The Blind Man’s House E-Book

Hugh Walpole

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The House of the Blind is Walpole’s last book before his death. This is a psychological study of the village and people who come in contact with a blind person and his young bride. The letter is impeccable. If you enjoy in-depth character study and enjoy reading old novels, then you will really enjoy it.

Leseprobe

Contents

PART I

THE HAWTHORN WINDOW

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

PART II

THE WHISPER

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

PART III

LIGHT IN THE HOUSE

PART III

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

PART I

THE HAWTHORN WINDOW

CHAPTER I

PELYNT CROSS–PASSING SIZYN CHURCH–AT THE RECTORY–INSIDE GARTH HOUSE–AT THE RECTORY

She was frightened. The fear was as sudden and, in one sense, as unexpected as an unheralded sharp stab in the breast. And yet not unexpected, because it had been hovering near her, almost out of her consciousness but not quite, for many weeks.

They were at the Cross-roads. Pelynt Cross. She knew where they were, for Julius had told her and in her hands was a map. The Cross-roads. Pelynt Cross. You can smell the sea here, Julius said. She sniffed through the open window. Yes, she could smell it. On a clear day you could catch a glimpse of the sea from the Cross, which stood naked and bare on the edge of the Moor. But today you could not see far because of the summer honey haze which veiled the world in trembling heat.

The car had stopped for a moment while Curtis hesitated. Then he saw the finger–‘Garth in Roselands 1-½ M.–Rafiel 10 M.’ To the left of them ran Pelynt Moor for miles and miles. The light enwrapped it and struck at fragments of quartz, at rough white stones. It seemed to shake with voluptuous pleasure at being thus enwrapped. The air through the window smelt of honey and gorse.

The car went on. She had taken off her hat, and the short curls of her dark hair moved in the breeze. She had thrown back her coat, and her body drank in the heat. She loved, she loved the sun! She looked quickly across to Julius and then quickly back again. Was he asleep? Who could tell? His eyes were closed, but that meant nothing at all. She had been married to him for six months, and yet about a matter like that she could not be certain. His big body sprawled against the corner of the car. He too had taken off his hat, and his hair, so fair a yellow that in certain lights it seemed white, moved a little against his forehead.

His face, which she loved so dearly, was composed and calm. Why had she been frightened? Was it because she was coming to a new place? No. She was never frightened of a new place. She loved new places and new people because she always conquered them with her charm. She did not pride herself on her charm. She had no conceit. But she was pleased, as anyone would be, with its effects.

Was it because her new home was his old home that she was frightened? No. Anything that was his was hers. He gave her everything freely, abundantly, completely. She would never feel a stranger where he was.

Was it because of herself that she was frightened? She sat up very straight and looked out of the window, shaking her little head as though she would have the sun penetrate and enrich the curls.

Well, what about herself? For six months she had made Julius so happy that he told her he was ‘mad’ with happiness. She had behaved well. She had lost her temper only twice, once with that silly old Mrs. Gayner, the housekeeper whom Julius adored so. Only once had she broken something and then it was only a glass–old it was, but you could always find another like it. She had forgotten engagements scarcely at all and had shown impatience with tiresome visitors very seldom. She could not help it if she showed her feelings clearly. That was her character. After all, she loved people twice as often as she hated them. She had tried in every way to make herself a good wife and she had succeeded.

Was she frightened because he was fifteen years older than she? The husband ought to be older than the wife. When Julius was sixty she would be forty-five, an old, old woman.

Was she frightened because he had been married before? Oh, these were ancient questions! She had asked them before and found happy answers to all of them. Wasn’t Julius the kindest, noblest, most loving, most tender, most unselfish of men? Didn’t she look up to him and admire him dreadfully, and didn’t she, in spite of that admiration, find him a friend and a companion? Was he ever a bore? No. Never, never! Never a bore. But...

Yes, now they were coming down the hill, and that lovely wood, sparkling like a dark fire, must be the Well. Julius had told her about the Well. It was the most famous wood in all Glebeshire for primroses. They left the wood and climbed the hill, and now the salt wind from the sea really met them, fresh and taut and vigorous in spite of the blazing heat of the summer afternoon. Into endless distance now stretched the Moor. You could hear the telegraph wires singing.

No. Julius was never a bore, but...

She heard him move, push out his great chest as though he would drink in the sea air, put his hand to his hair. His blue eyes were wide open. He smiled.

She knew why she was frightened.

On the left of them now was the square, sturdy, solitary little church, Sizyn Church, that contained the wonderful window, the ‘Hawthorn Window’ that people came from miles to see. Julius had told her that when he was a child at Garth in Roselands it was almost the first thing that his mother had taken him to see. He described the window to her: the masses of hawthorn blossom, the two priests, the patient donkey with the silver bells, the inscription to the dead Prior of the Franciscans. (She had said ‘Abbot’ and Julius had corrected her. The Franciscans had Priors.)

This window had been placed in the church in the early years of Elizabeth. There had been a Trenchard in Garth House even then. That Tudor house had been burned down in the eighteenth century. She was thinking of all these things, trying to arrange them in her disorderly mind, when, with a consciousness of that guilt for something neglected that was always with her, she remembered how she had promised Julius to tell him when they were passing Sizyn Church.

It was already out of sight, but he wouldn’t know that, so she tugged at his sleeve.

‘The Church, Julius! The Hawthorn Church! We’re just passing it! You told me to tell you.’

He turned upon her his sightless blue eyes.

‘We have passed it, darling! We are going downhill again. Did you see it, take a good look at it?’

She was beginning to be aware, ever more and more, of her uncertainty as to the sharpness of his senses. His sense of touch, his sense of smell, his sense of hearing. These were all so far stronger than her own that always when she was with him she felt as though her hands were muffled, her nose blocked, her ears dimmed. Should he ever use those senses against her...

As it was now he put out his big strong hand and caught her little one. She thought that she had fallen in love with him partly because of his hands. Large though they were, they were most beautifully shaped. They were a man’s hands. You could feel the bones, strong and supple beneath the smooth fine skin. His nails were especially beautiful. From the very beginning she had thought it remarkable that a blind man should have such beautiful nails, so perfect in colour and shape and yet a man’s nails, beautiful by nature and not by artifice.

And now as his hand held hers and his wide, staring blue eyes gazed at her, through her, beyond her, as he drew her towards him, closer and closer until her cheek and ear rested against his side and she heard his heart claiming her with its steady possessive beat, she murmured, ‘Oliphant!’

Oliphant was Julius’ valet, that small, active, devoted, aloof man who, as yet, knew so much more about Julius than she did. He was seated, very straight, beside Curtis the chauffeur.

Julius laughed.

‘Oliphant is part of myself–like my waistcoat buttons.’ He bent down and kissed her warm sun-drenched cheek.

‘Did you see the Church? Do you remember what I told you–about the window and everything?’

‘Of course I remember.’

His strong hand moved about her body. Because his blindness strengthened incredibly his sense of touch she felt an especial significance when he touched her. His hand now pressed her breast through her coat, and that pressure was so strong, so certain, that she was divided, as all women of character are when a man possesses them, between joyous resignation and irritated rebellion.

They were going down the hill and very soon they would be in Garth. She would not ride into their own village for all the villagers to see her for the first time, lying publicly in his embrace.

‘Garth in Roselands! Garth in Roselands!’ he was murmuring into her ear. ‘Isn’t it the loveliest of names? Haven’t I repeated it to myself over and over again all these years I’ve been away.’

She gave an impatient push and separated herself from him.

‘I can’t be driven into Garth for the first time in my life lying in your arms. I’m sure people are watching from every window!’

He laughed. He was so happy, and she adored him to be happy. So, at this moment, as they rode down the hill and then passed the alms-houses into Garth, she adored him because he was happy. She was to remember this at a later time. Nevertheless he held her hand tightly.

‘It is too fine an afternoon for them to be bothering. All the same the Rectory drawing-room windows look on to the village green, so there may be...’ He stared through the window as though he could see. ‘When I was a boy at Catsholt there used to be Trenchards at the House. There were Trenchards there for centuries. It seems a shame that now it should be us. But we never knew the Trenchards. He was a fine man–quite famous in his day–wrote books about the English Poets. But she was a bit of a Tartar, I believe, and had some sort of row with my father... Ah, now, now! Soon we will be turning up the drive! In a minute we will be there! Hold my hand tight. I am so excited that I can scarcely breathe!’

Before the car turned from the green towards the drive beyond the little street it was held for a moment by a big dray. While it was so held the ladies in the Rectory drawing-room had a fine free look and made the very most of it.

There were four of them: Miss Vergil, Mrs. Lamplough, Miss Phyllis Lock, and Mrs. Ironing. They were gathered there for the Ladies’ Sewing Meeting. Now so very often, in English novels and plays, have the Sewing Meetings of English country towns and villages been made a mock, a sport, a derision, that there shall be no derision here. To tell the truth, on this especial afternoon very little sewing had been done, and that was partly because Mrs. Brennan, the Rector’s wife, was absent in London. It was also because, for the last hour, these ladies had been expecting the arrival of Mr. Julius Cromwell and his wife, and had been eagerly on the look-out for it. It was an event of great, even supreme importance in the village of Garth in Roselands, and lest that should seem an old-fashioned sentence that might have come straight from the pages of one of Mrs. Gaskell’s delightful fragrant novels, let it be said at once that not telegraphs, telephones, wireless telegraphy, motor-cars, or aeroplanes have made the very slightest difference to the excited interest that ladies of an English village feel concerning their neighbours.

Although Mr. and Mrs. Cromwell arrived in a motor-car it was exactly, in so far as excitement obtained, as though they had arrived a hundred and fifty years earlier in a barouche, except that they were, physically, less visible.

Of the four ladies Miss Vergil was the eldest and most cynical, Miss Phyllis Lock the youngest and gayest. Miss Vergil had short cropped hair, wore a hat like a gamekeeper’s, a short brown jacket, a waistcoat with brass buttons, and a short rough skirt. Her legs were strong and shapeless, and in her hat there was fastened a bright green and crimson fly such as fisherman use.

Miss Phyllis Lock was auburn-haired, inclining to the plump, and dressed in so flimsy a dress that even in these days it was not quite respectable. But then Miss Lock did not care at all about being respectable. She lived with her old mother at the end of the village, drove her own car, went frequently into Polchester for parties, and was supposed to ‘send men mad.’ She appeared to be of a type only too frequent both in novels and real life. She was not, however, quite what she appeared.

Mrs. Lamplough looked an old dear. She was short and plump, very like Queen Victoria in appearance, and wore bonnets and shawls. She had a soft, purring voice and was always leading people into corners for confidences.

Mrs. Ironing was the stupid member of the party. She might be said to be passing through life without understanding anything about it at all. She was a widow with a comfortable income which was managed for her by her brother, Fred Ironing, who lived on her most cheerfully and was considered by everyone to be a good, jolly fellow, and remarkably patient. He said that he had known his sister so long that he had never expected her to be anything but what she was, and that she was a lot deeper than people gave her credit for. Gladys Ironing was a tall, thin woman with a face like an enquiring sheep’s.

These ladies were good ladies and only one of the four had any malice in her. They were in the position of many English ladies during this period of history between 1920 and 1940. Because investments were continually going down and because they were unfit (owing to their excellent English education) for any useful job in the world, they collected in little groups in London or provincial towns or villages and made life as interesting as possible by taking in one another’s social washing.

It is true that, in this present instance, both Mrs. Lamplough and Mrs. Ironing had ample means, but Mrs. Lamplough was not imaginatively generous and Mrs. Ironing was not imaginatively clever, so they stayed where they were and found it good. Miss Vergil had barely enough to pay her bills but paid them all the same–she had an English gentleman’s sense of honour. Miss Lock and her mother were moderately comfortable. These ladies, then, formed a kind of guard of honour to Mrs. Brennan, a superb woman whom they were lucky to find in a simple little village like Garth. Having found her they treated her like a queen, as indeed she deserved to be treated.

And now the four ladies looked out of the broad windows of the Rectory, saw the Cromwell car held for a moment by the dray, saw within the car the dark curly hair of Mrs. Cromwell, the light-golden head of Mr. Cromwell, the fine chauffeur and the neat little man beside him.

‘You’d never think he was blind!’ Phyllis Lock said as they turned away from the window.

Celia Cromwell saw the house in front of her like a ship sailing through golden mist. Everything was light–even the thick, dark rhododendrons were penetrated with light, the lawn shone like glass and the giant oak at the end of it was illuminated, every leaf a thin gold plate and the great trunk dark with splendour. Excitement always rose in her very swiftly. She passed from mood to mood like a child. Now, as she stepped from the car, she thought like a child: ‘Oh, I will be good! I will make them all love me! I’ll never lose my temper, I’ll be wise and quiet and so very happy!’

She moved forward to help Julius, but Oliphant, as always, was in front of her. Julius stood for a moment breathing in the air, which was scented with hay, carnations, roses, and a salt tang of the sea. His hand groped for hers. She caught it. He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

‘Welcome home, my darling,’ he said, and they went into the house together.

The hall was long and, even on this summer’s day, dark. There was a large oak chest opposite the door and beside it a staircase with a lovely black twisted balustrade. Mrs. Gayner, the housekeeper, stood there. She was a little, plump woman some sixty years of age, incredibly neat, her grey hair sleek and charming, a gold brooch fastened on to her black dress. She had been with Julius for ten years.

‘How are you, Mrs. Gayner?’ Celia said. Mrs. Gayner had come ahead of them to see that everything was right, to engage the maids.

‘Very well, thank you, ma’am.’

‘That’s good. Isn’t it a lovely day?’

‘It is indeed, ma’am. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

‘Lovely! What good luck that I should see everything for the first time in such lovely weather!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Quite all right, ma’am. I’ve got two maids and the cook is from Polchester. She’s a nice woman and a good cook–at least, she promises to be.’

‘That’s grand.’

But she noticed that Mrs. Gayner’s eyes looked beyond her towards her husband. That had irritated her before. It irritated her now. It was natural that Mrs. Gayner, Curtis, Oliphant, who had all been with her husband for a long time, served him, loved him, should consider him always, but was not she someone too?

‘Is that Mrs. Gayner?’ Julius’ voice was full of happiness and joy.

‘Yes, sir.’

He stretched out his hand and caught Mrs. Gayner’s plump one.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Very satisfactory indeed.’

He turned to his wife, who was close to him, put his arm around her waist and began slowly to mount the stairs.

‘I was only in this house once. I came with my mother one time. I was about ten. Yet I remember it all. Is that oak chest still there? They told me a story that someone was caught in it once and couldn’t get out. One of those stories. It’s Italian. I told them to buy some of the old things that had belonged to the Trenchards, but for the most part you’ll find everything you had at Bramgrove, darling. And of course you can arrange things just as you please. The drawing-room, now. It’s here on the left. Everything ought to be just as it was at Bramgrove. Only of course the room isn’t quite the same shape.’

They stood in the drawing-room. It was flooded with sunlight. Celia gave a little cry, for the view from the windows was enchanting. Beyond the old stone wall that bordered the garden, fields ran down the hill to a straggling wood, then slightly up again to a level horizon, and above this was a line of sea, now one stroke of trembling gold. In the fields were old trees, set deep into the soil, and under their cool soft shadow cows were lying. The windows were open and the sea breeze blew, very delicately, the fawn-coloured curtains.

All the Bramgrove things were here: the water-colours that her father had collected–Wilson and Cotman and David Cox, the sofa chairs with their pale primrose chintz, the piano, the oil-painting of Julius as a young soldier just before he went to the war where he was blinded.

She raised herself a little, caught Julius around the neck and kissed him again and again.

‘Oh, Julius, we’re going to be happy here! I know we are. It’s a lovely house! I’ll do everything–everything!’

She was crying. He felt the salt on her cheek as he kissed it.

Afterwards they went together to their bedroom. There was nothing that she loved better than this leading him through strange places. She felt now his utter dependence upon her. He leant against her, holding her tightly to him. His blue eyes stared without winking, and he moved, step after step, rather as a walker on a tight-rope does. She felt then that his whole body belonged to her. It was as though she, little though she was, surrounded his great girth and breadth. He was naked in her hands and she could do what she would with him. And all that she wanted to do was to love him!

They stood in the bedroom enwrapped in one another’s arms, the sunlight bathing them.

There was a knock on the door. It was Curtis in his chauffeur’s uniform, looking so smart, so official, so impersonal that Celia turned away. Curtis was all right, but just then she didn’t want to see him. And of course there was already something important that Julius must go and settle. They had not been in the house five minutes. It was always so.

‘Come down as soon as you’ve washed, darling, and we’ll have tea in the garden. Under the oak.’

He put his hand through Curtis’ arm and they went away.

She had told him that she wanted their bedroom to be exactly as it was at Bramgrove. Yes. Perfect. The twin beds, the long mirror, his dressing-room to the left, the same glorious view as the drawing-room’s (this was better, far, far better than Bramgrove), two pictures by Russell Flint of people bathing, their own bathroom to the right, everything fresh, cool, fragrant.

She looked at herself in the glass. Very small she was, but her figure, for her size, was perfect. She looked like a boy in girl’s clothes, perhaps–but no, her colouring, her small breasts, her beautiful arms and hands could never belong to a boy. She raised her arms above her head, breathing with happiness and pleasure. She began to dance about the room, moving most gracefully in the sunlight, and the room reflected her in her pale dress, with her dark hair, her big excited eyes.

‘This will do! This will do! The loveliest place I’ve ever known.’

There was again a knock on the door. The maid came in, a pretty, tall girl with brown hair.

‘I’ve come, ma’am, to unpack.’

‘Oh yes–but never mind just now. I’m going down to tea. You can unpack then.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Violet.’

‘Violet. That’s a nice name. Where do you come from?’

‘Oh, I was born in London, ma’am. But five years ago I went to service with Mrs. Ironing–Mrs. Ironing of Cumberleigh, ma’am.’

‘Oh yes. And Mrs. Gayner stole you from her?’

‘Oh no, ma’am. There were reasons–I had left–’

‘I see. I’m sure we will be friends.’

Celia smiled and Violet smiled too. They were friends already.

Violet departed.

Celia looked out of the window and saw tea being laid under the oak tree.

When she was ready to go she knelt down beside the bed and prayed. She didn’t know whether she believed in prayers, but they gave you a comfortable feeling as though someone very strong put his arm around you and told you you need not fear.

Why had she been afraid in the car? She had forgotten why. How foolish! There was indeed no reason for any fear.

She rushed down the stairs, crying out: ‘Julius! Julius!’

The light had mellowed across the village green, sinking deeply into every blade of grass, then soaking the soil like wine. The sky above Mr. Boss the butcher, Mrs. Irwin, post-mistress, Teak, stationer and bookseller, and the Methodist Chapel, was of a blue so magnificently self-satisfied that only one small ragged cloud, urchin and homeless, dared to cock at it a streaming finger.

The four ladies were gathered about the table.

Mrs. Ironing smiled brightly about her. It was one of her irritating traits that she should be so bright as well as so stupid, for this lent weight to the theory, very prevalent during these years in England, that if you had any brains you must be a cynic. To think well of life meant simply that you were Shakespeare’s Idiot’s Tale, signifying nothing as indeed Mrs. Ironing did.

She said now, with a kind of gurgle because she was biting her thread:

‘I expect there are compensations in being blind.’

‘Oh yes, Gladys dear,’ Miss Vergil in her deep, booming voice replied. ‘Just as it is the best luck in the world to have no roof to your mouth, and there’s nothing so lucky as being born with one leg shorter than the other!’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ said Mrs. Ironing happily. ‘I should regard it as most unfortunate to have no roof–’

‘Hell!’ Miss Vergil cried, abruptly rising. ‘I can’t stand this any longer. To be blind! My God! And to come back to the very place you were in as a boy when you could see.’

‘At any rate,’ Mrs. Lamplough murmured, purring like a little kettle, ‘he’s got a young wife–years younger than himself–to lead him about. I hear from someone who lived quite near their place in Wiltshire that she’s very undependable.’

‘What do you mean, Alice?’ Miss Vergil said sharply. ‘Undependable?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean anything except that she’s very young for her years and loses her temper in public and then apologizes in public too, which is so very embarrassing. Then she’s fifteen years younger than her husband, which is quite a lot. They say she likes young men’s company, and that, after all, is quite natural.’

‘Certainly,’ said Gladys Ironing. ‘I like young men much better than old ones, just as Fred likes young girls–’

This was interrupted by hearty laughter from everybody, and Gladys opened her mouth and stared and rubbed her nose and said:

‘Well, I really don’t know what I’ve said...’

Ten minutes later May Vergil and Phyllis Lock were alone in the room. They moved towards the door.

‘I meant what I said,’ May Vergil said. ‘To be blind–in this weather. To be married to someone years younger–Isn’t life awful, Phil? Intolerable! Oh no, of course you don’t find it so. There are always men around, aren’t there? Men! What a lot! However, I won’t start that again.’ She put her hand for a moment on Phyllis’ sleeve, then quickly removed it.

‘Did you see her?’ Phyllis Lock asked. ‘In the car, I mean. Wasn’t she lovely? With that dark curly head? Isn’t it funny to think he’s never seen her? Held her in his arms and all that, but never seen her? He can’t really know what she’s like, however often he’s told. And she’s so lovely–with a head like a Greek statue.’

The village green enjoyed a space and time of absolute peace and tranquillity. Two seagulls, after circling the roofs and screaming their eager, scornful contempt, settled down upon the sun-warmed grass, and moved, raising at a moment their blood-stained beaks to heaven, deliberately–arrogant owners of this lovely world.

CHAPTER II

AT THE RECTORY

The Reverend Frank Brennan, Rector of the parish of Garth in Roselands in the county of Glebeshire, was quite possibly the handsomest clergyman in the whole of England, and quite certainly the laziest.

His hair was thick on his head, and snow-white although he was but sixty years of age. He had the face of an aesthetic poet of the Eighteen-Nineties, a figure supple and erect, and a voice, as Phyllis Lock said, filled with ‘organ notes.’ His charm, too, was beautiful, and although he never did anything for any man, woman, or child in the village, save when nature, by bringing to birth or urging to matrimony or slaying in due time, forced him, he was everywhere popular because he never interfered with anyone or anything, was shocked by nothing and nobody, and laughed so infectiously when he had forgotten the name of a farmer with whom he had had tea only the day before.

He conducted as few of the church services as possible and left a great deal to his red-haired kindly curate, Mr. Townley. Strange it was that he had not even any hobbies. He liked a novel in front of the fire, a drive in the little family Austin, food, drink, and a pretty woman, although his morals were irreproachable. What spirit slumbered inside his slumbering form no one knew. He wore shabby old clothes, but his linen was always shining and his person as clean as a new penny. He was seldom seen without a pipe in his mouth, and he would look at you, his hands deep in his pockets, his brown eyes half closed and a little smile hovering about his handsome lips.

Now, oddly enough, his wife, Daisy Brennan, was also a beauty. Phyllis called her once ‘a Juno in the cornfield,’ and although this meant really nothing at all, everyone liked and repeated it. She was a tall, big, full-breasted woman with masses of corn-coloured hair which was piled, in old-fashioned style, on the top of her head and braided above her temples. She wore clothes in bright gay colours that fitted her closely so that her bosom, her thighs were handsomely, defined. She walked with her head up gloriously, and only Mrs. Irwin, the post-mistress, who hated her, made the rude comment: ‘Pantomime Queen, that’s what I call her. You know, one of them big girls in tights walks down a lot of steps at the end and calls herself Canada.’

This magnificent pair had three children: Dorothy, Gilbert, and Simon. Dorothy was aged seventeen, Gilbert fourteen, Simon eight. Gilbert was at school at Polchester but was at present home for the holidays. These children were very unsophisticated and unmodern. They had all been born in the Garth Rectory, and, until Gilbert had gone to boarding-school, none of them had been away from there except to the Glebeshire seaside on expeditions.

They had mingled with the village children quite happily. They had known a number of governesses, and the best of these had been Miss Fritch, who had led them carefully first through Stumps, Rags and Tatters, Alice in Wonderland, then The Cuckoo Clock, Mrs. Overtheway’s Remembrances, Engel the Fearless, then The Daisy Chain and The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, then Micah Clarke, Lamb’s Tales, The Wind in the Willows, and The Talisman, then David Copperfield, Pride and Prejudice, The Oxford Book of English Verse, The Path to Rome, The Cock-House at Fellsgarth, and Don Quixote; after which nothing else mattered.

Unhappily Miss Fritch departed after a quarrel with Mrs. Brennan, a mysterious quarrel because only Mrs. Brennan gave any account of it, and from this it was clear that Miss Fritch had been quite impossible.

No governess succeeded Miss Fritch. Gilbert went to school and Mrs. Brennan taught Dorothy and Dorothy taught Simon. At least, that was the idea.

The three children adored their father, who never denied them anything; they thought their mother wonderful.

They had, however, none of the experiences of good modern children. They had never been given handsome toys, nor been taken to the theatre, nor learned of the troubles and perplexities of the mature from the lips of the mature. Dorothy was tall and slim with a face as honest as a human face can be. Gilbert was slim, pale, and inclined to take things seriously, while Simon was short and thick and led a very intense life of his own.

Two years at school seemed to have made very little difference to Gilbert, for whom Garth was still the centre of his world, his father the most wonderful person in the world, his mother the loveliest, Dorothy the best companion. He led, it seemed, a rather solitary life at school, although he was quite happy there.

Mr. Brennan looked at his children with surprise, whenever he saw them. He was delighted to discover that he had such charming children, and this discovery was fresh every new day. Mrs. Brennan was, as Phyllis again recorded, ‘the mother facile princeps.’ To see her move with her children along the village street was a sight never to be forgotten.

Three days after the arrival of the Cromwells, the children had just finished tea, and Lucy, the maid of all possible and impossible work, was clearing away the tea, which she did with a great deal of banging and clashing as though she were a Salvation Army girl and the china were timbrels. At the same time she steamed through her nose as though her inside were a kettle. But she was a good girl and a warm-hearted.

When Lucy was gone Gilbert suddenly said:

‘I want something frightfully.’

Dorothy, who was gulping down Chicot the Jester as though he were a life-restorer, and turning one ear to Simon who was telling a story both to her and himself, said, rather impatiently, ‘What do you want?’ She knew that in five minutes’ time they must go down to the drawing-room to spend half an hour with their mother, and she wanted to reach the end of her chapter.

Gilbert, standing straight in front of her, his eyes fixed anxiously on her face, told her. He expressed his desires so very seldom and they were intense within him when they did appear. He spoke slowly, choosing his words.

‘Well, you see, there’s an awfully decent chap called Paynter. I like him better than anyone else at school–in fact I like him awfully. His people have taken a house for the summer just outside Rafiel–on the cliff–and he wants me to go on Tuesday and spend the day with them. And I can take a bus. It’s quite all right, but Tuesday’s the only day. They go back to Polchester on Thursday. His father’s a Canon there. He wants me to go for the whole day.’

‘Which day did you say?’ asked Dorothy. At the same moment she snatched a line or two of Chicot, and said ‘Yes, dear’ to Simon, who, seated on the floor like a Buddha, was half chanting: ‘Which he couldn’t do because there was a river right across, a great big river with rocks and stones and serpents and dozens of croc–’

She cleared her brain.

‘Which day did you say, Gillie?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘But that’s the day Mother said she might take us into Polchester.’

‘I know–that’s the awful part.’

They looked at one another. She had forgotten Chicot and Simon. Here was a real trouble. Gilbert so very seldom said that he wanted anything; when he did it was serious. They were devoted. Gilbert, in spite of his time at school, still thought that Dorothy could settle every difficulty, that she was the wisest, most far-seeing person in the world. At school he would say: ‘Oh, but you should see my sister. She’s marvellous!’ and said it so convincingly that no one ever thought of teasing him about it.

Dorothy on her side was aware that Gilbert was more sensitive than the others, felt things more severely and for a longer time. Her feeling over him was, although she did not know it, partly maternal. She hated that any misfortune should happen to Gilbert. Simon did not seem to need her care in the same way.

‘You see,’ Gilbert went on, ‘it isn’t as though Mother could go only on that day. She said she had several days to choose from. And it’s the only day for the Paynters.’

‘Yes, but–.’ Dorothy looked anxious. Why did they both know that as soon as their mother heard that that was the day the Paynters wanted, that would be the day that she wanted too?

‘The only thing, Mother may think that the best day for Polchester. Thursday’s early closing, I know, and that only leaves Wednesday and Friday.’

‘That’s two days, isn’t it?’ Gilbert’s voice had in it a new note that she thought she had never heard before. ‘You see, I like Paynter better than anyone I’ve ever known, except the family of course. He plays in the Second Fifteen and will be in the First next year, I shouldn’t wonder, and I didn’t think he was keen on me at all, although I was awfully keen on him. So when I got the letter this morning I was awfully pleased, as anybody would be, and if I don’t go he’ll think I’m being snooty or something, and besides I do want to go most awfully.’

He ended with a deep breath. His eyes were pleading into Dorothy’s face.

Simon suddenly said from the floor:

‘Dorothy and me saw the blind man this morning.’

Dorothy raised her head and looked at the schoolroom window that a thin weeping rain was misting. It had been clear but not sunny this morning when, coming out of the stationer’s with Simon, she had seen Mr. Cromwell and his wife walking across the green. He had his arm in hers. He walked, his head very erect, staring straight in front of him and talking all the time. He had a most pleasant smile. She had told Simon that he couldn’t see.

‘Why can’t he see?’ Simon asked her.

‘He was hit with a bullet in the War.’

‘He can’t see the teeniest, teeniest thing?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Not the teeniest?’

‘No. Nothing.’

At the same moment she had seen the postman going to the Rectory gate. He must have had the letter for Gilbert.

It seemed to her now as though that had been a dramatic moment–the blind man and the letter for Gilbert.

‘I’m going to ask Mother.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘If I tell her it’s the only day–’

‘Don’t make her feel we don’t want to go with her to Polchester.’

‘No. Of course not.’

They looked at one another. He was changed. His mouth was set and his eyes angry.

‘I’m going to ask at once, now, as soon as we go down.’

‘Yes. We’d better go down. It’s time.’

Simon got up from the floor. He enjoyed going down to the drawing-room. He enjoyed practically everything except cold fat, barking dogs, and women who kissed him.

‘Here. Let me brush your hair.’

He had a lot of light brown hair that would, unless he was careful, fall over his forehead into his eyes. One of his most characteristic gestures was tossing his hair back from his eyes. Then he was like a little pony stamping.

He slept in a room with Gilbert, and into that they now went. He stood grinning while Dorothy brushed his hair. He looked so pleasant, so independent and sturdy in his blue smock, that Dorothy would have kissed him had she not known how greatly he disliked it.

He rushed down the stairs crying out: ‘Mum–Mum–Mum.’

However, when they reached the drawing-room only their father was there. He stood in front of the fireplace, which was defended by a very hideous screen of green elephants walking up to pink pagodas. As usual, Simon rushed up to him and hugged him round the thighs, and as usual Mr. Brennan looked at his offspring as though he had never seen them before.

‘Well, well, how are you all?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ Gilbert answered gravely, and then went straight on without waiting a moment: ‘Father, there’s a boy called Paynter at school and his people have asked me to spend next Tuesday at Rafiel with them. Do you think I can?’

‘Why, of course, certainly, do you good.’

‘The only thing is, Father,’ Dorothy said, ‘Mother said she’d take us into Polchester next Tuesday to see about Gillie’s new suit.’

‘Your mother can take you another day.’

‘Oh, Father, do you think she can?’

It was as though little fires had suddenly been lit in Gilbert’s eyes.

‘Certainly. Of course.’

He was so handsome and knew this so well that he had a trick, picked up long ago and now quite unconscious, of turning his head first to one side and then to the other as though to test which profile were the finer. He did this now.

‘Where’s Mother?’ Dorothy asked.

‘She’s been out to tea with Mrs. Lamplough. Should be back any moment.’

He stretched himself and yawned.

‘I must be off to work. Work, work, work–nothing but work!’ He grinned at Simon. ‘Your old father is a slave–a slave to duty. Aren’t you sorry for him?’

But Simon was considering something else.

‘I saw a man who was blind this morning. He couldn’t see anything, not the teeniest thing.’ Then he tried to do what he was always trying to do, turn a somersault. But, as usual, he failed. When, rather confused by the upside-downness of the drawing-room, he looked about him, his father was gone.

Gilbert was greatly excited.

‘Did you hear what Father said? He said that of course she would.’

Dorothy shook her head.

‘Father often says things without thinking. And then he forgets that he’s said them.’

‘All the same, he’s quite right. It can’t matter to Mother which day it is.’

Daisy Brennan came in. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a white rose pinned at her waist. She looked lovely and was a little cross. However, she took them all with her to the sofa, threw her hat on the floor, stretched her length, gathering them all about her.

‘Oh, you darlings! You darlings! I ought to have told you I’d be out. You’ve had your tea? Yes. That’s right. Oh dear, how tired I am and what a day! We were to have had tea in the garden and of course it rained, so there we were all crowded into the drawing-room and such a noise–my head’s simply splitting. What do you say, Simon, pet? You saw a blind man with Dorothy? Oh, you mean you were with Dorothy when you saw a blind man. Oh, of course, poor Mr. Cromwell. And now tell me what you’ve all been doing, because I’ve such a headache I shall go straight up to my room and lie down. Yes, Gillie, tell me everything. What do you say? You had a letter? When? This morning? Who are they? Paynter? Never heard of them.’

Gilbert stood in front of her as though he were reciting a lesson.

‘Paynter’s father’s a Canon at the Cathedral. He’s awfully decent, so’s Mrs. Paynter. They’ve taken a house at Rafiel for the summer–on the cliff. You know, over the harbour. Above the Warren. Well, they want me to go on Tuesday for the whole day. There’s the nine o’clock bus and one comes back at six. Can I, Mother? Can I?’

‘Rafiel? All day? I know you’ll get into some awful trouble–fall into the sea and be drowned.’

‘Of course I won’t, Mother. I’ve been going to Rafiel all my life.’

‘Heavens, child! You say that as though you were a hundred. What’s the name of these people?’

‘Paynter.’

Dorothy knew from his breathing that he was growing more desperate with every moment.

‘But I don’t know them. They could easily have called if they’re only at Rafiel.’

‘They will call. I’ll ask Mrs. Paynter.’

‘But she ought to have called without being asked. What day do you say it is?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘On Tuesday! That settles it. We’re going into Polchester that day. You’ve got to have your suit fitted.’

There was a short pause. Gilbert was heaving up his determination.

‘But, Mother, there’s Wednesday and Friday–’

‘Wednesday won’t do. I forget why. Friday’s too late in the week. No, it’s got to be Tuesday. You can go to those people some other time–only I would prefer that she should call on me first.’

‘Father says I can go.’

(‘Oh,’ thought Dorothy, ‘that’s a mistake!’)

‘Your father! What’s he got to do with it?’

‘He said you might go another day.’

‘Oh, he did, did he? Well, I’ve explained to you why I can’t.’

‘No, Mother, you haven’t. I want to go. I want to go most awfully.’

At this his mother sat up, patting at her golden braids with her large strong hand.

‘My dear Gillie! You want to go, do you? More than you want to come with your mother. That isn’t very kind.’

‘No. It’s not that. Of course I want to come with you.’

‘It always used to be the greatest treat coming into Polchester with me. You’d look forward to it for weeks. But now going to Rafiel to have a day with some strange people is more important to you than being with your mother. Well, I suppose every mother must expect that. That’s what school does.’

‘No. It isn’t. But–’

‘Every mother must expect to lose her son. She is everything to him while he needs her, but the moment he can fend for himself the mother’s set aside–’

Dorothy could not endure this.

‘Gillie isn’t saying he doesn’t want to go to Polchester, Mother. He does want to go–as much as ever he did. Only he thought we might go to Polchester another day–’

‘Thank you, Dorothy. I don’t want you to explain Gillie to me. I understand him perfectly well.’

Gilbert, white of face, holding his small thin body rigidly together, moistening his lower lip with his tongue, began again.

‘Paynter is a form higher than me. I didn’t know he’d ever ask me in the holidays. If I refuse now he’ll think me snooty.’

‘Snooty! What a disgusting word!’

‘Well, he will. And it will make all the difference next term, because I like him most awfully.’

‘So I perceive,’ said Mrs. Brennan coldly. ‘You like him much better than your mother.’

‘I don’t,’ said Gilbert between his gritted teeth. Then he burst out: ‘Oh, Mother, let me go! It isn’t I don’t want to go to Polchester. Of course I do, just as I always did. But we can go on Friday. If you let me go to Rafiel on Tuesday I’ll be ever so good. You see, it means everything, because if Paynter’s my friend next term I can get on ever so fast with maths and geography, and next term’s Rugger, and I’m not much good, that’s quite certain, but Paynter’s most awfully good and he’ll show me a lot of things.’

He paused, breathless, his eyes shining with hope. His mother looked at him with tenderness.

‘My dear Gillie, you’ve hurt me not a little. When you’re older you’ll understand. You are all I have, you and Dorothy and Simon. It’s quite natural that you should want to leave me for perfect strangers. Quite natural. But it hurts me all the same. You shall go into Rafiel on Tuesday and you shall have the suit fitted later. I’m sorry. It isn’t kind...’

Her lower lip quivered.

Gilbert looked at her.

‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘No, I’m sure you didn’t.’ She waited. Everyone, even Simon, expected that he would say that he did not wish to go to Rafiel.

‘It’s just the same as it always was about Polchester,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Mother and son looked at one another. Then Gilbert turned and, with his head down, like an animal butting, ran from the room.

Mrs. Brennan sighed and lay back against the cushions.

‘Do you know these people, Dorothy?’

‘No, Mother, I don’t.’

‘How very odd of Gilbert! He’s never been like that before!’

‘I don’t think he’s ever wanted anything so much before.’

‘No. That’s what I said. It’s the beginning of the end. My headache’s frightful. Go up to my room, darling, and get those cachets. Two with a glass of water.’

Dorothy went and found Gilbert sitting on his bed, stony-eyed and speechless.

Downstairs Mrs. Brennan and her youngest-born enjoyed one another’s company. For they had a good deal in common. It was quite impossible to hurt Simon’s feelings. He went his own way and always got what he wanted.

‘Thank you, darling,’ Mrs. Brennan said, took her cachets and leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes. But her repose was not for long.

The door most unexpectedly opened and in came Mr. Brennan. With him a lady. The lady was short but not stout, grey hair under her hat, brown eyes, very quietly dressed. All this Daisy Brennan, who was no fool, at once took in. She rose from the sofa. Simon rose from the floor. Dorothy stayed where she was.

‘My dear,’ Frank Brennan said, ‘I have brought someone in for a moment whom I want you to know. This is Mrs. Mark.’

Mrs. Brennan, entirely bewildered, stepped forward. The little lady smiled and they shook hands.

Brennan went on: ‘That will mean nothing to you, but it will mean something when I tell you that Mrs. Mark’s maiden name was Trenchard and that she was born in Garth House and lived there most of her time until she was married. She knows every turn and twist of this house, by the way.’

They had sat down by now, Mrs. Brennan and Mrs. Mark side by side on the sofa.

‘I really ought to apologize–’ Mrs. Mark began. She had a soft gentle voice.

‘Oh, but I’m delighted.’

‘The fact is I’ve never come back to Garth all these years! More than thirty years. I haven’t dared. I was so happy here, but my husband didn’t like it. So, until his death, I stayed away. He died three years ago and since then I’ve been trying to pluck up my courage and face my memories. And now I’ve taken Copley’s Cottage at the end of the village for a month or two.’

‘How very charming!’ Mrs. Brennan murmured. ‘We shall be neighbours. You must find a lot of changes.’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ve only been here three days. But I don’t think I shall–not externally, at any rate.’ She smiled and looked across at Dorothy, for the first time, with a friendly glance.

‘I was born in the House. We all were. And now I’m the only one left. My father and mother died long ago. I’m sixty, you know! My sister Millie died five years ago, and my brother Henry was killed in a motor accident. You probably read about it at the time. He was quite famous as a dramatist.’

‘Why, of course. Henry Trenchard. How sad that was!’

‘Yes. Very. He ought never to have driven himself. He was so very absent-minded. Dear Henry!’

She paused for a moment, her eyes misted a little.

‘And so you see why I’ve dreaded coming back. I’m not quite alone in the world. I have a son who’s an astronomer. Isn’t that an odd thing to be? But he’s married now and so–well, here I am!’

Her confidences were so quiet and so simple that no one felt it at all strange that she should tell them these things.

‘And so you knew this house quite well?’

‘Oh, very well–as well as our own. The clergyman at that time–just before I married–was called Smart. He used to race through the services, especially in the summer when he wanted to be gardening.’ She laughed. ‘I remember him so very well. And Mrs. Smart was a big, stout woman who wore the most outrageous hats. But before that, when we were children, there was a clergyman called Penny and he had ever so many children. That was when we were here so often. We used to play Hide-and-Seek all over this house, and Henry would be lost and we’d find him at last somewhere in a corner reading a book.’

‘What a nice lady,’ Dorothy thought. ‘I never knew anyone more natural.’ Simon, after he had taken one look at her and summed her up to his satisfaction, continued his own life on the carpet, now and then making a little hissing noise, and Mrs. Brennan said: ‘Hush, Simon!’

‘It will be interesting for you, noticing all the changes,’ Frank Brennan said. ‘You know that some new people have taken the House.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Mark. ‘They arrived, I believe, the same day as I did.’

‘He was blinded, poor man, in the War,’ Mrs. Brennan said. ‘This is his second wife and she’s years younger. He’s got plenty of money, I believe.’

‘I hope I shall meet them. I do want to see the House again.’

‘Of course you will. Won’t you have some tea?’

‘No, thank you. I must be going.’ She rose. ‘Your husband found me in the church and insisted on bringing me in.’

‘I’m so glad.’

But there was to be yet one more interruption.

The window that led to the lawn opened. They all turned.

A young man stood there. He was dressed in rather dirty flannels, he was as brown as a chestnut, his hair stood up above his ears, he was very good-looking. He looked at them with an amused and rather cheeky greeting. ‘Hullo!’ he said, and was gone the moment after, leaving the window open behind him.

‘Good heavens!’ Brennan cried. ‘That was Jim Burke!’

‘He’s back again!’ Daisy Brennan said.

‘How like him!’ said Brennan. He went to the window and called: ‘Jim! Jim!’

But there was not a sign of him in the warm misty rain.

Brennan said to Mrs. Mark: ‘Now isn’t that like him? He’s a young man called Burke. He used to help Fred Ironing–Oh, but you don’t know, of course. A wild young fellow. We all liked him. He’s been away two years. I wonder what he’s back for.’

He closed the window. Mrs. Mark made her farewells.

CHAPTER III

GARTH HOUSE: MRS. GAYNER’S ROOM

Dear Alice,

I should have answered your letter ever so long back but the fact is I’ve been so terribly busy that I’ve hardly known whether I’m on my head or my heels. Well, Alice, you know I always tell you everything and what’s a loving sister for if you don’t, but the fact is I’m writing this very letter in a bit of a tremble and the reason is that only a quarter of an hour ago Mrs. Cromwell’s been in here and lost her temper in a shocking fashion. Of course I never said a word as where would I be by now if I hadn’t learned to control my temper, besides which I can’t help liking her. She’s only a child when all is said and done. Besides as you well know I’d do any mortal thing for him and well he knows it. Besides, Alice, he loves her something terrible and so does she but she doesn’t understand him one little bit nor what it is to be blind, although she wants to understand if you get me.

Mind you she’s a grown woman and she’s no right to get in the states she does. I don’t think she’s happy and that’s the cause of a lot of it. When you’re unhappy about something you just want to fly out at someone, at least that’s how it used to take me until I’d had such a lot of unhappiness that I saw flying out about anything was just a waste of time. But she comes in just now and asks me why the letters haven’t gone to the post. That’s not my business as she well knows but Curtis the chauffeur’s, but not wanting to put the blame on Curtis, I say I’ll see to it and then she’s in a rage and says she doesn’t know why it is but everything’s been sixes and sevens ever since we’ve come to this house and I say we’ve only been here a fortnight and then she says that I’m getting careless so then I just smile and say I’m doing as I’ve always done and she flings out of the room banging the door just like a naughty child.

You know what it is, Alice, she’s jealous poor thing. Jealous of me and Curtis and especially of Oliphant–anyone her husband has a kind word for. I think she’s frightened of his blindness, not realizing it at first but thinking she’d have all the more power with him because he was blind and now finding that he seems to get away from her where she can’t get after him.