Short Stories 1895-1926

by Walter De la Mare

  ‘“Where does my father go after dinner?” I asked Martha one night, when my mother was in my bedroom, folding my clothes.

  ‘“How dare you ask such a question?” said my mother, “and how dare you talk to the child about your master’s comings and goings?”

  ‘“But where does he?” I repeated to Martha, when my mother was gone out of the room.

  ‘“Ssh now, Master Nicholas,” she answered, “didn’t you hear what your mamma said? She’s vexed, poor lady, at master’s never spending a whole day at home, but nothing but them cards, cards, cards, every night at Mr Grey’s. Why, often it’s twelve and one in the morning when I’ve heard his foot on the gravel beneath the window. But there, I’ll be bound, she doesn’t mean to speak unkindly. It’s a terrible scourge is jealousy, Master Nicholas; and not generous or manly to give it cause. Mrs Ryder was kept a widow all along of jealousy, and but a week before her wedding with her second.”

  ‘“But why is mother jealous of my father playing cards?”

  ‘Martha slipped my nightgown over my head. “Ssh, Master Nicholas, little boys mustn’t ask so many questions. And I hope when you are grown up to be a man, my dear, you will be a comfort to your mother. She needs it, poor soul, and sakes alive, just now of all times!” I looked inquisitively into Martha’s face; but she screened my eyes with her hand; and instead of further questions, I said my prayers to her.

  ‘A few days after this I was sitting with my mother in her parlour, holding her grey worsted for her to wind, when my father entered the room and bade me put on my hat and muffler. “He is going to pay a call with me,” he explained curtly. As I went out of the room, I heard my mother’s question, “To your friends at the Grange, I suppose?”

  ‘“You may suppose whatever you please,” he answered. I heard my mother rise to leave the room, but he called her back and the door was shut …

  ‘The room in which the card-players sat was very low-ceiled. A piano stood near the window, a rosewood table with a fine dark crimson workbasket upon it by the fireside, and some little distance away, a green card-table with candles burning. Mr Grey was a slim, elegant man, with a high, narrow forehead and long fingers. Major Aubrey was a short, red-faced, rather taciturn man. There was also a younger man with fair hair. They seemed to be on the best of terms together; and I helped to pack the cards and to pile the silver coins, sipping a glass of sherry with Mr Grey. My father said little, paying me no attention, but playing gravely with a very slight frown.

  ‘After some little while the door opened, and a lady appeared. This was Mr Grey’s sister, Jane, I learned. She seated herself at her work-table, and drew me to her side.

  ‘“Well, so this is Nicholas!” she said. “Or is it Nick?”

  ‘“Nicholas,” I said.

  ‘“Of course,” she said, smiling, “and I like that too, much the best. How very kind of you to come to see me! It was to keep me company, you know, because I am very stupid at games, but I love talking. Do you?”

  ‘I looked into her eyes, and knew we were friends. She smiled again, with open lips, and touched my mouth with her thimble. “Now, let me see, business first, and – me afterwards. You see I have three different kinds of cake, because, I thought, I cannot in the least tell which kind he’ll like best. Could I now? Come, you shall choose.”

  ‘She rose and opened the long door of a narrow cupboard, looking towards the card-players as she stooped. I remember the cakes to this day; little oval shortbreads stamped with a beehive, custards and mince-pies; and a great glass jar of goodies which I carried in both arms round the little square table. I took a mince-pie, and sat down on a footstool nearby Miss Grey, and she talked to me while she worked with slender hands at her lace embroidery. I told her how old I was; about my great-aunt and her three cats. I told her my dreams, and that I was very fond of Yorkshire pudding, “from under the meat, you know”. And I told her I thought my father the handsomest man I had ever seen.

  ‘“What, handsomer than Mr Spencer?” she said laughing, looking along her needle.

  ‘I answered that I did not very much like clergymen.

  ‘“And why?” she said gravely.

  ‘“Because they do not talk like real,” I said.

  ‘She laughed very gaily. “Do men ever?” she said.

  ‘And her voice was so quiet and so musical, her neck so graceful, I thought her a very beautiful lady, admiring especially her dark eyes when she smiled brightly and yet half sadly at me; I promised, moreover, that if she would meet me on the heath, I would show her the rabbit warren and the “Miller’s Pool”.

  ‘“Well, Jane, and what do you think of my son?” said my father when we were about to leave.

  ‘She bent over me and squeezed a lucky fourpenny-piece into my hand. “I love fourpence, pretty little fourpence, I love fourpence better than my life,” she whispered into my ear. “But that’s a secret,” she added, glancing up over her shoulder. She kissed lightly the top of my head. I was looking at my father while she was caressing me, and I fancied a faint sneer passed over his face. But when we had come out of the village on to the heath, in the bare keen night, as we walked along the path together between the gorse-bushes, now on turf, and now on stony ground, never before had he seemed so wonderful a companion. He told me little stories; he began a hundred, and finished none; yet with the stars above us, they seemed a string of beads all of bright colours. We stood still in the vast darkness, while he whistled that strangest of all old songs – “The Song the Sirens Sang”. He pilfered my wits and talked like my double. But when – how much too quickly, I thought with sinking heart – we were come to the house-gates, he suddenly fell silent, turned an instant, and stared far away over the windy heath.

  ‘“How weary, flat, stale – ” he began, and broke off between uneasy laughter and a sigh. “Listen to me, Nicholas,” he said, lifting my face to the starlight, “you must grow up a man – a Man, you understand; no vapourings, no posings, no caprices; and above all, no sham. No sham. It’s your one and only chance in this unfaltering Scheme.” He scanned my face long and closely. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said musingly. “And that,” he added under his breath, “that’s no joke.” He pushed open the squealing gate and we went in.

  ‘My mother was sitting in a low chair before a dying and cheerless fire.

  ‘“Well, Nick,” she said very suavely, “and how have you enjoyed your evening?”

  ‘I stared at her without answer. “Did you play cards with the gentlemen; or did you turn over the music?”

  ‘“I talked to Miss Grey,” I said.

  ‘“Really,” said my mother, raising her eyebrows, “and who then is Miss Grey?” My father was smiling at us with sparkling eyes.

  ‘“Mr Grey’s sister,” I answered in a low voice.

  ‘“Not his wife, then?” said my mother, glancing furtively at the fire. I looked towards my father in doubt but could lift my eyes no higher than his knees.

  ‘“You little fool!” he said to my mother with a laugh, “what a sharpshooter! Never mind, Sir Nick; there, run off to bed, my man.”

  ‘My mother caught me roughly by the sleeve as I was passing her chair. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night, then,” she said furiously, her narrow under-lip quivering, “you too!” I kissed her cheek. “That’s right, my dear,” she said scornfully, “that’s how little fishes kiss.” She rose and drew back her skirts. “I refuse to stay in the room,” she said haughtily, and with a sob she hurried out.

  ‘My father continued to smile, but only a smile it seemed gravity had forgotten to smooth away. He stood very still, so still that I grew afraid he must certainly hear me thinking. Then with a kind of sigh he sat down at my mother’s writing table, and scribbled a few words with his pencil on a slip of paper.

  ‘“There, Nicholas, just tap at your mother’s door with that. Good night, old fellow,” he took my hand and smiled down into my eyes with a kind of generous dark appeal that called me straight to
his side. I hastened conceitedly upstairs, and delivered my message. My mother was crying when she opened the door.

  ‘“Well?” she said in a low, trembling voice.

  ‘But presently afterwards, while I was still lingering in the dark corridor, I heard her run down quickly, and in a while my father and mother came upstairs together, arm in arm, and by her light talk and laughter you might suppose she had no knowledge of care or trouble at all.

  ‘Never afterwards did I see so much gaiety and youthfulness in my mother’s face as when she sat next morning with us at breakfast. The honeycomb, the small bronze chrysanthemums, her yellow gown seemed dainty as a miniature. With every word her eyes would glance covertly at my father; her smile, as it were, hesitating between her lashes. She was so light and girlish and so versatile I should scarcely have recognized the weary and sallow face of the night before. My father seemed to find as much pleasure, or relief, in her good spirits as I did; and to delight in exercising his ingenuity to quicken her humour.

  ‘It was but a transient morning of sunshine, however, and as the brief and sombre day waned, its gloom pervaded the house. In the evening my father left us to our solitude as usual. And that night was very misty over the heath, with a small, warm rain failing.

  ‘So it happened that I began to be left more and more to my own devices, and grew so inured at last to my own narrow company and small thoughts and cares, that I began to look on my mother’s unhappiness almost with indifference, and learned to criticize almost before I had learned to pity. And so I do not think I enjoyed Christmas very much the less, although my father was away from home and all our little festivities were dispirited. I had plenty of good things to eat, and presents, and a picture-book from Martha. I had a new rocking-horse – how changeless and impassive its mottled battered face looks out at me across the years! It was brisk, clear weather, and on St Stephen’s Day I went to see if there was any ice yet on the Miller’s Pool.

  ‘I was stooping down at the extreme edge of the pool, snapping the brittle splinters of the ice with my finger, when I heard a voice calling me in the still air. It was Jane Grey, walking on the heath with my father, who had called me having seen me from a distance stooping beside the water.

  ‘“So you see I have kept my promise,” she said, taking my hand.

  ‘“But you promised to come by yourself,” I said.

  ‘“Well, so I will then,” she answered, nodding her head. “Good-bye,” she added, turning to my father. “It’s three’s none, you see. Nicholas shall take me home to tea, and you can call for him in the evening, if you will; that is, if you are coming.”

  ‘“Are you asking me to come?” he said moodily, “do you care whether I come or not?”

  ‘She lifted her face and spoke gravely. “You are my friend,” she said, “of course I care whether you are with me or not.” He scrutinized her through half-closed lids. His face was haggard, gloomy with ennui. “How you harp on the word, you punctilious Jane. Do you suppose I am still in my teens? Twenty years ago, now — It amuses me to hear you women talk. It’s little you ever really feel.”

  ‘“I don’t think I am quite without feeling,” she replied, “you are a little difficult, you know.”

  ‘“Difficult,” he echoed in derision. He checked himself and shrugged his shoulders. “You see, Jane, it’s all on the surface; I boast of my indifference. It’s the one rag of philosophy age denies no one. It is so easy to be mock-heroic – debonair, iron-grey, rhetorical, dramatic – you know it only too well, perhaps? But after all, life’s comedy, when one stops smiling, is only the tepidest farce. Or the gilt wears off and the pinchbeck tragedy shows through. And so, as I say, we talk on, being past feeling. One by one our hopes come home to roost, our delusions find themselves out, and the mystery proves to be nothing but sleight-of-hand. It’s age, my dear Jane – age; it turns one to stone. With you young people life’s a dream; ask Nicholas here!” He shrugged his shoulders, adding under his breath, “But one wakes on a devilish hard pallet.”

  ‘“Of course,” said Jane slowly, “you are only talking cleverly, and then it does not matter whether it’s true or not, I suppose. I can’t say. I don’t think you mean it, and so it comes to nothing. I can’t and won’t believe you feel so little – I can’t.” She continued to smile, yet, I fancied, with the brightness of tears in her eyes. “It’s all mockery and make-believe; we are not the miserable slaves of time you try to fancy. There must be some way to win through.” She turned away, then added slowly, “You ask me to be fearless, sincere, to speak my heart; I wonder, do you?”

  ‘My father did not look at her, appeared not to have seen the hand she had half held out to him, and as swiftly withdrawn. “The truth is, Jane,” he said slowly, “I am past sincerity now. And as for heart it is a quite discredited organ at forty. Life, thought, selfishness, egotism, call it what you will; they have all done their worst with me; and I really haven’t the sentiment to pretend that they haven’t. And when bright youth and sentiment are gone; why, go too, dear lady! Existence proves nothing but brazen inanity afterwards. But there’s always that turning left to the dullest and dustiest road – oblivion.” He remained silent a moment. Silence deep and strange lay all around us. The air was still, the wintry sky unutterably calm. And again that low dispassionate voice continued: “It’s only when right seems too easy a thing, too trivial, and not worth the doing; and wrong a foolish thing – too dull … There, take care of her, Nicholas; take care of her, ‘snips and snails,’ you know. Au revoir, ’pon my word, I almost wish it was good-bye.”

  ‘Jane Grey regarded him attentively. “So then do I,” she replied in a low voice, “for I shall never understand you; perhaps I should hate to understand you.”

  ‘My father turned with an affected laugh, and left us.

  ‘Miss Grey and I walked slowly along beside the frosty bulrushes until we came to the wood. The bracken and heather were faded. The earth was dark and rich with autumnal rains. Fir-cones lay on the moss beneath the dark green branches. It was all now utterly silent in the wintry afternoon. Far away rose tardily, and alighted, the hoarse rooks upon the ploughed earth; high in the pale sky passed a few on ragged wing.

  ‘“What does my father mean by wishing it was good-bye?” I said.

  ‘But my companion did not answer me in words. She clasped my hand; she seemed very slim and gracious walking by my side on the hardened ground. My mother was small now and awkward beside her in my imagination. I questioned her about the ice, about the red sky, and if there was any mistletoe in the woods. Sometimes she, in turn, asked me questions too, and when I answered them we would look at each other and smile, and it seemed it was with her as it was with me – of the pure gladness I found in her company. In the middle of our walk to the Thorns she bent down in the cold twilight, and putting her hands on my shoulders, “My dear, dear Nicholas,” she said, “you must be a good son to your mother – brave and kind; will you?”

  “‘He hardly ever speaks to mother now,” I answered instinctively.

  ‘She pressed her lips to my cheek, and her cheek was cold against mine, and she clasped her arms about me. “Kiss me,” she said, “We must do our best, mustn’t we?” she pleaded, still holding me. I looked mournfully into the gathering darkness. “That’s easy when you’re grown up,” I said. She laughed and kissed me again, and then we took hands and ran till we were out of breath, towards the distant lights of the Thorns …

  ‘I had been some time in bed, lying awake in the warmth, when my mother came softly through the darkness into my room. She sat down at the bedside, breathing hurriedly. “Where have you been all the evening?” she said.

  ‘“Miss Grey asked me to stay to tea,” I answered.

  ‘“Did I give you permission to go to tea with Miss Grey?”

  ‘I made no answer.

  “‘If you go to that house again, I shall beat you. You hear me, Nicholas? Alone, or with your father, if you go there again, without my permission, I sh
all beat you. You have not been whipped for a long time, have you?” I could not see her face, but her head was bent towards me in the dark, as she sat – almost crouched – on my bedside.

  ‘I made no answer. But when my mother had gone, without kissing me, I cried noiselessly on into my pillow. Something had suddenly flown out of memory, never to sing again. Life had become a little colder and stranger. I had always been my own chief company; now another sentimental barrier had arisen between the world and me, past its heedlessness, past my understanding to break down.

  ‘Hardly a week passed now without some bitter quarrel. I seemed to be perpetually stealing out of sound of angry voices; fearful of being made the butt of my father’s serene taunts, of my mother’s passions and desperate remorse. He disdained to defend himself against her, never reasoned with her; he merely shrugged his shoulders, denied her charges, ignored her anger; coldly endeavouring only to show his indifference, to conceal by every means in his power his own inward weariness and vexation. I saw this, of course, only vaguely, yet with all a child’s certainty of insight, though I rarely knew the cause of my misery; and I continued to love them both in my selfish fashion, not a whit the less.

  ‘At last, on St Valentine’s Day, things came to a worse pass than ever. It had always been my father’s custom to hang my mother a valentine on the handle of her little parlour door, a string of pearls, a fan, a book of poetry, whatever it might be. She came down early this morning, and sat in the window-seat, looking out at the falling snow. She said nothing at breakfast, only feigned to eat, lifting her eyes at intervals to glance at my father with a strange intensity, as if of hatred, tapping her foot on the floor. He took no notice of her, sat quiet and moody with his own thoughts. I think he had not really forgotten the day, for I found long afterwards in his old bureau a bracelet purchased but a week before with her name written on a scrap of paper, inside the case. Yet it seemed to be the absence of this little gift that had driven my mother beyond reason.