LIFE AND HENRY
Philip was entirely happy during the first days of his engagement—so
happy that he assured himself that he had never before known what
happiness was. When, however, this glorious state had continued for four
or five weeks he was aware that that most sensitive and unreliable of
his spiritual possessions, his conscience, was being attacked. He was
aware that there was something that he ought to do, something that he
did not want to do—he was aware that he must tell Katherine about Anna
and his life with her. Now when he had said to Mr. Trenchard that his
life was free of all complications and that there was nothing in it that
need be hidden from the world, he was, quite honestly, convinced that
that was so. His life with Anna was entirely at an end: he had done her
no wrong, she owed him no grudge, he did not know that he had ever taken
any especial pains in Moscow to hide his relations with her, and he did
not believe that anyone there thought the worse of him for them. He had
come to England with that chapter closed, eager to begin another. His
only thought of Anna when he had proposed to Katherine was that this was
exactly what she had intended him to do—that she would be pleased if
she knew. His conscience was always at rest when he thought that
everyone liked him....
Now he knew, quite definitely, after a month of his engagement to
Katherine, that some of the members of the Trenchard family did not like
him—No amount of _his_ determination to like _them_ could blind him to
the truth of this unpleasant fact—Mrs. Trenchard did not like him, Aunt
Aggie did not like him, probably Mr. Trenchard, senior, and Great-Aunt
Sarah did not like him (he could not tell, because they were so silent),
and he was not sure whether Henry liked him or not. Therefore, in front
of this alarming array of critics his conscience awoke.
The other force that stirred his conscience was Katherine’s belief in
him. In Moscow no one had believed in anyone—anyone there, proved to be
faultless, would have been, for that very reason, unpopular. Anna
herself had held the most humorous opinion of him. (She liked
Englishmen, respected their restraint and silence, but always laughed at
their care for appearances.) Although he had known that his love for
Katherine had sprung partly from his sense of her difference from Anna,
he, nevertheless, had expected the qualities that had pleased him in the
one to continue in the other. He discovered that Katherine trusted him
utterly, that she believed, with absolute confidence, in every word that
fell from his lips, and he knew that, if the old whole world came to her
and told her that he had had for several years a mistress in Moscow and
he denied it to her, that she would laugh at the world. This knowledge
made him extremely uncomfortable. First, he tried to persuade himself
that he had never had a mistress, that Anna had never existed, then,
when that miserably failed, he told himself that he could always deny it
if she asked him, then he knew that he loved her so much that he would
not lie to her (this discovery pleased him). He must, he finally knew,
tell her himself.... He told himself that he would wait a little until
she believed in him less completely; he must prepare her mind. He did
not even now, however, consider that she would feel his confession very
deeply; Anna would simply have laughed at his scruples.
Meanwhile he loved her so deeply and so completely that Anna’s figure
was a ghost, dimly recalled from some other life. He had almost
forgotten her appearance. She had a little black mole on her left
cheek—or was it her right?...
Somewhere in the beginning of February he decided that he would
cultivate Henry, not because he liked Henry, but because he thought that
Katherine would like it—also, although this he did not confess to
himself, because Henry was so strange and unexpected that he was half
afraid of him.
Of course Henry ought to be sent to one of the Universities, it was
absurd to keep a great, hulking boy of nineteen hanging about, wasting
his own time and the time of his family, suffering no discipline and
learning nothing of any value. George Trenchard had told Philip that
Henry was too young for Oxford, and was to have a year of “seeing the
world” before he “went up”. A fine lot of seeing the world Henry was
doing, slouching about the house, reading novels and sulking! Philip, in
spite of his years in Russia, felt very strongly that every Englishman
should be shaven clean and wear clothes from a good tailor. About men of
other nationalities it did not matter, but smartness was expected from
an Englishman. Henry, however, was in that unpleasant condition known as
“sprouting.” He had a little down on one cheek, apparently none on the
other; in certain lights his chin boasted a few hairs of a forlorn and
desolate appearance, in other lights you would swear that there were
none. His forehead often broke into pimples (these were a terrible agony
to him).
“Why can’t he do something with his hair?” thought Philip, “brush it and
have it cut regularly. Why is it that awful dusty colour? He might at
least do something to his clothes. Mrs. Trenchard ought to see to it.”
Mrs. Trenchard did try to “see to it”. She was perpetually buying new
clothes for Henry; she took him to her husband’s tailor and dragged him,
again and again, to have things “tried on”. Henry, however, possessed
the art of reducing any suit, within twenty-four hours of his first
wearing it, to chaos. He was puzzled himself to know what he did.
“But, Henry, it was new last week!”
“_I_ know. How can I help it? I haven’t done anything to the beastly
thing. It simply came like that.”
He affected a lofty indifference to clothes, but Philip, who saw him
look frequently into the looking-glass, suspected the sincerity of this.
Katherine said to Philip:
“You have so much influence on Henry. Do talk to him about his clothes
and other things. He won’t mind it from you. He gets so angry if we say
anything.”
Philip was not at all sure that Henry would “not mind it from him”. When
they were alone Henry would listen with the greatest interest to the
things that Philip told him; his eyes would soften, his mouth would
smile, his voice would quiver with his excitement. Then, quite suddenly,
his face would cloud, he would blush and frown, almost scowl, then,
abruptly, with some half-muttered word, fall into a sulky silence. Once
he had broken in to Philip’s information with: “Oh! I suppose you think
I don’t know anything about it, that I’m a stupid idiot.... Well, if I
am, what do you bother to talk to me for?”
This, of course, annoyed Philip, who always liked to feel, after a
conversation with anyone, that “everything had gone off all right”. Had
it not been for Katherine, he would not have bothered with the fellow.
Another thing puzzled and even alarmed Philip. Henry would often, when
he thought that he was unwatched, stare at Philip in a perplexed
brooding fashion with a look in his eye that said: “I’ll find out one
day all right. You think that no one’s watching you, that I’m not worth
anyone’s trouble.... You wait and see.”
Henry would look at Philip’s buttons, studs, tie, handkerchief with this
same puzzled stare. It was another side of that surveillance of which
Philip had been conscious ever since Tim Flaunder’s visit to his rooms.
“Ah!” thought Philip, “once I’m married, they can watch as much as they
like.... A year’s a long time though.”
He decided then to cultivate Henry and to know the boy better. “I’ll
show him that there’s nothing in me to be suspicious about—that I’m
worthy of marrying his sister. I’ll make a friend of him.”
He asked George Trenchard whether he might give Henry an evening. “Take
him out to dinner and a music-hall. I’ll look after him.”
Trenchard said:
“My dear fellow, if you can make Henry look something like an ordinary
civilised being we’ll all be in your debt for ever. I don’t envy you
your job ... but, of course, do what you like with him.”
When Philip told Mrs. Trenchard she said:
“How nice for Henry! How kind of you to bother with the boy! He goes out
so little. How nice for Henry!”
When Philip asked Henry himself, Henry coloured crimson, looked at his
boots, muttered something about shirts, stammered “Thanks ... very glad
... awful bore for you”, and finally stumbled from the room.
Philip thought Jules for dinner, The Empire, The Carlton for supper.
Katherine’s delight when he told her compensated him for all the effort
of the undertaking.
To understand Henry’s emotion at Philip’s invitation would be to
understand everything about Henry, and that no one has ever done. His
chief sensation was one of delight and excitement—this he hid from all
the world. He had waited, during more years than he could remember, for
the arrival of that moment when he would be treated as a man. Lately he
had said to himself, “If they’re all going to laugh at me always, I’ll
show them one day soon.” He had a ferocious disgust at their lack of
penetration. He had, from the very first, admired Philip’s appearance.
Here was a man still young, with perfect clothes, perfect ability to get
in and out of a room easily, perfect tranquillity in conversation. He
had been offended at Philip’s treatment of Seymour, but even that had
been a bold, daring thing to do, and Henry was forced to admit that he
had been, since that episode, himself sometimes doubtful of Seymour’s
ability. Then Philip in his conversation had shown such knowledge of the
world; Henry could listen all day to his talk about Russia. To be able
to travel so easily from one country to the other, without fear or
hesitation, that was, indeed, wonderful!
Afterwards had occurred one of the critical moments in Henry’s career;
his passionate memory of that afternoon when he had seen the embrace of
Katherine and Philip, changed those two into miraculous beings, apart
from all the world. He heard Philip for the audacity of it, he also
admired him, envied him, speculated endlessly about it. “Ah! if somebody
would love me like that”, he thought. “I’d be just as fine. They think
me a baby, not fit even to go to college, I could—I could ...” He did
not know what it was that he could do. Perhaps Philip would help him.
And yet he did not really like Philip. He thought that Philip laughed at
him, despised him. His one continual fear was lest Philip should teach
Katherine, Henry’s adored and worshipped Katherine, also to despise him.
“If he were to do that I’d kill him”, he thought. He believed utterly in
Katherine’s loyalty, “but she loves Philip so now. It’s changed her.
She’ll never belong to us properly again.” Always his first thought was:
“So long as he’s good to her and makes her happy nothing matters.”
Now it seemed that Philip _was_ making her happy. Katherine’s happiness
lit, with its glow, the house, the family, all the world. When,
therefore, Philip asked Henry to dine with him, the great moment of
Henry’s life seemed to have come, and to have come from a source
honourable enough for Henry to accept it.
“If only I dare,” Henry thought, “there are so many things that I should
like to ask him.” The remembered passion of that kiss told Henry that
there could be nothing that Philip did not know. He was in a ferment of
excitement and expectation. To the family he said:
“I’m afraid I shan’t be in, Tuesday evening. Sorry, but Philip and I are
dining together. Expect I’ll be in, Wednesday, though.”
It is a fact, strange but true, that Henry had never entered one of the
bigger London restaurants. The Trenchards were not among those more
modern parents who spend their lives in restaurants and take their
infant sons in Eton jackets to supper at the Savoy after the Drury Lane
pantomime. Moreover, no one ever thought of taking Henry anywhere. He
had been at school until a few months ago, and when, in the holidays, he
had gone to children’s parties he had always behaved badly. George
Trenchard went very seldom into restaurants, and often, for days
together, forgot that he had a son at all. Down in Glebeshire Henry was
allowed to roam as he pleased; even in London no restrictions were
placed on his movements. So long as he went to the Abbey twice on Sunday
he could do what he liked. A friend of Seymour’s had put him up as a
member of a club in a little street off St. James: the entrance was only
a guinea, and “anyone could be a member”. Henry had, three months ago,
received a book of club rules, a list of members, and a printed letter
informing him that he was now elected, must pay five guineas entrance
and a guinea subscription. He had extorted the money from his father,
and, for twenty-four hours, was the proudest and happiest human being in
London. He had never, alas! dared to venture inside the building.
Seymour’s friend had forgotten him. The Club had remained strangely
ignorant of his existence. On three occasions he had started out, and on
three occasions his fears had been too strong for him. Once he had
arrived at the very club door, but a stout gentleman, emerging and
staring at him haughtily, had driven the blood from his heart. He had
hurried home, feeling that he had been personally insulted. He found, on
his return, that some vehicle had splashed mud on to his cheek. “There!
you see what happens!...”
He was not far from tears.
He had, behind his unhappy experiences, the resolved certainty that he
was marked apart by destiny for some extraordinary future: his very
misfortunes seemed to prove this. He had bought for himself a
second-hand copy of that romance to which I have made earlier allusion.
It exercised, at this time, an extraordinary influence upon him, and in
the hero’s fight against an overwhelming fate he saw his own history,
even when the circumstance was as trivial as his search for a stud under
the washing-stand. So young was he, so crude, so sentimental, impulsive,
suspicious, self-confident, and lacking in self-confidence, loyal,
ambitious, modest and conceited that it was not strange that Philip did
not understand him.
* * * * *
On the evening of his dinner with Philip he dressed with the utmost
care. There were three dress-shirts in his drawer, and it was, of
course, fate that decided that there should be something the matter with
all of them—one of them had been worn once already, one was frayed at
the cuffs, one had a cracked and gaping stud hole. He pared the frayed
cuffs with his scissors, and hoped for the best. He then produced the
only valuable article in his possession, a pearl stud given to him by
his Uncle Bob on his last birthday. He was greatly afraid of this stud,
because the head of it screwed into the body of it, and he was never
sure whether he had screwed it sufficiently. Suppose it were to leap
into the soup! Suppose it were to fall off and he not see it and lose
it! Such catastrophes were only too probable where he was concerned. He
screwed it in so vigorously to-night that he made a grey mark round the
stud-hole. He dabbed this with a sponge, and the grey mark was greyer.
His father had told him that he must never wear a “made-up” evening tie,
but he had not told him how to tie one that was not made-up, and Henry
had been too timid to enquire. To-night, by a sudden twist of genius, he
produced something that really seemed satisfactory; one end was longer
than the other, but his father approved of a little disorder—when the
tie was too neat it was almost “made-up”. Henry’s dress-clothes, lying
there upon the bed, seemed a little faded. The trousers glistered in the
electric light, and the tails of the coat were sadly crumpled. But when
they were on his body Henry gazed at them with pleasure. One trouser leg
seemed oddly longer than the other, and his shirt cuff had disappeared
altogether, but the grey mark round the stud was scarcely visible, and
his collar was beautifully clean.
His face was red and shining, his hair was plastered down with water; it
was a pity that there were three red pimples on his forehead, but there
had been four yesterday. His ears, too, were dreadfully red, but that
was from excitement.
He had an opera hat and a black greatcoat with a velvet collar, so that
he felt very smart indeed as he slipped out of the house. He was glad
that he had escaped the family, although he fancied that Aunt Aggie
watched him from the top of the stairs. He would have liked to have seen
Katherine for a moment, and had he spoken his heart out, he would have
assured her that, for her sake, he would do his best to love Philip. It
was for her sake, after all, that he had dressed so carefully, for her
sake that he wanted to be a fine figure in the world. If he _had_ seen
her, all that he would have said would have been: “So long, Katherine.
Dining with Philip, you know. See you in the morning....”
He rode on an omnibus from Whitehall to Piccadilly Circus, and walked
then to Jules’. The clocks were striking half-past seven, the appointed
hour, as he entered. A stout man like an emperor insisted on disrobing
him of his greatcoat, and he felt suddenly naked. He peeped into the
room, which was very empty, and all the waiters, like figures in Mme.
Tussaud’s, stared at him together. He was sure that his tie had mounted
above his collar; he put up his hand, found that this was so, and
thought that the emperor was laughing at him. He bent down to tie his
shoe, and then, just as a large party entered the restaurant, there was
a little pop, and the head of his pearl stud was gone. He was on his
knees in a second.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the Emperor. “Allow me.”
“No,” said Henry, whose face was purple, whose heart was beating like a
hammer, and through whose chasm in his shirt a little wind was blowing
against his vest.
“It’s my stud. I can—I beg your—Oh, there—No, it isn’t—”
He was conscious of towering forms above him, of a lady’s black silk
stockings, of someone saying: “Why, dammit”; of a sudden vision of the
pearl and a large masculine boot thundering towards it.
From his position on the floor he cried in agony: “Oh, do look out,
you’re stepping on it!... I say ... Please!”
He heard a sharp little cry, then, just as he seized it, Philip’s voice:
“Why, Henry!”
He staggered up from his knees, which were white with dust: his purple
face, his disordered hair, a piece of pink vest that protruded from his
shirt made an unusual picture. Someone began to laugh.
“I say,” said Philip quickly, “come in here.” He led the way into the
lavatory. “Now, what’s the matter?”
Henry stared at him. Why couldn’t the silly fool see?
“It’s my stud ... the head came off ... might have happened to anyone.”
“That’s all right,” said Philip cheerfully. “Got it now? That’s good.
Look here, I’ll screw it in for you.”
“The other piece ...” said Henry, who was near tears ... “It’s slipped
down—inside.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take your trousers off,” said Philip gravely.
“Just let ’em down. It’s all right. There’s no one here who matters.”
Henry undressed. A smart man with hair like a looking-glass came in,
stared and went out again. Two attendants watched sympathetically. After
some time the stud was arranged, and Henry was dressed again.
“You’d better just let me tie your tie,” said Philip. “It’s so difficult
in here. One can’t see to do it oneself.”
Henry said nothing. He brushed his hair again, suffered himself to be
dusted and patted by the attendant, and followed Philip into the
restaurant. He was so miserable that suicide was the only alternative to
a disgraced and dishonoured life. He was sure that everyone in the
restaurant was laughing at him; the grave waiter who brought him his
soup, the fat, round button of a waiter who brought the champagne in a
bucket of ice, the party opposite, two men and two women (beasts!), all
these were laughing at him! His forehead was burning, his heart deadly
cold. He glared at Philip, gulped down his food without knowing at all
what it was that he was eating, said “yes” and “no”; never looked at
Philip, but stared, fiercely, round him as though he were looking for
someone.
Philip persisted, very bravely, in a succession of bright and
interesting anecdotes, but at last he flagged. He was afraid that he had
a terrible evening before him ... never again....
“He’s thinking,” said Henry to himself, “that I’m impossible. He’s
wondering what on earth he asked me for. Why did he if he didn’t want
to? Conceited ass ... that about the stud might have happened to anyone.
He’ll tell Katherine....”
“Coffee?” said Philip.
“No, thank you,” said Henry.
“All right. We’ll have it later. We’d better be getting on to the show.
Ready?”
They moved away; they were in a cab; they were caught into the heart of
some kaleidoscope. Lights flashed, men shouted, someone cried in a high
treble. Lights flashed again, and they were sitting in the stalls at the
“Empire” music-hall. Henry hailed the darkness with relief; he felt as
though his body were bruised all over, and when he looked up and saw a
stout man upside down on a tight-rope he thought to himself: “Well, he
can’t see me anyhow.... He doesn’t know that the top of my stud came
off.”
There followed then a number of incredible people. (It must be
remembered that he had never been to a music-hall before.) There was a
man with two black eyes and a red nose who sang a song about the wives
he had had (seven verses—one wife to every verse), there was a stout
lady who sang about porter, and there were two small children who danced
the Tango—finally a gentleman in evening dress and a large white
button-hole who recited poems whilst his friends in the background
arranged themselves in illustrative groups. In this strange world
Henry’s soul gradually found peace. It was a world, after all, in which
it was not absurd to grope on one’s knees for the top of one’s stud—it
was the natural and clever thing to do. When the lady who sang about the
porter kissed her hand to the audience, Henry, clapping
enthusiastically, felt a throb of sympathy. “I’m so glad she’s been a
success to-night,” he thought to himself, as though she had been his
cousin or his aunt. “She’ll feel pleased.” He wanted, by this time,
everyone to be happy.... When, at the last, the fat man in evening
clothes recited his tale of “the good old British Flag,” and was
surrounded instantly by a fluttering cloud of Union Jacks, Henry was
very near to tears. “I’ll make them send me to Oxford,” he said to
himself. “At once ... I’ll work like anything.”
The lights went up—ten minutes’ interval—whilst the band played tunes
out of “Riogletta”, and behind the curtain they prepared for that
immensely popular ballet “The Pirate”.
“Let’s walk about a bit, shall we?” said Philip.
Henry, humbly, with a timid smile agreed. He tumbled over a lady as he
passed out of his row, but he did not mind now, his eyes were shining
and his head was up. He followed Philip, admiring his broad shoulders,
the back of his head, his sturdy carriage and defiant movement of his
body. He glared haughtily at young men lolling over the bar, and the
young men glared back haughtily at him. He followed Philip upstairs, and
they turned into the Promenade (Henry did not know that it was the
Promenade). With his head in the air he stepped forward and plunged
instantly into something that flung powder down his throat, a strange
and acrid scent up his nose: his fingers scraped against silk.
“There! clumsy!” said a voice.
A lady wearing a large hat and (as it appeared to Henry) tissue of gold,
smiled at him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, putting some fat fingers on his hand for
a moment. “It doesn’t, dear, really. Hot, isn’t it?”
He was utterly at a loss, scarlet in the face, his eyes staring wildly.
Philip had come to his rescue.
“Hot, it is,” said Philip.
“What about a drink, dear?” said the lady.
“Not just now,” said Philip, smiling at her as though he’d known her all
his life. “Jolly good scrum up here, isn’t there?”
“Everyone bangin’ about so,” said the lady. “What about a drink _now_?
Rot waitin’.”
“Sorry,” said Philip. “Got an engagement. Very important—” The lady,
however, had suddenly recognised an old friend. “Why, Charlie!” Henry
heard her say: “Who ever ...”
They sat down on a sofa near the bar and watched the group. Henry was
thinking: “He spoke to her as though he had known her all his life....”
He was suddenly aware that he and his father and mother and aunts, yes,
and Katherine too were babies compared with Philip. “Why, they don’t
know anything about him. Katherine doesn’t know anything really....” He
watched the women who passed him; he watched their confidential whispers
with gentlemen who all seemed to have red faces and bulging necks. He
watched two old men with their hats cocked to one side; they had faces
like dusty strawberries, and they wore white gloves and carried
silver-topped canes. They didn’t speak, and nothing moved in their faces
except their eyes. He watched a woman who was angry and a man who was
apologetic. He watched a girl in a simple black dress who stood with
grave, waiting eyes. She suddenly smiled a welcome to someone, but the
smile was hard, practised, artificial, as though she had fastened it on
like a mask. Philip belonged to these people; he knew their ways, their
talk, their etiquette, their tragedies and comedies. Henry stared at
him, at his gaze, rather uninterested and tired. (Philip, at that
moment, was thinking of Katherine, of the bore that her young brother
was: he was remembering the last time that she had kissed him, of her
warm cheek against his, of a little laugh that she had given, a laugh of
sheer happiness, of trusting, confident delight.) Henry sat there,
frightened, thrilled, shocked, proud, indignant and terribly
inquisitive. “I’m beginning to know about life. Already I know more than
they do at home.”
Two boys who must have been younger than he passed him; they were smart,
shining, scornful. They had the derisive, incurious gaze of old men, and
also the self-assertive swagger of very young ones. Henry, as he looked
at them, knew that he was a babe in arms compared with them; but it
seemed to him to-night that all his family was still in the cradle.
“Why, even father,” he thought, “if you brought him here I don’t believe
he’d know what to say or do.”
They went downstairs, then found their seats, and the curtain rose on
the ballet. The ballet was concerned with pirates and Venice in the good
Old Days. The first scene was on an island in the Adriatic: there were
any number of pirates and ladies who loved them, and the sun slowly set
and the dancers on the golden sand sank, exhausted, at the feet of their
lovers, and the moon rose and the stars came out in a purple sky. Then
the Pirate Chief, an enormous Byronic figure with hair jet black and
tremendous eyebrows, explained through his hands, that there was a lady
in Venice whom he loved, whom he must seize and convey to his island.
Would his brave fellows follow him in his raid? His brave fellows would!
One last dance and one last drink, then death and glory! The curtain
came down upon figures whirling madly beneath the moon.
There followed then the Doge’s Palace, a feast with much gold plate,
aged senators with white beards, who watched the dancing with critical
gaze, finally a lovely lady who danced mysteriously beneath many veils.
She was, it appeared, a Princess, sought in marriage by the Doge, her
heart, however, lost utterly to a noble Stranger whom she had once seen
but never forgotten. The Doge, mad with love for her, orders her to be
seized. She is carried off, wildly protesting, and the golden scene is
filled with white dancers, then with fantastic masked figures, at last
with dancers in black, who float like shadows through the mazes of the
music.
The third scene is the Piazza. The country people have a
holiday—drinking and dancing. Then enters a magnificent procession, the
Doge leading his reluctant bride. Suddenly shouts are heard. It is the
Pirates! A furious fight follows, the Pirates, headed by their chief,
who wears a black mask, are, of course, victorious. The Princess is
carried, screaming, to the Pirates’ ship, treasure is looted, pretty
village maidens are captured. The Pirates sail away. Last scene is the
Island again. The ladies are expecting their heroes, the vessel is
sighted, the Pirates land. There are dances of triumph, the spoil,
golden goblets, rich tapestries, gleaming jewels are piled high, finally
the captive lady Princess, who weeps bitterly, is led by the Chieftain,
still masked, into the middle of the stage. She, upon her knees, begs
for pity. He is stern (a fine melancholy figure). At last he removes the
mask. Behold, it is the noble Stranger! With what rapture does she fall
into his arms, with what dances are the triumphant Pirates made happy,
upon what feasting does the sun again set. The moon rises and the stars
appear. Finally, when the night-sky is sheeted with dazzling lights and
the moon is orange-red, the Pirates and their ladies creep away. Only
the Chieftain and his Princess, locked in one another’s arms, are left.
Someone, in the distance, pipes a little tune ... the curtain descends.
Impossible to describe the effect that this had upon Henry. The nearest
approach to its splendour in all his life before had been the Procession
of Nations at the end of the Drury Lane pantomime, and, although he had
found that very beautiful, he had nevertheless been disturbed by a
certain sense of incongruity, Aladdin and his Princess having little to
do with Canada and Australia represented, as those fine countries were,
by two stout ladies of the Lane chorus. I think that this “Pirate”
ballet may be said to be the Third Crisis in this critical development
of Henry, the first being the novel about the Forest, the second his
vision of Katherine and Philip.
It will be, perhaps, remembered that at Jules’ restaurant Henry had
drunk champagne and, because of his misery and confusion there, had had
no consciousness of flavour, quantity or consequences. It was certainly
the champagne that lent “The Pirate” an added colour and splendour.
As the boy followed Philip into Leicester Square he felt that any
achievement would be now possible to him, any summit was to be climbed
by him. The lights of Leicester Square circled him with fire—at the
flame’s heart were dark trees soft and mysterious against the night
sky—beneath these trees, guarded by the flame, the Pirate and the
Princess slept.
It seemed to him that now he understood all the world, that he could be
astonished and shocked by nothing, that every man, be he never so
degraded, was his brother.... He was unaware that his tie was again
above his collar and his shoe lace unfastened. He strode along, thinking
to himself: “How glorious!... How splendid!... How glorious!”
Philip, too, although the Empire ballet had once been commonplace
enough, although, moreover, he had come so little a time ago from the
country where the ballet was in all the world supreme, had been plunged
by the Pirate into a most sentimental attitude of mind. He was to-night
terribly in love with Katherine, and, when the lights had been turned
down and the easy, trifling music had floated out to him, caught him,
soothed and whispered to him, he had held Katherine in his arms, her
cheek touching his, her heart beating with his, his hand against her
hair.
Her confidence in him that, at other times, frightened him, to-night
thrilled him with a delicious pleasure. His old distrust of himself
yielded, to-night, to a fine, determined assurance. “I will be all that
she thinks I am. She shall see how I love her. They shall all see.”
“I think we’ll go down into the Grill Room,” said Philip, when they
arrived at the Carlton. “We can talk better there.”
It was all the same to Henry, who was busy feasting with the Pirate upon
the Adriatic Island, with the Princess dancing for them on the golden
sand. They found a quiet little table in that corner which is one of the
pleasantest places in London, so retired from the world are you and yet
so easy is it to see all that goes on amongst your friends, enemies and
neighbours.
“Oysters?... Must have oysters, Henry.... Then grilled bones ... then
we’ll see. Whisky and soda—split soda, waiter, please....”
Henry had never eaten oysters before, and he would have drunk his whisky
with them had Philip not stopped him. “Never drink whisky with
oysters—you’d die—you would really.”
Henry did not like oysters very much, but he would have suffered the
worst kind of torture rather than say so. The bones came, and the whisky
with them. Henry drank his first glass very quickly in order to show
that he was quite used to it. He thought, as he looked across the table,
that Philip was the finest fellow in the world; no one had ever been so
kind to him as Philip—How could he ever have disliked Philip? Philip
was going to marry Katherine, and was the only man in all the world who
was worthy of her. Henry felt a burning desire to confide in Philip, to
tell him all his most secret thoughts, his ambitions, his troubles....
He drank his second glass of whisky, and began a long, rather stumbling
narration.
“You know, I shall never be able to tell you how grateful I am to you
for giving me such a ripping evening. All this time ... I’ve been very
rude sometimes, I expect ... you must have thought me a dreadful ass,
and I’ve wanted so much to show you that I’m not.”
“That’s all right,” said Philip, who was thinking of Katherine.
“No, it isn’t all right,” said Henry, striking the table with his fist.
“I must tell you, now that you’ve been so kind to me. You see I’m shy
really, I wouldn’t like most people to know that, but I am. I’m shy
because I’m so unfortunate about little things. You must have noticed
long ago how unlucky I am. Nothing ever goes right with me at home. I’m
always untidy and my clothes go to pieces and I break things. People
seem to think I want to ...” His voice was fierce for a moment.
“That’s all right,” said Philip again. “Have some more bone.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Henry, staring darkly in front of him. “I don’t
know why I’m so unfortunate, because I know I _could_ do things if I
were given a chance, but no one will ever let me try. What do they keep
me at home for when I ought to be at Oxford? Why don’t they settle what
I’m going to be? It’s quite time for them to make up their mind.... It’s
a shame, a shame....”
“So it is. So it is,” said Philip. “But it will be all right if you wait
a bit.”
“I’m always told I’ve got to wait,” said Henry fiercely. “What about
other fellows? No one tells them to wait.... I’m nineteen, and there are
plenty of men of nineteen I know who are doing all kinds of things. I
can’t even dress properly—soot and fluff always come and settle on _my_
clothes rather than on anyone else’s. I’ve often noticed it. Then people
laugh at me for nothing. They don’t laugh at other men.”
“You oughtn’t to care,” said Philip.
“I try not to, but you can’t help it if it happens often.”
“What do you want to be?” said Philip. “What would you like to do?”
“I don’t mind; anything,” said Henry, “if only I did it properly. I’d
rather be a waiter who didn’t make a fool of himself than what I am. I’d
like to be of use. I’d like to make people proud of me. I’d like
Katherine—”
At that name he suddenly stopped and was silent.
“Well?” said Philip. “What about Katherine?... Have some more whisky....
Waiter, coffee.”
“I want to do something,” said Henry, “to make Katherine proud of me. I
know it must be horrible for her to have a brother whom everyone laughs
at. It’s partly because of her that I’m so shy. But she understands me
as none of the others do. She knows I’ve got something in me. She
believes in me. She’s the only one.... I can talk to her. She
understands when I say that I want to do something in the world. _She_
doesn’t laugh. And I’d die for her.... Here, now, if it was necessary.
And I’ll tell you one thing. I didn’t like you at first. When you got
engaged to Katherine I hated it until I saw that she’d probably have to
be engaged to someone, and it might as well be you.”
“Thank you,” said Philip, laughing.
“I saw how happy you made her. It’s hard on all of us who’ve known her
so long, but we don’t mind that ... if you _do_ make her happy.”
“So,” said Philip, “it’s only by the family’s permission that I can keep
her?”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Henry. “Of course she’s her own
mistress. She can do what she likes. But she _is_ fond of us. And I
don’t think—if it came to it—that she’d ever do anything to hurt us.”
“If it came to what?” said Philip.
But Henry shook his head. “Oh! I’m only talking. I meant that we’re
fonder of one another as a family than people outside can realise. We
don’t seem to be if you watch us, but if it came to pulling us
apart—to—to—taking Katherine away, for instance, it—it wouldn’t be
easy.”
“Another soda, waiter,” said Philip. “But I don’t want to take Katherine
away. I don’t want there to be any difference to anyone.”
“There _must_ be a difference,” said Henry, shaking his head and looking
very solemn. “If it had been Millie it mightn’t have mattered so much,
because she’s been away a lot as it is, but with Katherine—you see,
we’ve always thought that whatever misfortune happened, Katherine would
be there—and now we can’t think that any longer.”
“But that,” said Philip, who’d drunk quite a number of whiskies by this
time, “was very selfish of you. You couldn’t expect her never to marry.”
“We never thought about it,” said Henry. He spoke now rather confusedly
and at random. “We aren’t the sort of people who look ahead. I suppose
we haven’t got much imagination as a family. None of the Trenchards
have. That’s why we’re fond of one another and can’t imagine ever not
being.”
Philip leant forward. “Look here, Henry, I want us to be friends—real
friends. I love Katherine so much that I would do anything for her. If
she’s happy you won’t grudge her to me, will you?... I’ve felt a little
that you, some of you, don’t trust me, that you don’t understand me. But
I’m just what I seem: I’m not worthy of Katherine. I can’t think why she
cares for me, but, as she does, it’s better, isn’t it, that she should
be happy? If you’d all help me, if you’d all be friends with me—”
He had for some minutes been conscious that there was something odd
about Henry. He had been intent on his own thoughts, but behind them
something had claimed his attention. Henry was now waving a hand in the
air vaguely, he was looking at his half-empty glass with an intent and
puzzled eye. Philip broke off in the middle of his sentence, arrested
suddenly by this strangeness of Henry’s eye, which was now fixed and
staring, now red and wandering. He gazed at Henry, a swift, terrible
suspicion striking him. Henry, with a face desperately solemn, gazed
back at him. The boy then tried to speak, failed, and very slowly a
large fat tear trembled down his cheek.
“I’m trying—I’m trying,” he began. “I’ll be your friend—always—I’ll
get up—stand—explain.... I’ll make a speech,” he suddenly added.
“Good Lord!” Philip realised with a dismay pricked with astonishment,
“the fellow’s drunk.” It had happened so swiftly that it was as though
Henry were acting a part. Five minutes earlier Henry had apparently been
perfectly sober. He had drunk three whiskies and sodas. Philip had never
imagined this catastrophe, and now his emotions were a confused mixture
of alarm, annoyance, impatience and disgust at his own imperception.
Whatever Henry had been five minutes ago, there was no sort of question
about him now.
“Someone’s taken off my—b-boots,” he confided very confidentially to
Philip. “Who—did?”
The one clear thought in Philip’s brain was that he must get Henry home
quietly—from the Carlton table to Henry’s bed, and with as little noise
as possible. Only a few people now remained in the Grill Room. He
summoned the waiter, paid the bill. Henry watched him.
“You must—tell them—about my boots,” he said. “It’s absurd.”
“It’s all right,” said Philip. “They’ve put them on again now. It’s time
for us to be moving.” He was relieved to see that Henry rose at once
and, holding for a moment on to the table, steadied himself. His face,
very solemn and sad, with its large, mournful eyes and a lock of hair
tumbling forward over his forehead, was both ridiculous and pathetic.
Philip took his arm.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go home.”
Henry followed very meekly, allowed them to put on his coat, was led
upstairs and into a “taxi.”
Then he suddenly put his head between his hands and began to sob. He
would say nothing, but only sobbed hopelessly.
“It’s all right,” said Philip, as though he were speaking to a child of
five. “There’s nothing to cry about. You’ll be home in a moment.” He was
desperately annoyed at the misfortune. Why could he not have seen that
Henry was drinking too much? But Henry had drunk so little. Then he had
had champagne at dinner. He wasn’t used to it. Philip cursed his own
stupidity. Now if they made a noise on the way to Henry’s room there
might follow fatal consequences. If anyone should see them!
Henry’s sobs had ceased: he seemed to be asleep. Philip shook his arm.
“Look here! We must take care not to wake anyone. Here we are! Quietly
now, and where’s your key?”
“Wash key?” said Henry.
Philip had a horrible suspicion that Henry had forgotten his key. He
searched. Ah! there it was in the waistcoat pocket.
Henry put his arms round Philip’s neck.
“They’ve turned the roa’ upside down,” he whispered confidentially. “We
mustn’t lose each other.”
They entered the dark hall. Philip with one arm round Henry’s waist.
Henry sat on the lowest step of the stairs.
“I’ll shtay here to-night,” he said. “It’s shafer,” and was instantly
asleep. Philip lifted him, then with Henry’s boots tapping the stairs at
each step, they moved upwards. Henry was heavy, and at the top Philip
had to pause for breath. Suddenly the boy slipped from his arms and fell
with a crash. The whole house re-echoed. Philip’s heart stopped beating,
and his only thought was, “Now I’m done. They’ll all be here in a
moment. They’ll drive me away. Katherine will never speak to me again.”
A silence followed abysmally deep, only broken by some strange snore
that came from the heart of the house (as though it were the house that
was snoring) and the ticking of two clocks that, in their race against
one another, whirred and chuckled.
Philip picked Henry up again and proceeded. He found the room, pushed
open the door, closed it and switched on the light. He then undressed
Henry, folding the clothes carefully, put upon him his pyjamas, laid him
in bed and tucked him up. Henry, his eyes closed as though by death,
snored heavily....
Philip turned the light out, crept into the passage, listened, stole
downstairs, let himself into the Square, where he stood for a moment, in
the cold night air, the only living thing in a sleeping world, then
hastened away.
“Thank Heaven,” he thought, “we’ve escaped.” He had _not_ escaped. Aunt
Aggie, a fantastic figure in a long blue dressing-gown, roused by
Henry’s fall, had watched, from her bedroom door, the whole affair. She
waited until she had heard the hall-door close, then stole down and
locked it, stole up again and disappeared silently into her room.
* * * * *
When Henry woke in the morning his headache was very different from any
headache that he had ever endured before. His first thought was that he
could never possibly get up, but would lie there all day. His second
that, whatever he did, he must rouse suspicion in no one, his third that
he really _had_ been terribly drunk last night, and remembered nothing
after his second whisky at the Carlton, his fourth that someone must
have put him to bed last night, because his clothes were folded
carefully, whereas it was his own custom always to fling them about the
room. At this moment Rocket (who always took upon himself the rousing of
Henry) entered with hot water.
“Time to get up, sir,” he said. “Breakfast-bell in twenty minutes. Bath
quite ready.”
Henry watched. “He’ll suspect something when he sees those clothes,” he
thought. But Rocket, apparently, suspected nothing. Henry got up, had
his bath and slowly dressed. His headache was quite horrible, being a
cold headache with a heavy weight of pain on his skull and a taste in
his mouth of mustard and bad eggs. He felt that he could not possibly
disguise from the world that he was unwell. Looking in the glass he saw
that his complexion was yellow and muddy, but then it was never, at any
time, very splendid. He looked cross and sulky, but then that would not
surprise anyone. He went downstairs and passed successfully through the
ordeal: fortunately Aunt Aggie was in bed. Only Millie, laughing, said
to him: “You don’t look as though evenings with Philip suited you,
Henry—”
(How he hated Millie when she teased him!)
“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Trenchard placidly, “there must be thunder
about—thunder about. I always feel it in my back. George dear, do put
that paper down, your tea’s quite cold.”
“Well,” said George Trenchard, looking up from the ‘Morning Post’ and
beaming upon everyone, “what did Philip do with you last night, Henry.
Show you the town—eh?”
“We had a very pleasant evening, thank you, father,” said Henry. “We
went to the Empire.”
“You came in very quietly. I didn’t hear you. Did you hear him,
Harriet?”
“No,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “I do hope you locked the front door, Henry.”
“Oh, yes, mother. That was all right,” he said hurriedly.
“Well, dear, I’m very glad you had a pleasant evening. It was kind of
Philip—very kind of Philip. Yes, that’s Aunt Aggie’s tray, Katie dear.
I should put a little more marmalade—and that bit of toast, the other’s
rather dry—yes, the other’s rather dry. Poor Aggie says she had a
disturbed night—slept very badly. I shouldn’t wonder whether it’s the
thunder. I always know by my back. Thank you, Katie. Here’s a letter
from Rose Faunder, George, and she says, ‘etc., etc.’”
After breakfast Henry escaped into the drawing-room; he sank into his
favourite chair by the fire, which was burning with a cold and glassy
splendour that showed that it had just been lit. The room was foggy, dim
and chill, exactly suited to Henry, who, with his thin legs stretched
out in front of him and his headache oppressing him with a reiterated
emphasis as though it were some other person insisting on his attention,
stared before him and tried to think.
He wanted to think everything out, but could consider nothing clearly.
It was disgusting of him to have been drunk, but it was Philip’s
fault—that was his main conclusion. Looking back, everything seemed to
be Philip’s fault—even the disaster to himself. There was in Henry a
strange puritanical, old-maidish strain, which, under the persuasion of
the headache, was allowed full freedom. Philip’s intimacy with those
women, Philip’s attitude to drink, to ballets, even to shirt studs, an
attitude of indifference bred of long custom, seemed to Henry this
morning sinister and most suspicious. Philip had probably been laughing
at him all the evening, thought him a fool for getting drunk so easily
(terrible idea this), would tell other people about his youth and
inexperience. Thoughts like these floated through Henry’s aching head,
but he could not really catch them. Everything escaped him. He could
only stare into the old mirror, with its reflection of green carpet and
green wall-paper, and fancy that he was caught, held prisoner by it,
condemned to remain inside it for ever, with an aching head and an
irritated conscience.
He was ill, he was unhappy, and yet through it all ran the thought: “You
are a man now. You have received your freedom. You’ll never be a boy
again....”
He was aroused from his thoughts by the sudden vision of Katherine, who
was, he found, sitting on the elbow of his arm-chair with her hand on
his shoulder.
“Hullo,” he said, letting her take his hand. “I didn’t hear you come
in.”
“I didn’t know you were in here,” she answered. “You were hidden by the
chair. I was looking for you, though.”
“Why?” said Henry, suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing—except that I wanted to hear about last night. Did you
enjoy it?”
“Very much.”
“Was Philip nice?”
“Very nice.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, we dined at Jules, went to the Empire, had supper at the Carlton,
and came home.” He looked at Katherine’s eyes, felt that he was a surly
brute and added: “The ballet was called ‘The Pirate’. I thought it was
fine, but it was the first one I’d seen—I don’t think Philip cared much
for it, but then he’s seen so many in Moscow, where they go on all night
and are perfectly splendid.”
Katherine’s hand pressed his shoulder a little, and he, in response,
drew closer to her.
“I’m glad Philip was nice to you,” she said, gazing into the fire. “I
want you two to be great friends.” There sprang then a new note into her
voice, as though she were resolved to say something that had been in her
mind a long time. “Henry—tell me—quite honestly, I want to know. Have
I been a pig lately? A pig about everybody. Since I’ve been engaged have
I neglected you all and been different to you all and hurt you all?”
“No,” said Henry, slowly. “Of course you haven’t ... but it has been
different a little—it couldn’t help being.”
“What has?”
“Well, of course, we don’t mean so much to you now. How can we? I
suppose what Philip said last night is true, that we’ve been all rather
selfish about you, and now we’re suffering for it.”
“Did Philip say that?”
“Yes—or something like it.”
“It isn’t true. It simply shows that he doesn’t understand what we all
are to one another. I suppose we’re different. I’ve been feeling, since
I’ve been engaged, that we _must_ be different. Philip is so continually
surprised at the things we do.”
Henry frowned. “He needn’t be. There’s nothing very wonderful in our all
being fond of you.”
She got up from the chair and began to walk up and down the room.
Henry’s eyes followed her.
“I don’t know what it is,” she said suddenly. “But during these last
weeks it’s as though you were all hiding something from me. Even you and
Millie. Of course I know that Aunt Aggie hates Philip. She never _can_
hide her feelings. But mother ...” Katherine broke out. “Oh! it’s all so
silly! Why can’t we all be natural? It’s unfair to Philip. He’s ready
for anything, he wants to be one of us, and you, all of you—”
“It isn’t quite fair,” said Henry slowly, “to blame only us. We’ve all
been very nice to Philip, I think. I know Aunt Betty and Millie and
father like him very much.”
“And you?” said Katherine.
“I don’t think I’d like anyone who was going to take you away.”
“But he isn’t going to take me away. That’s where you’re all so wrong.
He’s just going to be one more of the family.”
Henry said nothing.
Katherine then cried passionately: “Ah, you don’t know him! you simply
don’t know him!” She stopped, her eyes shining, her whole body stirred
by her happiness. She came over and stood close to him: “Henry, whatever
happens, _whatever_ happens, nothing can take me away from you and
mother and the rest. Nor from Garth.... If you’re _sure_ of that then
you needn’t be afraid of Philip.”
Henry looked up at her. “Suppose, Katherine—just suppose—that he
insisted on your going, leaving us all, leaving Garth, going right away
somewhere. What would you do?”
Katherine smiled with perfect confidence. “He wouldn’t insist on
anything that would make me so unhappy—or anyone unhappy. All he wants
is that everyone should like everyone else, and that no one should be
hurt.”
“I’m not sure,” said Henry, “whether it isn’t that sort who hurt people
most in the end.” He took her hand in his. “He can do anything he likes,
Katherine, anything, and I’ll adore him madly, so long as he doesn’t
hurt you. If he does that—”
Aunt Aggie, standing in the doorway with the look of one who must live
up to having had breakfast in bed, interrupted him:
“Ah, Katherine, there you are. The last thing I want is to give trouble
to anyone, but I passed so poor a night that I feel quite unequal to
marking those pillow-cases that I offered yesterday to do for your
mother. I was so anxious yesterday afternoon to help her, as indeed I
always am, but of course I couldn’t foretell that my night would be so
disturbed. I wonder whether you—”
“Why, of course, Aunt Aggie,” said Katherine.
Henry’s morning reflections resolved themselves finally into the
decision that to continue his emancipation he would, definitely, before
the day closed, penetrate into the heart of his Club. He found, when he
arrived there, that he was so deeply occupied with thoughts of
Katherine, Philip and himself that he knew no fear. He boldly passed the
old man in the hall who exactly resembled a goat, climbed the stairs
with the air of one who had been doing it all his life, and discovered a
room with a fire, a table with papers, some book-cases with ancient
books, and Seymour. That gentleman was standing before the fire, a smile
of beaming self-satisfaction upon his red fat face; he greeted Henry
with that altruistic welcome that was peculiarly his own. A manner that
implied that God had sent him especially into the world to show other
men how to be jolly, optimistic, kind-hearted and healthy.
“Why, who ever expected to see you here?” he cried. “You’re yellow about
the gills, my son. Have a whisky and soda.”
“No, thank you,” said Henry, with an internal shudder. “I thought I’d
just look in.”
“Why, of course,” said Seymour. “How jolly to see you!”
They drew their chairs in front of the fire and talked—at least Seymour
talked. He told Henry what a lucky fellow he, Seymour, was, how jolly
the world was, how splendid the weather was. He let slip by accident the
facts that three publishers were fighting for his next book, that
America had gone mad about his last one (“although I always said, you
know, that to be popular in America was a sure sign that one was no
good”), and that he’d overheard some woman at a party saying that he was
the most interesting young man of the day. He told these tales with an
air as though he would imply—“How absurd these people are! How
ridiculous!”
Then, suddenly, he paused. It seemed that he had remembered something.
“By the way, Trenchard—I knew there was something. There’s a fellow in
this Club, just been lunching with him. I don’t expect he’s gone. I want
you to meet him, I was thinking about you at luncheon. He’s just come
from Moscow, where he’s been two years.”
“Moscow?” said Henry.
“Yes. I’ll go and find him. He may have left if I don’t go now.”
Seymour hurried away to return an instant later with a very-much dressed
young man in a purple suit and a high, shrill voice. He gave Henry a
languid finger, said that he wouldn’t mind a drink, and sat down in
front of the fire. Seymour began a fresh monologue, the young man
(Morrison was his name) drank his whisky with a delicate foreign
attitude which Henry greatly admired, said at last that he must be
going. It was only then that Henry plucked up courage.
“I say—Seymour tells me you’ve just come from Moscow.”
“Yes—damned rotten town,” said Morrison, “two years of it—nearly
killed me.”
“Did you happen to know,” said Henry, “a man there called Mark?”
“What! Phil Mark! Think I did!... Everyone knew Phil Mark! Hot stuff, my
word!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.
Mr. Morrison looked at Henry with curiosity, stared into his glass,
found that it was empty, rose and brushed his trousers.
“Went the pace—had a mistress there for years—a girl out of the
ballet. Everyone knew about it—had a kid, but the kid died ...
conceited sort o’ feller—no one liked him. Know I didn’t.”
“It can’t have been the same man,” said Henry slowly.
“No? daresay not,” said Morrison languidly, “name of Philip though.
Short square feller, bit fat, black hair; he was in Maddox and
Custom’s—made a bit of money they said. He chucked the girl and came to
England—here somewhere now I believe....”
He looked at Henry and Seymour, found them silent, disliked the stare in
Henry’s eyes, saw a speck of dust on his waistcoat, was very serious
about this, found the silence unpleasant and broke away—
“Well, so long, you fellows.... Must be toddling.”
He wandered out, his bent shoulders expressing great contempt for his
company.
Seymour had watched his young friend’s face. He was, for once, at a
loss. He had known what would occur; he had produced Morrison for no
other purpose. He had hated Mark since that day at the Trenchard’s house
with all the unresting hatred of one whose whole peace of mind depends
on the admiration of others. Morrison had told him stories about Mark:
he did not, himself, wish to inform Henry, because his own acquaintance
with the family and knowledge of Miss Trenchard’s engagement made it
difficult, but he had no objection at all to Morrison’s agency. He was
frightened now at Henry’s white face and staring eyes.
“Did you know this?” Henry said.
“’Pon my word, Trenchard—no idea. Morrison was talking the other day
about Englishmen in Moscow, and mentioned Mark, I think, but I never
connected him. If I’d thought he was coming out with it like that of
course I’d have stopped it, but _he_ didn’t know—”
“He’s lying.”
“Don’t know why he should. He’d no idea your sister was engaged. It’s a
bit rotten, isn’t it? I’m awfully sorry—”
Henry stared at him. “I believe you _did_ know: I believe you meant him
to tell me. That’s what you brought him for—you hate Mark anyway.”
Henry laughed, then broke off, stared about him as though he did not
know where he was, and rushed from the room. He did not know through
what streets he passed; he saw no people, heard no noise; was conscious
neither of light nor darkness. He knew that it was true. Mark was a
blackguard. Katherine—Katherine....
As he crossed the bridge in St. James’ Park he tumbled against a man and
knocked off his hat. He did not stop to apologise. What was he to do?
What was he to do? Why had it been he who had heard this?
In the dark hall of the house he saw Katherine. She spoke to him; he
tore past her, tumbling upstairs, running down the passage as though
someone pursued him. His bedroom door banged behind him.