Short Stories 1927-1956

by Walter De la Mare

  Even now her eyes appeared to be intent on something a good deal further away than her needle. She had begun to think again; to feed upon memory. Then suddenly and not for the first time in these last few months, she had realized that thought itself might conceivably become audible. As if to make sure that this was not so, she glanced up stealthily into and across the room she was sharing – her husband’s book-room.

  Two quite different tastes, two natures and ages and upbringing were revealed in its furniture, its colours, its very ornaments. The senseless-looking clock of black marble on the mantelpiece – whose hands never failed to circle unflinchingly over its face to tell mutely what the exact ‘time’ was in its own small share of normal human affairs – had been a gift to her husband from an old bachelor long-gone friend of his – a Dr Edmund Briggs. No less clearly the worn-leather armchair in which he was now sitting, the lean knuckly fingers of his two large hands extending to the extremities of its two stuffed arms, had not been of her choosing. It was as masculine and durable as the benches in a railway waiting-room. The embroidered cushion which, on sitting down, he had carefully placed on the floor was feminine enough; not so the lamp-shade beside his chair, which was merely something to keep the light out of his eyes; nor the blotter on the leather-covered writing table, scattered untidily with books and papers. One hankers after one’s own order of comfort in advancing age, and it becomes something of a virtue as well as a convenience to be domesticated. The foot-flattened-out green and red Turkey carpet was also as clearly an heirloom as was the portrait of Mrs Millington’s mother-in-law on the wall, whose painted eyes, it seemed, were now inhumanly surveying them both at the same time, and with some little asperity. It was a good likeness, but not a good picture; yet good enough for her son William, whatever his age – to recall her by, and perhaps so recall her candid counsel: when, that is, he paid any attention to it.

  And now Mrs Millington’s exploring glance had settled on her husband again. Where had he been this last two days? And nights? Why was he so silent? Why did the expression on his brooding face suggest more than mere weariness? Sheer fag and even depression? And why wasn’t he hungrily and audibly munching up his bread and butter? Was there – could there be – it had become a question recurrent as cockcrow – something wrong? Would the answer to it ever be in the affirmative? Once she had feared, and yet with a faint hope and relief, that it might be so. Now she feared this outcome no less, but with scarcely the faintest gleam of hope; with a sort of caged-in despair, rather. She pushed her silver thimble a little more firmly on to her finger, and began stitching again.

  ‘Well, William?’ she said. The lank, weary face, with its grey eyes and long nose, turned slowly a fraction of an inch in her direction.

  ‘Yes, my dear?’ he replied. ‘Oh? … I was only thinking!’

  The non-committal smile that had died out over his face as he peered round at her might have been intended for a child; for, say, their small boy, Harold. But Harold, just now miles away at his prep school, was fielding rather indolently at Long Stop.

  ‘You are very silent. Even although you have only just come back? Can’t you think and talk and munch and drink your tea at the same time? It isn’t, you know, exactly the kind of absence which makes the heart grow fonder!’ And as she listened to the vacuous words, it seemed as though she had memorized them ages and ages ago; as if they were the echo of a voice from another existence.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear: tiresome, tedious company, I’m afraid,’ he mumbled, through a half-suppressed yawn. ‘And yet – well, as a matter of fact, you’ll never guess where I have been. I didn’t know myself, so to say, until yesterday evening. I hope you weren’t – weren’t in the least anxious about me?’

  She stitched on.

  ‘I try,’ she replied at length, ‘never to be anxious. About anything. I was a little surprised, of course; and wondered at your not coming home as you had arranged, and – at getting no message. But no; not – anxious. Why,’ and once more she seemed to be vacantly listening to something learned by rote, ‘why shouldn’t you have a night off, now and again? I mean —.’ She stopped to bite off with her small teeth a cotton-end, which she now no less deliberately removed from the tip of her red tongue. ‘I mean, no one could say you weren’t methodical, William.’

  ‘No? Oh, “methodical”, you mean. No.’ He bent forward, seized his cup, gazed at the grey-filmed brownish liquid in it, took a loud gulp, and sat back again.

  ‘Well, I was a little afraid you might be. I was dissuaded from telephoning, you see. In a sort of way. And now that you have mentioned it, I can’t really see why. Anyhow, there it is.’

  Mrs Millington pondered on this a moment. ‘Perhaps,’ she replied, ‘your friend thought that if you did telephone, the wandering sheep would be dissuaded from staying? Lady or …? Don’t listen to me, William. I’m being nothing but a silly parrot. I wasn’t anxious; I was only the least bit surprised – and extra glad to have you safely back. But now I’m terribly inquisitive. Unless of course it is, well, something private?’

  ‘No,’ was the answer; ‘no marks for that, my dear. There’s nothing private between you and me. There never will be. Not from now. Nor was it a “she” either. As a matter of fact, indeed, it was a “he”. You look very charming in that light. I have always enjoyed seeing anybody sitting at an open window. I can remember, oh, years ago, my dear mother, and my poor Aunt Agnes too – she was always sitting at her open window during those last days …

  ‘Perhaps a storm is coming. It’s strangely still this evening. Bless me, with that light on your face, you don’t look a single day older than when —. On the contrary, this last year or so you have got positively younger, as if you had been sipping at the Fountain of Perpetual Youth. And I hope, my dear, you have, even although that, the change – I was reminded of it only last night again – would be nothing short of a calamity. The fact is, you should never have married me.’

  He had lifted his cup again, but refrained from drinking. The click of the needle had ceased. Without moving her head, Mrs Millington had raised her dark eyes and was gazing out almost vacantly into the garden, as if she had forgotten or had taken no interest in what her husband had said. ‘Never married you?’ she repeated. ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because, you silly, magnanimous, heaven-sent creature, I am, in what matters most, perhaps, so stupid, habitual, matter-of-fact. You never were; and now, as tinder, I’m damper than ever.’

  She breathed again, almost with a sigh. ‘Oh, William. Again! I know all about that. That’s a very old story. And who, pray, if it were true, is the “silly”? Besides all that came back into your mind after you had been thinking. What about? and why? “Last night”?’ She could see only one greying cheek and a few tufts of her husband’s grizzled hair, as he sat there lounging in his old shabby leather-covered armchair. He shifted his head round again to glance at her.

  ‘Well, you see,’ he began methodically, ‘it was like this. You will only laugh at me. At Cambridge, when I got to the railway station, there was a train at a standstill in it. There was plenty of room. And the ticket collector told me that it was a fast one. And, for a wonder, so it proved to be. But the signal happened to be against us at one of the stations about halfway up. And it stopped. This woke me; I had been dozing. It was a lovely afternoon, very, very peaceful. I put my head out of the window and there was its name-board. Well, I thought to myself, this can’t be chance. Indeed it seemed providential. I looked at my watch, realized that I should have at least two hours to spare at this end, seized my bag and hat and umbrella and got out. The train had begun to move – pretty fast – by then. Someone shouted, and the station-master all but threatened to report me. It appears that if trains, even if solely for their own convenience, stop at stations which they are not intended to stop at, no passenger is entitled to get out. It suggests pure Gilbert and Sullivan, but it’s positively true and no doubt desirable. But imagine if life were like that! Never take a
dvantage of an unexpected opportunity! Never follow an impulse!’

  There was an oddly hollow tone, a hint even of caution in the feminine comment that followed this not very original attack on railway by-laws. ‘But you may not be right. It’s much more likely that it was because the train was already moving; and, as you said, pretty fast. That’s dangerous at any – at any time; and I’m always warning Harold against it.’ She paused again. ‘What, William,’ she ventured at last, ‘was the name of the station? What, as you say, couldn’t have been “chance”?’

  ‘Ah, there you are! You’d never guess. It was – Ebbingham! And of course I instantly thought of Louis. Had you realized, my dear, that we haven’t seen or heard from him for months – why, not since June. Unless, perhaps, you did when I was in Warwickshire.’

  Mrs Millington glanced up swiftly as if to make sure what her husband was looking at, at this moment. Her hand was trembling a little; and the colour had changed in her cheek. ‘Ebbingham!’ she repeated. ‘You mean – you really mean, William, that you were foolish enough to take such a risk – like some headlong schoolboy. And so late in the day, without even knowing whether he was at home. No wonder I was a little anxious. And then, about trains. You say you hadn’t heard. But surely you remember I told you that his sister – I dislike her so much that I can’t even recall her name for the moment – Oh, yes, Mildred – that I told you we had met by chance in town, and that she had said he was going away? I am sure I told you.’

  ‘Alas, my dear,’ said her husband, still staring at the fan-shaped piece of paper concealing his empty grate, ‘I don’t remember. But no doubt you are right. You are too kind to this rapidly decaying memory of mine. It’s getting worse and worse; I was reminded of it too only yesterday. Anyhow, there it is. I had been wanting to have a word with him about the examinations next month and he is very dilatory; but it would have involved a long letter; and I am tired – just a little. So why not? Nothing venture, nothing win. Anyhow, I was out of the train and in the only cab available before I had realized he might not be at home.’

  ‘Yes?… Was he?’

  ‘Oh, rather. We had quite a business talk. A good talk, too – within limits. He showed little surprise and no dismay at seeing me; or anyhow, it wasn’t noticeable. Rather the contrary even; he might almost have been expecting me. He seemed very well too; a bit absent perhaps. But then, he always appears to have two minds at work at the same time. Did you ever know a more zigzag talker?

  ‘I forgot all about the trains; tea came in, we talked on and on, long after we had finished our little business matters; and then he said something about taking pot luck; and – well, would I make a night of it? There was no way out of that – unless I preferred to face getting home in the small hours. Unfortunately, as I say, his telephone was out of order. And I couldn’t very well suggest that you might be anxious. He’s changed. Had you noticed that? Of course, one never could predict what he might not do next. He seems happy-go-lucky enough; and yet never somehow quite at his ease. A queer blend. I should think in fact he had positively practised most ‘nexts’. All impulse one minute and the wisdom of the serpent the next. He interests me. He’s thinner; but not a bit less – well, attractive, I suppose. But you would know best about that. I find it so difficult in some things to get the woman’s point of view. There’s a kind of challenging Faust-like adventurousness in his face. And I’m not perfectly sure if one can positively and finally depend upon him. One can’t always be certain what he is after. I supposed for a while that he had invited me to stay on because he wanted to consult me about something. But that must have been a mistake … And – but there, my dear, what a disastrous thing it would be if the power were suddenly conferred on us to share one another’s thoughts – without any words, I mean.’

  Mrs Millington had sat, her hands in her lap, motionlessly listening, her eyes still fixed on the darkening scene beyond the window, as if she were waiting for something to happen; or was in search of something within her mind, but mislaid.

  ‘I had no notion, William,’ she said at length, ‘that you dissected your – that you analysed people like that. To such an extreme. And why “disastrous”? I can’t quite see, either – if he had nothing to consult you about – why you should have fancied otherwise. As for sharing people’s thoughts …’ Her voice had fallen a little flat and she failed to finish the sentence.

  Her husband glanced back at her again, over his glasses. ‘Why, yes, though you may not know it, I share your thoughts sometimes,’ he assured her – almost with the shyness of a child confiding a secret. ‘But it’s Louis I was thinking of. I can’t really make him out. “Dissect”, indeed! He’s so unpredictable, elusive, keeps to cover – in spite of all that gaiety, all that charm. I don’t mean to suggest any definite antipathy. The truth is my old wits are a bit too sluggish for him; always have been. Anyhow, it wasn’t really that I had in mind. As I say, we had a long talk; I’m not a bad listener, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. But for that very reason perhaps I drank too much of his special whisky, so it began to languish a little towards midnight. Nonetheless there was again that feeling of something definite coming and yet failing to come. As when one wants to sneeze, and can’t. Actually, it was involved in the dream I was going to tell you about. In the best guest-chamber too; and I pay my respects to Louis’s or his housekeeper’s taste in curtains and bed linen. Unless he has other help.’

  ‘In the guest-room? There, you mean? Last night?’

  ‘Yes, indeed; in the guest-room; a very pleasant room, too. You don’t know the house, of course – I mean its upper parts?’

  She fixedly returned his absent stare.

  ‘We have only been there two or three times, William – to luncheon.’

  ‘So it was: twice,’ replied her husband, after another gulp at his cold tea and even a bite of his thin bread and butter. ‘And one doesn’t have luncheon in the guest-room, darling, does one?’

  But to this little sally, and one so absurdly inviting an easy witticism, Mrs Millington said nothing. Her sewing lay in her lap, both her hands were pressed down into it as if it didn’t matter in the least how much tumbled and creased the delicate fabric became.

  ‘The real point,’ continued her husband, ‘is not so much the dream, but something that followed it; a sort of confession, my dear. Have you time, the patience to listen for – well, perhaps another ten whole minutes?’

  There was nothing to show that she had heard the question, except that she replied in a low, ridiculously serious voice, ‘Of course I can listen, if only – well – you’ll go straight on. Why couldn’t we have begun at the dream? Anyone would suppose …’

  She broke off, rose from her chair, and sat down again. ‘The clouds are gathering – look! Up and up and up. There’s going to be a storm. I have a headache. But here I am; I want to hear the dream – and the rest. On the other hand, William, if the thunder begins … well, you see, I couldn’t.’

  Certainly the sun had left the garden, and the gloom that now lay over it in a dead and menacing quietude and stagnation was not that of an ordinary twilight. Still, presages of storm often cheat even the weather-wise in a climate so fickle as England’s; and everything might blow over.

  ‘Well,’ her husband was continuing meditatively, ‘it was a very odd dream, odd to me at any rate; but other people’s dreams are so dreadfully wearisome and always seem so pointless. I wish, indeed, my dear, you hadn’t a headache.’ His voice had become a little plaintive. ‘I, too, have just the rudiments of one. The same cause, thunder perhaps; but more likely Louis’s whisky. Well, as I say, we talked until nearly midnight. He told me how one can avoid the effects of taking too much! His tongue darts about like a dragon-fly, never staying for more than a moment on any single subject or object. Nor does his eye. I found it wearisome at last. Besides, whether right or wrong, I had the impression that much of it was talking for talking’s sake, that he must be in some anxiety, had perhaps something on his mind, wished
perhaps that I hadn’t come; though there was nothing, except, perhaps, his manner, to suggest it, and – his occasional silences. He is an oddity, you know, Margaret: so mercurial, and unstable perhaps. I wonder what you yourself really think of him? Is what I say anything like your view of him too?’

  Mrs Millington was re-threading her needle, and with an obstinate cotton-end, and in the failing light. ‘Yes,’ she said at last; ‘I should imagine it is much the same. Aren’t all – temperamental people like that? restless and impulsive? You mean, I suppose, that he is unlikely to stay fixed in any one intention, is never sure of his own mind? Is that what you mean?’ But the faint voice that had put the question seemed not to be in any need of an answer. It was as if, in spite of the tense silence, she would not even be interested in any reply.

  ‘What baffles me most of all,’ said her husband, ‘is that he has never yet been able to fix his heart on anything. The truth is, my dear, he ought to have found a wife somehow – long ago. Perfectly easy! Not that my congratulations to her would not have been tempered with misgivings.’

  ‘What was the dream, William?’

  ‘Well, as I say, I got to bed very late. A charming room, too, facing south: otherwise the moonlight couldn’t have got in through the curtains. Louis has “taste” enough to run an “antique” furnishing shop. And yet he lets his roof leak.’

  ‘His roof leak?’

  ‘I’ll come to that later. As you know, I am very rarely favoured with a dream and when I am, I usually fail to remember it. Nor are hieroglyphics’ – he laughed softly to himself – ‘my strong point. Anyhow, when I awoke, it was, I suppose, about two o’clock in the morning. Suddenly and softly wide-awake – as though I had been called, as though a drowsy voice had called me. I had dreamt that I was lying face upwards on a very low bed, immured in the deep, dark, stony bowels of a pyramid, but without the least knowledge of how I had managed to get there, and convinced that there was no way out – not even by the way by which I must have come in.