things had really happened to him, whether he might now be dreaming and would wake up presently to find that it would be soon time to start for the cathedral, that if he and his sisters were good they would have a chapter of the “Pillars of the House” read to them after tea, with one chocolate each at the end of every two pages. No, he was real, March Square was real, Polchester was real, Glebeshire and London were real together — nothing died, nothing passed away.
On the second afternoon of his stay he was standing in the Close, bathed now in yellow sunlight, when he saw coming towards him a familiar figure. One glance was enough to assure him that this was the Rev. William Lasher, once Vicar of Clinton St. Mary, now Canon of Polchester Cathedral. Mr. Lasher it was, and Mr. Lasher the same as he had ever been. He was walking with his old energetic stride, his head up, his black overcoat flapping behind him, his eyes sharply investigating in and out and all round him. He saw Seymour, but did not recognise him, and would have passed on.
“You don’t know me?” said Seymour, holding out his hand.
“I beg your pardon, I — —” said Canon Lasher.
“Seymour — Hugh Seymour — whom you were once kind enough to look after at Clinton St. Mary.”
“Why! Fancy! Indeed. My dear boy. My dear boy!” Mr. Lasher was immensely cordial in exactly his old, healthy, direct manner. He insisted that Seymour should come with him and drink a cup of tea. Mrs. Lasher would be delighted. They had often wondered.... Only the other day Mrs. Lasher was saying.... “And you’re one of our novelists, I hear,” said Canon Lasher in exactly the tone that he would have used had Seymour taken to tight-rope walking at the Halls.
“Oh, no!” said Seymour, laughing, “that’s another man of my name. I’m at the Bar.”
“Ah,” said the Canon, greatly relieved, “that’s good! That’s good! Very good indeed!”
Mrs. Lasher was, of course, immensely surprised. “Why! Fancy! And it was only yesterday! Whoever would have expected! I never was more astonished! And tea just ready! How fortunate! Just fancy you meeting the Canon!”
The Canon seemed, to Seymour, greatly mellowed by comfort and prosperity; there was even the possibility of corpulence in the not distant future. He was, indeed, a proper Canon.
“And who,” said Seymour, “has Clinton St. Mary now?”
“One of the Trenchards,” said Mr. Lasher. “As you know, a very famous old Glebeshire family. There are some younger cousins of the Garth Trenchards, I believe. You know of the Trenchards of Garth? No? Ah, very delightful people. You should know them. Yes, Jim Trenchard, the man at Clinton, is a few years senior to myself. He was priest when I was deacon in — let me see — dear me, how the years fly — in— ‘pon my word, how time goes!”
All of which gave Seymour to understand that the Rev. James Trenchard was a failure in life, although a good enough fellow. Then it was that suddenly, in the heart of that warm and cosy drawing-room, Hugh Seymour was, sharply, as though by a douche of cold water, awakened to the fact that he must see Clinton St. Mary again. It appeared to him, now, with its lanes, its hedges, the village green, the moor, the Borhaze Road, the pirates, yes, and the Scarecrow. It came there, across the Canon’s sumptuous Turkey carpet, and demanded his presence.
“I must go,” Seymour said, getting up and speaking in a strange, bewildered voice as though he were just awakening from a dream. He left them, at last, promising to come and see them again.
He heard the Canon’s voice in his ears: “Always a knife and fork, my boy ... any time if you let us know.” He stepped down into the little lighted streets, into the town with its cosy security and some scent, even then in the heart of winter, perhaps, from the fruit of its many orchards. The moon, once again an orange feather in the sky, reminded him of those early days that seemed now to be streaming in upon him from every side.
Early next morning he caught the ten o’clock train to Clinton.
II
“Why,” in the train he continued to say to himself, “have I let all these years pass without returning? Why have I never returned?... Why have I never returned?”
The slow, sleepy train (the London express never stops at Clinton) jerked through the deep valleys, heavy with woods, golden brown at their heart, the low hills carrying, on their horizons, white drifting clouds that flung long grey shadows. Seymour felt suddenly as though he could never return to London again exactly as he had returned to it before. “That period of my life is over, quite over.... Some one is taking me down here now — I know that I am being compelled to go. But I want to go. I am happier than I have ever been in my life before.”
Often, in Glebeshire, December days are warm and mellow like the early days of September. It so was now; the country was wrapped in with happy content, birds rose and hung, like telegraph wires, beyond the windows. On a slanting brown field gulls from the sea, white
and shining, were hovering, wheeling, sinking into the soil. And yet, as he went, he was not leaving March Square behind, but rather taking it with him. He was taking the children too — Bim, Angelina, John, even Sarah (against her will), and it was not her who was in charge of the party. He felt as though, the railway carriages were full and he ought to say continually, “Now, Bim, be quiet. Sit still and look at the picture-book I gave you. Sarah, I shall leave you at the next station if you aren’t careful,” and that she replied, giving him one of her dark sarcastic looks, “I don’t care if you do. I know how to get home all right without your help.”
He wished that he hadn’t brought her, and yet he couldn’t help himself. They all had to come. Then, as he looked about the empty carriage, he laughed at himself. Only a fat farmer reading The Glebeshire Times.
“Marnin’, sir,” said the farmer. “Warm Christmas we’ll be havin’, I reckon. Yes, indeed. I see the Bishop’s dying — poor old soul too.”
When they arrived at Clinton he caught himself turning round as though to collect his charges; he thought that the farmer looked at him curiously.
“Coming back again has turned my wits.... Now, Angelina, hurry up, can’t wait all day.” He stopped then abruptly, to pull himself together. “Look here, you’re alone, and if you think you’re not, you’re mad. Remember that you’re at the Bar and not even a novelist, so that you have no excuse.”
The little platform — usually swept by all the winds of the sea, but now as warm as a toasted bun — flooded him with memory. It was a platform especially connected with school, with departure and return — departures when money in one’s pocket and cake in one’s play-box did not compensate for the hot pain in one’s throat and the cold marble feeling of one’s legs; but when every feeling of every sort was swallowed by the great overwhelming desire that the train would go so that one need not any longer be agonised by the efforts of replying to Mr. Lasher’s continued last words: “Well, good-bye, my boy. A good time, both at work and play” — the train was off.