STUDIES IN PLACE THE WOODEN HORSE MARADICK AT FORTY THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
TWO PROLOGUES THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE FORTITUDE
THE RISING CITY 1. THE DUCHESS OF WREXE 2. THE GREEN MIRROR (In preparation) MARADICK AT FORTY
A Transition BY HUGH WALPOLE Author of the “Fortitude” “The Duchess of Wrexe” etc. . . . . Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! A second, and the angels alter that. How it strikes a contemporary. NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY TO THE MARQUIS D’ALCEDO CONTENTS PART I THE ROOM OF THE MINSTRELS
PART II PUNCH
PART III THE TOWER
PART I
THE ROOM OF THE MINSTRELS CHAPTER ITHE PLACE The grey twilight gives to the long, pale stretches of sand the sense of something strangely unreal. As far as the eye can reach, it curves out into the mist, the last vanishing garments, as it were, of some fleeing ghost. The sea comes, smoothly, quite silently, over the breast of it; there is a trembling whisper as it catches the highest stretch of sand and drags it for a moment down the slope, then, with a little sigh, creeps back again a defeated lover. The sky is grey, with an orange light hovering on its outer edges, the last signal of the setting sun. A very faint mist is creeping gradually over the sea, so faint that the silver circle of the rising moon shines quite clearly through the shadows; but it changes the pale yellow of the ghostly sand into a dark grey land without form and void, seeming for a moment to be one with sea and sky, and then rising again, out of obscurity, into definite substance. There is silence here in the creek, save for the rustling and whisper of the sea, but round the bend of the rocks the noises of the town come full upon the ear. The town is built up from the sand on the side of the hill, and rises, tier upon tier, until it finds its pinnacle in the church tower and the roofs of the “Man at Arms.” Now, in the dusk, the lights shine, row upon row, out over the sand. From the market comes the sound of a fair—harsh, discordant tunes softened by the distance. The church clock strikes eight, and a bell rings stridently somewhere in the depths of the town. There is a distant rumble, a roar, a flash of light, and a train glides into the station. But the sea pays no heed, and, round the bend of the creek, the sand gleams white beneath the moon, and the mist rises from the heart of the waves. CHAPTER IIIN WHICH OUR HERO AND THE PLACE MEET ONCE AGAIN The Maradicks had reserved four seats by the 10.45, and so really there was no reason for arriving at Paddington a few minutes after ten. But, as it happened, it was quite fortunate, because there were so many people travelling that the porters seemed to have little scruple as to whether you’d reserved something or not, and just went about pulling pink labels off and sticking pink labels on in a way that was really grossly immoral. But Mrs. Maradick, having discovered that her own pink ticket was all right—“James Maradick, Esq.: Four seats by the 10.45. Travelling to Treliss”—could afford to be complacent about other people, and even a little triumphant over the quite amusing misfortunes of a party of six who seemed to have no chance whatever of securing a seat. Mrs. Maradick always shut her mouth very tight indeed when going off for a holiday. She entered the station with the air of one who had a very sharp battle to fight and wasn’t going to be beaten under any circumstances. She selected a porter with the confidence of a very old general who could tell a man at a glance, and she marshalled him up and down the platform with a completeness and a magnificent strategy that left him at last breathless and confused, with scarcely energy enough to show indignation at the threepence with which she rewarded his services. But to-day things were finished sooner than usual, and by half-past ten, with a quarter of an hour to spare, she was able to pay attention to her friends. Quite a number of them had come to see her off—Mrs. Martin Fraser, Louie Denis, Mrs. Mackintosh, Maggie Crowder, and those silly girls, the Dorringtons; and actually Tom Craddock—very short, very fat, very breathless—a little bit of a bounder, perhaps, but a man who served her husband with a quite pathetic devotion. Yes, of course, he’d come to say good-bye to James, so he didn’t count in quite the same way, but still it was nice of him. “Oh! the papers! James, I must have papers! Oh! thank you, Mr. Craddock. What? Oh, I think, perhaps, the Lady’s Pictorial and the Queen—and oh! if you wouldn’t mind, the Daily Mail and the Mirror, and—oh! James has the Mail, so perhaps the Express would be better—and yes, just something for the girls—what do you say, Annie dear? The Girl’s Realm? Yes, please, the Girl’s Realm, Mr. Craddock, and the Girl’s Own Paper for Isabel. Rather a lot, isn’t it, Louie, but it’s such a long journey—hours and hours—and the girls get so restless.” The ladies gathered in a little phalanx round the carriage window. They always felt this departure of Emmy Maradick’s; every year it was the same. Epsom wasn’t a bit the same place whilst she was away, and they really couldn’t see why she should go away at all. Epsom was at its very nicest in August, and that was the month of the year when she could be most useful. Everyone gave their tennis-parties then; and there were those charming little summer dances, and there was no garden in Epsom like the Maradicks’! Besides, they liked her for herself. Things always seemed to go so well when she was there, she had such a—what was the word?—a French phrase—savoire-vivre or savoir-faire—yes, it really was a pity. “We shall miss you, dear.” This from Mrs. Mackintosh. “That’s sweet of you, Katie darling. And I shall miss all of you, ever so much. And a hotel’s never the same thing, is it? And the garden’s just beginning to look lovely. You’ll go in, once or twice, won’t you, Louie, and see that things are all right? Of course they ought to be; but you never can tell, with quite a new gardener, too. I think he’s steady enough—at least, he had excellent testimonials, and James heard from Mr. Templeton, where he was before, you know, that he was quite a reliable man; but you know what it is when one’s away, how everything seems to go——Oh! no, it’s all right, Mr. Craddock, I don’t think it’s going just yet. Sit down, Annie dear, and don’t lean against the door.” The ladies then passed before the door, one after another, delivered their little messages, and lined up on the other side. Thus Mrs. Mackintosh— “Well, dear, I do hope you have the rippingest time. I’m sure you deserve it after that old bazaar—all the worry——” And Mrs. Martin Fraser— “Mind, a postcard, dear—when you get there—just a line. We shall all so want to know.” And Louie Denis— “Darling, don’t forget the sketch you promised. I shall have a frame all ready—waiting.” And Maggie Crowder— “I hope it will be fine, dear—such a nuisance if it’s wet; and then there’s our tennis dance next week, it won’t be a bit the same thing if——” Lastly the Dorrington girls together— “Dear Mrs. Maradick—good-bye—ripping—awfully sorry——” the rest lost in nervous laughter. And then began that last dreadful minute when you do so wish in spite of yourself that the train would go. You have said your last words, you have given your last embrace, and you stare passionately down the platform hoping for that final whistle and the splendid waving of a green flag. At last it came. The ladies surged forward in a body and waved their handkerchiefs. Mrs. Maradick leaned for a moment out of the window and waved hers. Tom Craddock shouted something hoarsely about James that no one could hear, and Epsom was finally bereft of its glory. Mrs. Maradick collected her bags with her rugs, and then considered her girls. They were seated quietly, each in a corner, their faces bent studiously over their magazines. They were very much alike, with straight flaxen hair and pink and white complexions, light blue cotton frocks, and dark green waistbands. Yes, they were nice girls—they were dear girls. Then she thought of her husband. James Maradick had stood in the background during the farewells. He had, indeed, been busy up to the very last moment, but he was a reserved and silent man, and he really hadn’t anything very much to say. He was well over six feet, and broad in proportion. He was clean shaven, with features very strongly marked, and a high forehead from which the hair, closely cut and a little grey at the temples, was brushed back and parted on the right side. His eyes were grey and, at times, wonderfully expressive. Epsom said that he was a dreadful man for looking you through. He wore a suit of dark brown excellently cut. He was sitting now opposite his wife and looking out of the window. He was thinking of Tom Craddock. “James dear, where is my book? You know—that novel you gave me—‘Sir Somebody or other’s heir’ or something. I just like to know where everything is before I settle down. It was really awfully nice of Louie Denis coming all that way to say good-bye—and of the others too. I wonder Jack Hearne wasn’t there. He could have seen Louie back, and it would have been a good chance; but perhaps he didn’t know she was coming. It was nice of Mr. Craddock coming up, though of course he came to see you.” She paused for a denial, but he didn’t say anything, so she went on—“But, poor fellow, he’s getting dreadfully fat. I wonder whether he couldn’t take something for it—baths or something—though of course exercise is the thing——” Maradick looked up. “Yes, poor old Tom. He’s a good chap. But he’s getting on—we’re all getting on. I shall be stout soon—not as young as we were——” “Nonsense, James. I’m sure you haven’t altered a bit since you were twenty. Mr. Craddock was always stout.” She leaned back and put her hand to her forehead. “This train does shake most dreadfully. I’m going to have one of those horrible headaches again. I can feel it coming. Just look for my smelling-salts, will you? I think they are in that little black handbag.” He, wise through much experience, soon found what she wanted, settled cushions at her back, drew the blind down the window to keep the sun from her eyes, and then sank back into his seat again and watched the country flash past. How many holidays had there been before exactly like this one? He could not count them. There had always been people to see them off—people who had said the same things, made the same jokes, smiled and laughed in the same way. There had always been the same hurried breakfast, the agitated drive, the crowded station, the counting of boxes. There had not, of course, been always the girls; there had been a nurse, and they had travelled in another carriage because the noise troubled his wife. His wife! He looked at her now as she lay back against her cushions with her eyes closed. She had changed very little during all those married years; she was still the same dainty, pretty little woman—something delicate and fragile—whom he had loved so passionately fifteen years before. He thought of those years before he had met her. They had been exciting, adventurous years. Whenever he went out, were it only to pay a call, there had been always the thought that now, perhaps, at last, he was to meet that wonderful Fate that was waiting somewhere for him. He had often thought that he had met it. He remembered Miss Suckling, a pretty girl, a parson’s daughter, and then Lucy Armes with her wonderful dark hair and glorious eyes, and then little Rose Craven—yes, he had loved her pretty badly, only some one else had stepped in and carried her off. And then at last his Fate had come; there had been a delirious courting, a glorious proposal, a rapturous engagement, and a wonderful wedding. It was all so swift and so exciting that he had not had time to think about it at all. The world had seemed a very wonderful, glowing place then, and he had wondered why people thought that rapture faded and gave place to other feelings—mistrust and criticism and then estrangement. He remembered the wonderful letters that he had written, and the sealing of them with great blots of red sealing-wax—every night he had written. On looking back, it seemed that he had done most of the wooing; she had been very charming and dainty and delightful, but she had taken things very quietly and soberly. And now? He looked at her again, and then out of the window. Nothing had happened, of course. He could look to no definite act or event and point to it as the dividing line. He had discovered very quickly that she had nothing to give him, that there was no question, nor indeed could ever be, of partnership or companionship. That, of course, had been at first. He had put it down to his own stupidity, his ignorance, his blindness; but he had tried her on every side, he had yielded her every allowance, and there was nothing there, simply nothing at all. Then he had discovered another thing. She had not married him for himself, nor indeed, to do her justice, for his position or anything material that he could give her, but simply that she might have children. He did not know how he had discovered this, but he had known it by the end of the first year of their life together, and then, as their girls had grown, he had seen it increasingly plainly. Any other man would have done equally well—some men might have done better—and so he had done his duty. Then, when he saw what had happened and that there was an end to his dreams, he had set his teeth and given his soul for the making of money. Whether it had been a fair exchange he did not know, but he had succeeded. They had plenty—plenty for the present, plenty for the future. He need not do another day’s work all his life unless he wished, and he was only forty. He smiled grimly as he looked out of the window. He did not whine or complain. There were doubtless thousands and thousands of other people in the same case—only, what a muddle! what a silly, hideous muddle. He was forty, and in perfect health. He looked at his wife again. She was happy enough; she had her house and her friends and her girls! She did not want anything at all. And they would go on, of course, to the end of things like that. For years now it had been the same thing. He had played the game, and she had never guessed that he wanted anything; she had probably never thought about him at all. He was forty, and life was over—its adventures, its emotions, its surprises, its vices, its great romance; he was a bird in a cage, and he had put himself inside and locked the door. He looked at his girls; they aroused no emotion whatever, he did not care for them at all. That was wrong, of course, but it was quite true; and then it was equally true that they didn’t care for him. His head began to nod, and at last he was asleep. He was dreaming of the station and poor Tom Craddock—he grew fatter and fatter—he filled the carriage—everyone had to squeeze against the wall to get out of his way—Tom, Tom—this won’t do, really—have some consideration. . . . There was perfect silence in the carriage. The girls had not spoken a word since the journey began. The shining landscape flew past them; things darted up at the window; cows and trees and hedges and telegraph wires leapt wildly up and down for no apparent reason whatever. At last an official arrived and commanded them to take their places for lunch, and there was instant confusion. Mrs. Maradick sailed into the dining-car followed closely by her girls; Maradick brought up the rear. Her sleep had refreshed her, and she was bright and amusing. “Now, James, look your brightest. Well, Annie darling, and was the Girl’s Realm amusing? Yes? I’m so glad, and what was the thing that you liked best?” Annie spoke softly and deliberately. “There was a story, mother, about a girl’s adventures in America that I liked rather, also an article on ‘How to learn the Violin’ was very good.” She folded her hands on her lap and looked straight in front of her. But Mrs. Maradick was deep in the menu. “It’s always roast mutton or boiled lamb,” she exclaimed; “I never knew anything so monotonous—and cheese or sweet”—she dived into her soup with relish. “It’s really not so bad,” she cried a little later. “And they do have the things hot, which is so important. Think, girls, we’re half-way already. We’ll be in splendid time for dinner. I wonder who’ll be there this year. There were those nice Jacksons last year—you remember—that Miss Jackson with the fuzzy hair and the short skirt—quite nice people, they were. I don’t think you took to them much, James.” “No, I didn’t care very much about them,” he replied grimly. “No—such a pity. We so often like different people. And then there were the Dalrymples—quite nice—and Lucy Dalrymple was such a good friend for the girls; you remember Lucy, don’t you, dears?” And so it was to be the same thing again—the same monotonous round that it had been before. He had liked Treliss at first. It had been quaint, romantic, interesting, and he had loved the sea. And then the hotel with its quaint name, “The Man at Arms,” and its picturesque Elizabethan architecture. If he could be there alone, just for a day! They went back to their carriage, and found that the two extra seats, tenanted hitherto by a man and his wife who were negligible from every point of view, were now occupied by two very young people. A further glance classified them as “honeymooners,” and Mrs. Maradick found them no longer interesting. She sank into her novel, and there was absolute stillness save for the soft whirr of the wheels beneath them and the rush of the air outside the windows. The couple opposite him were very quiet—sometimes there was a whisper or a laugh as their eyes met. He knew that look in the eyes and that clasp of the hand. He knew that they were, both of them, outside the train, flying through space, without thought of time or any confining boundaries. What fools they were; he would like to tell them so. He would like to show them that he had been like that once, fifteen years before. He had thought that there would never be an end to it, and it had lasted barely a year. And so they passed into Cornwall. Every year at that moment there came the same strange thrill, the same emotion as of something ancient and immutable crossing the very modern and changing texture of his own life. Mrs. Maradick put down her novel and looked about her. “It will soon be Truro,” she said; “and then there’ll be all that troublesome changing at Trewth. It’s really too absurd that one should have that all the time. Dear Louie! I wonder what she’s doing now—gone to look at the garden, I expect, like the dear girl she is. I hope they will give us the same rooms again this year. You wrote for them, didn’t you?” “Yes, dear.” “Because you know last year they tried to put those stupid Jones’s in, and if I hadn’t made quite a row about it they’d have turned us into the east wing with that great dreary sweep of sea and not a glimpse of the town in front.” He remembered that he had rather envied those rooms in front; there had been a magnificent view of the sea, and a little corner with an old greystone pier and red fishing-boats. Mrs. Maradick turned her attention to the girls. “Now, dears, come and talk.” They moved towards her, and sat one on each side, expectant. “I had your reports, dears, just before I left home, and they were both most satisfactory. Miss Maynard says about your French, Isabel, that you show some ability and great diligence. Which was Miss Maynard, dear, at the prize-giving? That nice-looking girl with that rather smart frock? I remember noticing her at the time.” “No, mother, that was Miss Lane; Miss Maynard had pince-nez.” “Oh, yes; and beat time to the songs, I remember. As for the arithmetic——” He watched them, and knew that he had been forgotten altogether. Were other people’s children like that? He knew some little girls who climbed on to their father’s knee, and pulled his moustache and clutched his hand; but then, it must be largely his own fault, because he knew that if his girls had tried to do that he would have prevented them. He should not have known what to say! There was a wonderful glow over the land as they came into Trewth. Already he felt the breath of the sea and the salt sting in the air; down the long platform the winds came laughing and screaming round the boxes and the bundles and the absurd mortals who clung to their hats and cloaks and neatly bound hair. “Come, girls.” Mrs. Maradick collared her porter and shouted “Treliss!” into his ear. “Don’t forget anything, James. Have you my green bag and the little brown holdall? and—oh, yes—my black bag there on the seat.” She hurried down the platform. It was always at this moment that a general review took place, and you discovered whether there was going to be anyone you knew at Treliss. Everyone was waiting for the other train to come in, so that you had a splendid time for inspection. Mrs. Maradick was an adept at the difficult art of knowing all about people in half a minute without looking anywhere near them. “No, the Dalrymples aren’t there. I dare say they’ve come already. What a wind! Really, it’s most annoying having to wait. James, have you got all the boxes there? Twelve altogether, counting that portmanteau of yours——” She was looking very pretty indeed, her colour heightened by the wind, her hair blowing in little golden whisps about her cheek, the light green of her dress, and the little jingle of gold bracelets, and the pearl necklace at her throat. They walked up and down the platform silently until the train came in. They never talked when they were together because there was nothing to say. When other people were there they kept it up because they had to play a game, but when they were alone it really wasn’t worth while. He wondered sometimes whether she realised that he was there at all. He would have liked to make her angry; he had tried once, but it was no good, she only smiled and stared through him as though he had been a brick wall. They got into the train and sped on that fairy-journey to Treliss. It was always the most magical thing in the world. The trains helped to add to the romance of it—strange lumbering, stumbling carriages with a ridiculous little engine that shrieked for no reason and puffed and snorted in order to increase its own importance. They often stopped suddenly while something was put right; and they would lie there, for several minutes, in the heart of the golden sand with the blue sea smiling below. He was often tempted to get out and strike across the green dunes, and so down into the heart of the little town with its red roofs and shining spires. He caught the gleam of the wet sand, and he saw the red-brown outline of the rocks as they rounded the curve. That platform was crowded, and he had some difficulty in securing a cab; but they were settled at last, and turned the corner down the cobbled street. Mrs. Maradick lay back quite exhausted. “We’d never have got that cab if I hadn’t held on to that man’s arm,” she said breathlessly. “It was positively the last, and we should have had to wait at that station hours before we got another. I call it regular bad management. It’s the most important train in the day and they ought to have had plenty of things to meet it.” Treliss has not, as yet, been spoiled by the demands of modern civilisation. “Touristy” it is in August, and the “Man at Arms” is one of the most popular hotels in the West of England; but it has managed to keep undefiled its delightfully narrow streets, its splendidly insufficient shops, its defective lighting, and a quite triumphant lack of competition. Its main street runs steeply up the hill, having its origin in the wet, gleaming sands of the little bay and its triumphant conclusion in the splendid portals and shining terraces of the “Man at Arms.” The street is of cobbles, and the houses still hang over it with crooked doorposts and bending gables, so that the Middle Ages stalks by your side as you go, and you expect some darkly cloaked figure to point menacingly with bony fingers up the dark alleys and twisting corners. There are shops of a kind along the way, but no one has ever taken them seriously. “You can buy nothing in Treliss” is the constant cry of all visitors; and it is generally followed by the assertion that you have to pay double West End prices all the same. The ancient four-wheeler containing the Maradicks bumped slowly up the hill, and at every moment it seemed as though the avalanche of boxes on the top must come down with a rush and a roar and scatter their contents over the cobbles. Mrs. Maradick said nothing, her mind was fixed on the forthcoming interview with her hotel manager. She would have to fight for those rooms, she knew, but she would win her victory and give no quarter. The charm of the place had caught Maradick once more in its arms. In the dust and heat of the London year he had thought that he had lost it altogether; but now, with a glimpse of the curving bay and the cobbled street, with that scent of spray and onions and mignonette and fishing-nets (it was compounded of all those things) in his nostrils, his heart was beating excitedly, and he was humming a little tune that he had heard the year before. What was the tune? He had forgotten it; he had never thought of it in London, but now it was with him again. He had heard a sailor sing it in an inn on the quay. He had stood outside in the dusk and listened. He remembered the last line:— And there’s gold in the creek and the sands of the sea, So ho! for the smuggler’s cargo! It meant nothing, of course—a kind of “Pirates of Penzance” absurdity—but the little tune was beating in his brain. Half-way up the hill there is the market-place, standing on a raised plateau as it were, with the town-hall as its central glory. They drove through with difficulty, because there was a fair that filled the market and overflowed into the crooked streets up and down the hill. They only caught a passing glimpse as they bumped and stumbled through: a merry-go-round and rows of booths and shouting crowds of men and girls, and a strange toothless old woman in a peaked hat seated on a barrel and selling sweets. “How they can allow it I don’t know!” Mrs. Maradick leant back from the window. “One might as well—Whitechapel, you know, and all that sort of thing.” The last turn of the road to the hotel was very steep indeed, and the weight of the boxes seemed to accumulate with every step; the horses strained and tugged, and for a moment they hesitated and half slid backward, then with a hoarse shout from the driver, a gigantic straining of limb and muscle, they were through the hotel gates. For the hotel stands in its own grounds, and, as you approach it up a drive of larch and birch, its privacy is startling and unusual. One hundred years before it had been the manor of the estate, the feudal castle of a feudal town, ruling, like some Italian despot, the country at its feet. Then its masters had fallen at the feet of the Juggernaut of modern civilisation and improvement, and their tyranny had passed into the hands of others. For some years the house had lain desolate and threatened to fall into utter ruin and decay; its gardens had been transformed into a wilderness, and its rooms had gathered dust and mildew into their quarters. Then in 1850 or thereabouts young Mr. Bannister of Manchester had seen his chance. Treliss, at that time, was an obscure and minute village of no fame whatever; but it had fishing, colour and bathing, so Mr. Bannister seized his opportunity. He had large resources at his back and a very original brain at his service, so he set to work and was immediately successful. He had no intention of turning it into a modern watering-place—there was enough of that (speaking now of 1860) to be done elsewhere—he had Pendragon and Port Looth in his mind. No, he would let it keep its character—indeed, he would force it to keep its character. For some years there were other things to do and his plans were still in embryo; then in 1870 (no longer young Mr. Bannister, but stout and prosperous Mr. Bannister) he took the house in hand. He interfered in no way with its original character. There were a great many alterations, of course, but, through it all, it retained that seventeenth-century charm and spaciousness—that air of surprise and unexpected corners, the sudden visions of hidden gardens bordered by close-clipped box and the broad depths of wide stone staircases and dark oak panelling—a charm that was to be found in no other hotel in England, a delicious survival that gave you seventeenth-century England without any of its discomforts and drawbacks, sanitary or otherwise. For now, in 1908, it had all the very latest improvements. There were lifts, and the very best methods of ventilation; the electric light was of a delicious softness, and carpets and chairs were so luxurious that it was difficult to force oneself outside. But then, when you were outside, you wondered how you could ever stay in; for there were lawns with the most wonderful views of the sea and tennis and croquet and badminton and—and now the Maradicks were at the door. There were several people scattered about the grounds who watched them with curiosity; but it was nearly dressing-time, and already the shadows were lengthening over the lawns and the yews flung long fantastic shapes over the roses and pinks. There was a little breeze in the tops of the trees, and very faintly, like some distant solemn music, came the roll of the sea. The doors closed on the Maradicks. CHAPTER IIIIN WHICH THE ADMONITUS LOCORUM BEGINS TO HAVE FUN WITH TWO ENTIRELY RESPECTABLE MEMBERS OF SOCIETY The hall of the “Man at Arms” was ever a place of mystery. The high roof seemed to pass into infinite space, and on every side there appeared passages and dark oaken doors that led, one fancied, into the very heart of secrecy. At the other end, opposite to the great doors, was the wide stone staircase leading to other floors, and down the passages to right and left deep-set windows let in shafts of light. Mrs. Maradick greeted Mr. Bannister cordially, but with reserve. He was a little stout man like a top, scrupulously neat and always correct. He liked to convey to his guests the spirit of the place—that they were received from no mercenary point of view, but rather with the greeting of a friend. Of course, there would ultimately be a bill—it was only the horrid necessity of these, our grasping times—but let it be forgotten and put aside until the final leave-taking. He would have preferred, if possible, to send bills afterwards by post, directed by another hand; but that gave opportunity to unscrupulous adventurers. He would have liked to have entertained the whole world, at any rate the whole social world, free of charge; as it was—well, the bills were heavy. He was always disappointed when his guests failed to grasp this point of view; sometimes they were blustering and domineering, sometimes they were obsequious and timorous—either manner was disagreeable. About Mrs. Maradick he was never quite sure. He was afraid that she scarcely grasped the whole situation; there was no doubt that she found it impossible to eliminate the bill altogether. “And our rooms?” Mrs. Maradick looked up at him. She was smiling, but it was a smile that threatened to disappear. “I think you will be completely satisfied, Mrs. Maradick. A most delightful suite on the second floor with a view of the sea——” “Ah—but our rooms. My husband wrote, I think. We had the same last year—I——” “I’m afraid that there’s been a little difficulty. We had had previous orders. I would have written to explain had I not been sure that the rooms that we had allotted you would be completely satisfactory.” “Now, Mr. Bannister, that is too bad of you.” The smile had gone and her eyes flashed. There was to be a battle as she had foreseen. “We had the same trouble last year, I think——” “I am extremely sorry, Mrs. Maradick.” He watched her a little anxiously. This was one of the occasions on which he was not certain of her. Would she remember the true ethics of the situation? He hoped for her sake that she would. “I am really very sorry, but I am afraid in this case that there is nothing to be done. Sir Richard and Lady Gale ordered the rooms so long ago as last Christmas. It is of some importance to him, I believe, owing to reasons of health. They laid some stress on it.” “Lady Gale?” “Yes.” Mr. Bannister smiled again. “Really, Mrs. Maradick, I think that you would be perfectly satisfied with your rooms if you would come up for a moment.” “Is Lady Gale here?” Mrs. Maradick was considering. “Yes. They arrived last night.” “Well,” this slowly and with hesitation, “let us go and see them, James. One never knows, after all.” Maradick was relieved. He always waited in the background during these interviews—there were many throughout the year. But this was delightfully over. Had it been the Jones’s! Well, he had no doubt that it would have been a prolonged struggle; after all, there was a difference. Mrs. Maradick hurried to the lift, her girls in close attendance, and Mr. Bannister at her side. Maradick was about to follow, when he felt a touch on his elbow and turned round. At his side stood a young man with dark curly hair and a snub nose; not snub enough to mind, but just enough to give you the impression that “everything turned up”—the corners of his mouth and the tips of his ears. He seemed very young indeed, and had that very clean, clear skin that is the best thing in a decent young man; at least, that is more or less how Maradick summed him up. He was in evening dress, and it suited him. “I say, I’m most awfully sorry.” He was smiling, so Maradick smiled too. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “About the rooms, you know. It is my people—my name is Gale—who have them. I’m afraid it was most annoying, and I’m sure my mother will be extremely sorry.” He blushed and stammered. “Oh, please——” Maradick felt quite embarrassed. “It really doesn’t matter at all. My wife liked those rooms—we were there last year—and she’s naturally asked about them; but these others will suit us splendidly.” “No, but your being there last year seems almost as though you had a right, doesn’t it? It is true about my father, it makes rather a difference to him, and they are ripping rooms.” “Yes, of course,” Maradick laughed again, “we shall be perfectly comfortable.” There was a moment’s pause. There was nothing more to say: then suddenly, simultaneously—“It’s very decent . . .” and at that they laughed again. Then Maradick hurried up the stairs. The boy stayed where he was, the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. Although it was half-past seven the daylight streamed into the hall. People were passing to and fro, and every now and again glanced at him and caught his infectious smile. “By Jove, a pretty woman, but a bit of a Tartar,” he said, thinking of Mrs. Maradick; then he turned round and walked up the stairs, down a passage to the right, and in a moment young Gale had opened their sitting-room door. The rooms under discussion were certainly very delightful and the view was charming, down over the town and out to the sea beyond. There were glimpses of the crooked streets and twisted gables, and, at last, the little stone pier and a crowd of herring-boats sheltering under its protection. In the sitting-room was Lady Gale, waiting to go down to dinner. At this time she was about fifty years of age, but she was straight and tall as she had been at twenty. In her young days as Miss Laurence, daughter of Sir Douglas Laurence, the famous Egyptologist, she had been a beauty, and she was magnificent now with a mass of snow-white hair that, piled high on her head, seemed a crown worthily bestowed on her as one of the best and gentlest women of her generation; but perhaps it was her eyes that made you conscious at once of being in the presence of some one whose judgment was unswerving with a tenderness of compassion that made her the confidante of all the failures and wastrels of her day. “Lady Gale will tell you that you are wrong,” some one once said of her; “but she will tell you so that her condemnation is better than another person’s praise.” At her side stood a man of about thirty, strikingly resembling her in many ways, but lacking in animation and intelligence. You felt that his carefully controlled moustache was the most precious thing about him, and that the cut of his clothes was of more importance than the cut of his character. “Well, Tony?” Lady Gale greeted him as he closed the door behind him. “Getting impatient? Father isn’t ready. I told him that we’d wait for him; and Alice hasn’t appeared——” “No, not a bit.” He came over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not hungry, as a matter of fact, too big a tea. Besides, where’s Alice?” “Coming. She told us not to wait, but I suppose we’d better.” “Oh, I say! Mother! I’ve discovered the most awfully decent fellow downstairs, really; I hope that we shall get to know him. He looks a most thundering good sort.” The red light from the setting sun had caught the church spire and the roofs of the market-place; the town seemed on fire; the noise of the fair came discordantly up to them. “Another of your awfully decent chaps!” This from his brother. “My dear Tony, you discover a new one every week. Only I wish you wouldn’t thrust them on to us. What about the charming painter who borrowed your links and never returned them, and that delightful author-fellow who was so beastly clever that he had to fly the country——?” “Oh, chuck it, Rupert. Of course one makes mistakes. I learnt a lot from Allison, and I know he always meant to send the links back and forgot; anyhow he’s quite welcome to them. But this chap’s all right—he is really—he looks jolly decent——” “Yes; but, Tony,” said his mother, laughing, “I agree with Rupert there. Make your odd acquaintances if you like, but don’t bring them down on to us; for instance, that horrid little fat man you liked so much at one time, the poet——” “Oh, Trelawny. He’s all right now. He’s going to do great things one day.” “And meanwhile borrows money that he never intends to repay. No, Tony, these sudden acquaintances are generally a mistake, take my word for it. How long have you known this man downstairs?” “Only a minute. He’s just arrived with his wife and two little girls.” “And you know him already?” “Well, you see his wife wanted these rooms—said she ordered them or something—and then went for old Bannister about it, and he, naturally enough, said that we’d got them; and then he stuck it on about their rooms and said that they were much the nicest rooms in the place, and then she went off fairly quiet.” “Well, where did the man come in?” “He didn’t at all, and, from the look of her, I shouldn’t think that he ever does. But I went up and said I was jolly sorry, and all that sort of thing——” “Well, I’m——!” from Rupert. “Really, Tony! And what on earth was there to apologise for! If we are going to start saying pretty things to everyone in the hotel who wants these rooms we’ve got our work cut out.” “Oh! I didn’t say pretty things; I don’t know why I really said anything at all. The spirit moved me, I suppose. I’m going to be friends with that man. I shall like him.” “How do you know?” “By three infallible signs. He looks you straight in the eyes, he’s got a first-class laugh, and he doesn’t say much.” “Characteristics of most of the scoundrels in the kingdom,” Rupert said, yawning. “By Jove! I wish father and Alice would hurry up.” A girl came in at that moment; Tony danced round her and then caught her hand and led her to his mother. “Your Majesty! I have the honour of presenting her Grace the Duchess of——” But the girl broke from him. “Don’t, Tony, please, you’re upsetting things. Please, Lady Gale, can’t we go down? I’m so hungry that no ordinary dinner will ever satisfy me.” “Don’t you pretend, Alice,” cried Tony, laughing. “It’s the dress, the whole dress, and nothing but the dress. That we may astonish this our town of Treliss is our earnest and most humble desire.” He stopped. “It is high time, you know, mother; nearly half-past eight.” “I know, but it’s your father. You might go and see if he’s nearly ready, Tony.” As he moved across the room her eyes followed him with a devotion that was the most beautiful thing in the world. Then she turned to the girl. Miss Alice Du Cane was looking very lovely indeed. Her dress was something wonderful in pink, and that was all that the ordinary observer would have discovered about it; very beautiful and soft, tumbling into all manner of lines and curves and shades as she walked. Quite one of the beauties of the season, Miss Alice Du Cane, and one of the loveliest visions that your dining-halls are likely to behold, Mr. Bannister! She was dark and tall and her smile was delightful—just a little too obviously considered, perhaps, but nevertheless delightful! “Yes, dear, you look very nice.” Lady Gale smiled at her. “I only wish that all young ladies nowadays would be content to dress as simply; but, of course, they haven’t all got your natural advantages!” Then the door opened once more and Sir Richard Gale appeared, followed closely by Tony. He was a man of magnificent presence and wonderful preservation, and he was probably the most completely selfish egoist in the kingdom; on these two facts he had built his reputation. The first gave him many admirers and the second gave him many enemies, and a splendid social distinction was the result. He was remarkably handsome, in a military-cum-Embassy manner; that is, his moustache, his walk, and the swing of his shoulders were all that they should be. He walked across the room most beautifully, but, perhaps, just a little too carefully, so that he gave the onlooker the impression of something rather precariously kept together—it was the only clue to his age. He spent his life in devising means of enabling his wife to give sign and evidence to the world of her affection. He was entirely capricious and unreliable, and took violent dislikes to very many different kinds of people. He had always been a very silent man, and now his conversation was limited to monosyllables; he disliked garrulous persons, but expected conversation to be maintained. The only thing that he said now was “Dinner!” but everyone knew what he meant, and an advance was made: Lady Gale and her husband, Miss Du Cane between Rupert and Tony, accompanied by laughter and a good deal of wild jesting on the part of the last named. The going in to dinner at home was always a most solemn affair, even when no one save the family were present. Sir Richard was seen at his best in the minutes during which the procession lasted, and it symbolised the dignity and solemnity befitting his place and family. The Gales go in to dinner! and then, Sir Richard Gale goes in to dinner!—it was the moment of the day. And now how greatly was the symbolism increased. Here we are in the heart of the democracy, sitting down with our fellow-creatures, some of whom are most certainly commoners, sitting down without even a raised platform; not at the same table, it is true, but nevertheless on the same floor, beneath the same ceiling! It was indeed a wonderful and truly British ceremony. He generally contrived to be a little late, but to-day they were very late indeed, and his shoulders were raised just a little higher and his head was just a little loftier than usual. The room was full, and many heads were raised as they entered. They were a fine family, no doubt—Sir Richard, Lady Gale, Rupert—all distinguished and people at whom one looked twice, and then Alice was lovely. It was only Tony, perhaps, who might have been anybody; just a nice clean-looking boy people were inclined to call him, but they always liked him. Their table was at the other end of the room, and the procession was slow. Tony always hated it—“making a beastly monkey-show of oneself and the family”—but his father took his time. The room was charming, with just a little touch of something unusual. Mr. Bannister liked flowers, but he was wise in his use of them; and every table had just that hint of colour, red and blue and gold, that was needed, without any unnecessary profusion. There were a great many people—the season was at its height—and the Maradicks, although late, were fortunate to have secured a table by the windows. The girls were tired and were going to have supper in bed—a little fish, some chicken and some shape—Mrs. Maradick had given careful directions. Through the windows came the scents of the garden and a tiny breeze that smelt of the sea. There were wonderful colours on the lawn outside. The moon was rising, a full moon like a stiff plate of old gold, and its light flung shadows and strange twisted shapes over the grass. The trees stood, tall and dark, a mysterious barrier that fluttered and trembled in the little wind and was filled with the whispers of a thousand voices. Beyond that again was the light pale quivering blue of the night-sky, in which flashed and wheeled and sparkled the stars. Mr. and Mrs. Maradick were playing the game very thoroughly to-night; you could not have found a more devoted couple in the room. She looked charming in her fragile, kittenish manner, something fluffy and white and apparently simple, with a slender chain of gold at her throat and a small spray of diamonds in her hair. She was excited, too, by the place and the people and the whole change. This was, oh! most certainly! better than Epsom, and Mrs. Martin Fraser and Louie had faded into a very distant past. This was her mÉtier!—this, with its lights and its fashion! Why didn’t they live in London, really in London? She must persuade James next year. It would be better for the girls, too, now that they were growing up; and they might even find somewhere with a garden. She chattered continuously and watched for the effect on her neighbours. She had noticed one man whisper, and several people had looked across. “It is so wonderful that I’m not more tired after all that bolting and jolting, and you know I felt that headache coming all the time. . . only just kept it at bay. But really, now, I’m quite hungry; it’s strange. I never could eat anything in Epsom. What is there?” The waiter handed her the card. She looked up at him with a smile. “Oh! no consommÉ! thank you. Yes, Filet de sole and Poularde braisÉe—oh! and Grouse À la broche—of course—just in time, James, to-day’s only the fifteenth. Cerises Beatrice—Friandises—oh! delightful! the very thing.” “Bannister knows what to give us,” he said, turning to her. She settled back in her seat with a little purr of pleasure. “I hope the girls had what they wanted. Little dears! I’m afraid they were dreadfully tired.” He watched her curiously. There had been so many evenings like this—evenings when those around him would have counted him a lucky fellow; and yet he knew that he might have been a brick wall and she would have talked in the same way. He judged her by her eyes—eyes that looked through him, past him, quite coldly, with no expression and no emotion. She simply did not realise that he was there, and he suddenly felt cold and miserable and very lonely. Oh! if only these people round him knew, if they could only see as he saw. But perhaps they were, many of them, in the same position. He watched them curiously. Men and women laughing and chatting with that intimate note that seemed to mean so much and might, as he knew well, mean so little. Everybody seemed very happy; perhaps they were. Oh! he was an old, middle-aged marplot, a kill-joy, a skeleton at the feast. “Isn’t it jolly, dear?” he said, laughing across the table; “this grouse is perfection.” “Tell me,” she said, with that little wave of her wrist towards him that he knew so well—“tell me where the Gales are. I don’t suppose you know, though, but we might guess.” “I do know,” he answered, laughing; “young Gale came and spoke to me just before I came up to dress. He seemed a nice young fellow. He came up and said something about the rooms—he had heard you speaking to Bannister. They came in just now; a fine-looking elderly man, a lady with beautiful white hair, a pretty girl in pink.” “Oh! of course! I noticed them! Oh, yes! one could tell they were somebody.” She glanced round the room. “Yes, there they are, by the wall at the back; quite a lovely girl!” She looked at them curiously. “Oh, you spoke to young Gale, did you? He looks quite a nice boy. I hope they have liked the rooms, and, after all, ours aren’t bad, are they? Really, I’m not sure that in some ways——” She rattled on, praising the grouse, the bread sauce, the vegetables. She speculated on people and made little jokes about them, and he threw the ball back again, gaily, merrily, light-heartedly. “You know I don’t think Louie really cares about him. I often hoped for her sake, poor girl, that she did, because there’s no denying that she’s getting on; and it isn’t as if she’s got looks or money, and it’s a wonder that he’s stuck to her as he has. I’ve always said that Louie was a marrying woman and she’d make him a good wife, there’s no doubt of that.” Her little eyes were glittering like diamonds and her cheeks were hot. People were arriving at the fruit stage, and conversation, which had murmured over the soup and hummed over the meat, seemed to Maradick to shriek over the grapes and pears. How absurd it all was, and what was the matter with him? His head was aching, and the silver and flowers danced before his eyes. The great lines of the silver birch were purple over the lawn and the full moon was level with the windows. It must have been the journey, and he had certainly worked very hard these last months in town; but he had never known his nerves like they were to-night, indeed he had often wondered whether he had any nerves at all. Now they were all on the jump; just as though, you know, you were on one of those roundabouts, the horses jumping up and down and round, and the lights and the other people jumping too. There was a ridiculous man at a table close to them with a bald head, and the electric light caught it and turned it into a fiery ball. Such a bald head! It shone like the sun, and he couldn’t take his eyes away from it: and still his wife went on talking, talking, talking—that same little laugh, that gesticulating with the fingers, that glance round to see whether people had noticed. In some of those first years he had tried to make her angry, had contradicted and laughed derisively, but it had had no effect. She simply hadn’t considered him. But she must consider him! It was absurd; they were husband and wife. He had said—what had he said that first day in church? He couldn’t remember, but he knew that she ought to consider him, that she oughtn’t to look past him like that just as though he wasn’t there. He pulled himself together with a great effort and finished the champagne in his glass: the waiter filled it again; then he leant back in his chair and began to peel an apple, but his fingers were trembling. “That woman over there,” said Mrs. Maradick, addressing a table to her right and then glancing quickly to her left, “is awfully like Mrs. Newton Bassett—the same sort of hair, and she’s got the eyes. Captain Bassett’s coming home in the autumn, I believe, which will be rather a blow for Muriel Bassett if all they say is true. He’s been out in Central Africa or somewhere, hasn’t he? Years older than her, they say, and as ugly as—Oh, well! people do talk, but young Forrest has been in there an awful lot lately, and he’s as nice a young fellow as you’d want to meet.” He couldn’t stand it much longer, so he put the apple down on his plate and finished the champagne. “If I went out to Central Africa,” he said slowly, “I wonder whether——” “These pears are delicious,” she answered, still looking at the table to her left. “If I went out to Central Africa——” he said again. She leant forward and played with the silver in front of her. “Look here, I want you to listen.” He leant forward towards her so that he might escape the man with the bald head. “If I went out to Central Africa, you—well, you wouldn’t much mind, would you? Things would be very much the same. It’s rather comforting to think that you wouldn’t very much mind.” Maradick’s hands were shaking, but he spoke quite calmly, and he did not raise his voice because he did not want the man with the bald head to hear. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? Why don’t you say?” Then suddenly something seemed to turn in his brain, like a little wheel, and it hurt. “It’s been going on like this for years, and how long do you think I’m going to stand it? You don’t care at all. I’m just like a chair, a table, anything. I say it’s got to change—I’ll turn you out—won’t have anything more to do with you—you’re not a wife at all—a man expects——” He did not know what he was saying, and he did not really very much care. He could not be eloquent or dramatic about it like people were in books, because he wasn’t much of a talker, and there was that little wheel in his head, and all these people talking. It had all happened in the very briefest of moments. He hardly realised at the time at all, but afterwards the impression that he had of it was of his fingers grating on the table-cloth; they dug into the wood of the table. For only a moment his fingers seemed, of their own accord, to rise from the table and stretch out towards her throat. Sheer animal passion held him, passion born of her placidity and indifference. Then suddenly he caught her eyes; she was looking at him, staring at him, her face was very white, and he had never seen anyone look so frightened. And then all his rage left him and he sat back in his chair again, shaking from head to foot. There were all those years between them and he had never said a word until now! Then he felt horribly ashamed of himself; he had been intolerably rude, to a lady. He wasn’t quite certain of what he had said. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
