Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Dec. 23rd. Had a walk with Katie — first walk had alone since her engagement. She was so happy that she was almost — a beastly word — frisky, Katie frisky! We’re miles away from one another just now, and that’s the truth. I suppose one must simply wait until this period’s passed away. But supposing it never passes away? Supposing she disappears altogether — from all of us. At any rate, what can one say? I like Philip, and can honestly say so, but I don’t think him the angel Gabriel. Not that Katie at present cares, in the least, what one thinks — she doesn’t wait to hear. She is making no plans, thinking of no possible future, imagining nothing. She never had any imagination, or at any rate never used it. Perhaps she’ll get some now from Philip, who has plenty — far too much. It’s his trouble, I believe that he’s always imagining something a little better than he’s got.... We Trenchards have none. I haven’t any really — it’s only curiosity. Henry and I might have some if we were all very uncomfortable. But of course the whole family only keeps together because it can’t imagine things being different. Are things going to be different now?... Rachel Seddon came to tea. Don’t like her. Thinks she owns Katie — and Katie’s let her. Went with the Aunts to the Messiah. Very long, with nice bits. Aunt Aggie had a crick in the neck, and wriggled all the time. Hope I get some money on Christmas Day or I shall be in an awful hole.

  Dec. 26th. Two pounds from father, one from grandfather, ten shillings Cousin Alice, five Aunt Grace, kettle-holder Aunt Aggie, two dozen handkerchiefs Uncle Bob, fountain-pen father, new hat mother (quite hopeless), photo-gravure ‘Happy Warrior’ Aunt Betty, two books ‘Reuben Hallard’ by Westcott (Mudie second-hand) ‘Rossetti’s Poems’ from Henry — lovely amethyst brooch Katie (darling!) two novels by Turgenieff from Philip — lots of other things.

  Nice day on the whole, but not quite right somehow. Wish mother didn’t always look so anxious when there’s a dinner party. You always expect things to happen wrong, and really Rocket knows his business by this time. All of us a little forced, I think. It seemed funny not being at Garth and Philip the first person we’ve ever had not of the family. Aunt Sarah keeps forgetting who he is, or pretends to. I wish he didn’t make up to mother quite so much. That isn’t the way to make her like him. I really do understand him much better than anyone else does — much better than Katie.

  Dec. 31st. Going to the Savoy party to-night. Hope it will be fun. Never expected mother to let me, but she’s awfully sweet to me lately. She’s a darling, but we’re really always just a little afraid of one another. Of course I’m not out yet, so I’ll have to be quiet to-night. Mother never would have dreamt of letting me go six months back. End of the year — made several resolutions. Not to be snappy, nor superior, nor cynical, nor selfish. That’s enough for anyone to look after! Wonder what things will be like this year, and how Katie and Philip will turn out. Feel as though things will all go wrong, and yet I don’t know why. Bought the hat I saw a fortnight ago. Finished ‘House of Gentlefolks’. Adored it. Discussed it with Philip. Going to get all the other Turgenieffs. Think Russia must be a wonderful country. Time to dress. I know I’ll just love the party....

  Only Mrs. Trenchard herself could say whether or no she had enjoyed this Christmas. She displayed the same busy placidity as on other occasions; of her fears, disappointments, surprises, she said nothing. The turkey was a success, the plum-pudding burnt with a proper glow, no one was ill, she had forgotten, in sending out her parcels, no single Trenchard relation — surely all was well.

  Her brother, Timothy, who knew her better than anyone else did, had long abandoned the penetration of her motives, aims, regrets. There had been a time when she had been almost intimate with him, then something (he never knew what) had driven her in more obstinately than ever upon herself. Something he had said.... He could point almost exactly to the day and hour. She had been a stranger to him from that moment.

  Her history was, however, very simple.

  When she had been a very, very small child she had decided for herself that the way to give life a real value was to fix one’s affection upon someone: perhaps there had been also the fear of life as a motive, the discovery that the best way to be protected from all kinds of perils was to be so fond of someone that nothing else mattered. With a quiet, undemonstrative but absolutely tenacious hold she attached herself to her nurse, who deserted her on the appearance of a younger sister, to her mother, who died, to her father, who was always so busy that loving him was like being devoted to a blotting pad. When she was ten years of age she went to school, and clung to a succession of older girls, who, however, found, in her lack of all demonstrations, her almost cynical remarks, her inability to give any expression whatever to her emotions, something, at first, terrifying, and afterwards merely tiresome.

  When she was about eighteen she discovered that the person to whom a woman should be properly attached was her husband. She waited then very calmly until she was twenty, when George Trenchard appeared, proposed to her, and was accepted. She took it so utterly for granted that her devotion to him would fill sufficiently the energy of her remaining days that it wasn’t until the end of a year of married life that she discovered that, although he liked her very much, he could do quite beautifully without her, and did, indeed, for three-quarters of every day forget her altogether. No one, except herself, knew whether that discovery hurt her. She, of course, said nothing to anyone about it. She waited for the arrival of her children. Katherine, Henry and Mildred came, and at last it seemed that Mrs. Trenchard’s ship had come into port. During their early years, at any rate, they clung to her tenaciously, did not in the least mind that she had nothing to say to them: they found her sure and safe and, best of all possible things in a parent, always the same. It was when Katherine was six years old that Timothy said to her one day:

  “Look here, Harriet, don’t get so wrapt in the children that you’ll never be able to unwrap yourself again. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, and it always gives endless trouble later on. It’s all very well now, but the time will come when they’ll break away — it must come, and you’ll suffer horribly unless you’re ready for it. I’m not married myself, it’s true, but I see all the more for that very reason.”

  This was the speech that severed Mrs. Trenchard from her brother. She never forgot nor forgave it. She never forgave it because she could not forget it: his words were to haunt her from the moment of their utterance until the last conscious instant of her life. She had been born entirely without imagination, but she had not been born without the wish for romance. Moreover, the Faunder tradition (which is the same as the Trenchard tradition) taught her to believe that there was something enfeebling and dangerous about imagination, and that the more one thought about things not immediately within sight the less likely one was to do one’s daily task with efficiency. Her longing for a romantic life therefore (that is for the justification of her own personal existence) was assisted by no private dreams nor castle-building. No Faunder or Trenchard had ever built a castle in the air when there were good square manors and vicarages waiting to be constructed on good solid ground. She directed the whole of her passionate life towards her relations with her children, but never even to herself would she admit that she had any passionate life at all. Take away the children and there was nothing left for her except her religion; because the loss of them would be the one tragedy that would drive her to question the justice of her God was justification of itself for her passionate determination.

  Now Timothy had said that she would lose them — well, Timothy should see. With other children, with other mothers, it might be so. God Himself should not take them from her.

  Nevertheless, as the children grew, the shadows of his words ever pursued her and hemmed her in. She watched, with close attention, other families, and saw that Timothy’s warning was justified often enough, but always she was able to find for herself some reason. The weakness of selfishness or carelessness of the parent. Not weak, nor selfish, nor careless could any wat
ching Powers, waiting to pounce, accuse her of being!

  When the children grew older she discovered certain things about them. Henry often annoyed her with his untidiness and strangely unjustified egotism. He always thought about himself, and yet never did anything. She liked Henry least of her children.

  Mildred was delightful, clever, the “show child”, but for that very reason would in all probability be, afterwards, the most restless of them. As the two girls grew Mrs. Trenchard told herself that, perhaps, Millie would have to be sacrificed, and in telling herself this she implied that if she would only, when the time came, allow Millie without a murmur to depart, the Gods would be satisfied with that and Katherine would remain.

  It came to this, that by the time that Katherine was twelve she was the centre of her mother’s existence. Mildred and Henry would be held as long as it was possible to hold them, but, if the worst came, they should go. Katherine would always remain....

  It seemed indeed that she would. She loved her home, her parents, her relations, Glebeshire, the whole of the Trenchard inheritance. She placed her mother first in her life, and she was able to satisfy the love in her mother’s heart without saying anything about it or drawing anyone’s attention towards it. She had all the qualities that her mother admired — sincerity, trust, common-sense, practical punctuality, moral as well as physical: above all, she took things for granted without asking endless questions, as was Henry’s unfortunate habit. There grew then in the lives both of Mrs. Trenchard and Katherine a passionate affection, which was never allowed by either of them to find outward expression. This became, behind the commonplace matter-of-fact of all their days, a kind of romantic conspiracy. Even when Katherine was still a child Mrs. Trenchard knew that the hours that they spent alone together had some strange almost incoherent quality, something that was mixed, inextricably, with the high lanes, the grassy lawns, the distant strip of sea beyond the fields, the rooks in the high trees, the smell of the village shop, boot-laces, liquorice, tallow, cheese and cotton, the dark attic bedroom of Katherine’s, the cries of village children beyond the garden wall, afternoon Sunday school upon hard benches under glazed lamps to the accompaniment of the harmonium; all the things that belonged to Garth belonged also to the love between Mrs. Trenchard and Katherine. Katherine had been first taken to the sea when she had been a very little girl; she had been shown Rafiel and the Pirates’ Cove with its cave (too small for any but very thin pirates), and the village with the cottages cut out of the rock and the sea advancing and retreating as a lazy cat stretches and withdraws its paws upon the pebbled beach. Driving home through the twilight in the high dog-cart behind the fat and beloved family pony, Katherine had been besieged with questions. What had she thought of it all? What had she liked best? Had it been wonderful? She had said nothing. She was obstinately silent. At last, persecuted beyond bearing, she looked, imploringly, at her mother. Her eyes had met her mother’s, and, as complete understanding passed between them, it seemed that they made, there and then, a compact of mutual help and protection that was never afterwards to be broken. Mrs. Trenchard had never, never been known to mention scenery, sunsets or buildings, except for strictly practical reasons. She would say: “Come in, children, you’ll catch cold, the sun’s setting”, or “I don’t think we’ll have rain to-day. There’s not a cloud”, or “It’s so hot, there’s quite a mist. I hope there’ll be enough strawberries and cream for everyone.” That was her attitude, and yet she loved Glebeshire, every stone and tree, with an unfaltering and unarguing devotion. She never said “Glebeshire is the loveliest spot in the world”. But only: “Oh! you’ve never been to Glebeshire? You don’t know the Clarence Faunders then? They’re only five miles from us”, or “Yes. We live in Glebeshire — a little village not far from Polchester. We’re very lucky in our clergyman, a Mr. Smart, one of the Smarts, etc.” Moreover, she never when she was quite alone said to herself: “Oh! what a heavenly day!” or “How lovely the new leaves are”, or “Look at the primroses!” She only said to herself: “Lucy Cartwright’s Annie has got to have that ointment”, or “I must tell Rebekah about the poor Curtises. She could take them the things.”

  Nevertheless, when she discovered that Katherine cared for Glebeshire with a love as deep as her own, how happy she was! How firmly that discovery bound them together! For them both that journey twice a year from London to Garth was as exciting as though they had never taken it before. The stations, whose names were like the successive wrappers that enclose a splendid present, Rasselas, the little windy station where they changed from the London Express into the halting, stumbling little train that carried them towards the sea; then Stoep in Roselands, tiniest station of all, with the sea smell blowing across the dark fields, the carriage with its lights and Jacob, the coachman, the drive through the twilight lanes, the gleaming white gates, the house itself and old Rebekah on the doorstep ... yes, of all these things was the love between Mrs. Trenchard and her daughter made.

  Most wonderful of all was it that, with Katherine, Mrs. Trenchard never knew a moment’s awkwardness or embarrassment. With everyone else in the world and, perhaps especially with her own family, Mrs. Trenchard was often awkward and embarrassed, although no one but herself was aware of it. Of this embarrassment Mrs. Trenchard had a horrible dread: it was to her as though she were suddenly lifted off her feet by a giant hand and held dangling: she felt that all the world must see how her skirts blew in the wind. With Katherine she was always safe: she grew, most urgently, to depend upon this safety. Then, as the years passed she felt that she might, with justice, consider Katherine secure. Katherine seemed to have no interest in young men: already she adopted a rather motherly attitude towards them and, perhaps because Henry was the young man immediately before her, considered them rather helpless, rather clumsy, rather unwieldy and ungainly. She was always kind but a little satirical in her relations to the other sex: young men were, perhaps, afraid of her.

  Mrs. Trenchard did, of course, consider the possibility of Katherine’s marriage, but, if that ever occurred, it would be, she knew, with someone in the family, someone like themselves, who would live near by, who would worship Katherine but never interfere with her, who would give her children, to whom Mrs. Trenchard could be a delightful grandmother. This surrender the Gods might demand — it would need more than such a marriage to separate, now, Katherine from her mother. Mrs. Trenchard, like all unimaginative people, relied very strongly upon little facts and well-accustomed places and familiar family relations. She did not believe that Victoria Street would walk away or that the old woman (Mrs. Pengello, an ancient widow with a pension, two granddaughters and a cast in her eye) at the Garth post office would appear one morning as a radiant young beauty, or that her brother Timothy would go on to the music halls. Her world was thus a place of security, and Katherine was one of the most secure things in it. “Ah! Timothy, you’re wrong after all,” she would sometimes, in the watches of the night, think to herself. “Nothing can take Katherine from me now. You may be as right as you like about Millie and Henry. Katherine is enough....”

  She had, during these last years, been wrapped in with a strange, placid content: Millie had been at school in Paris: there was nothing inside the Trenchard fortress that spoke of the outside world. No secret spirit ever whispered to Mrs. Trenchard: “Are you not being selfish in keeping your daughter? You will die some day, and then she will have a lonely old maid’s life when she might have been so happy. The children’s lives are their own. What right have you to Katherine’s life and ambitions and love? Would you, in your youth, have given up your future for your parents? Why should she?”

  There was nothing that Mrs. Trenchard desired more than Katherine’s happiness. If Katherine had not loved her she would have let her go, but now ... Katherine’s life was bound up with hers so tightly that nothing, nothing could part them....

  Then there came a night of fog, a stranger bowing in the doorway, and all the old days were dead. Mrs. Trenchard was stil
l stunned, the fog was yet about her eyes, and in her heart was a dread that had not yet found its voice nor driven her to determine what she would do.... Meanwhile there was no one in the world who knew her. She did not know herself. Until now there had been in her life no crisis strong enough to force open that realisation.

  One morning early in January Mrs. Trenchard said to Katherine at breakfast: “Will you come to the Stores with me this afternoon, Katherine? I have to buy some hot-water bottles and one or two other things. Two of them leak badly ... some hot-water bottles ... and I’d like you to help me.”

  “I’m lunching with Rachel, mother,” Katherine said. “But I’ll be back by three if that’s time enough.”

  “Three o’clock. Very well, dear. They oughtn’t to leak — we’ve had them quite a short time. Shall I meet you there?”

  “No. I’ll come back. We might miss there. I’ll be back by three.”

  At ten minutes past three in a large rather confused hat with a black bird and white feathers Mrs. Trenchard was seated waiting in the drawing-room. The fire had had coal poured upon it by Rocket, and it was very black: the room was cold and dark, and Mrs. Trenchard, feeling like an unwelcome guest in her own house, shivered. At twenty minutes past three Mrs. Trenchard began to be afraid that there had been an accident. Katherine was always so punctual. Millie came in.

  “Dear mother, what on earth!”

  “I’m waiting for Katherine. She was to be back at three from Rachel Seddon’s. We are — were — going to the Stores. You don’t think there can have been an accident?”