Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Hugh Walpole. _From a photograph by Messrs. Elliott &
Fry_]
THE
WOODEN HORSE
BY
HUGH WALPOLE
WITH A PORTRAIT
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1919
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON -- BOMBAY -- CALCUTTA -- MADRAS
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK -- BOSTON -- CHICAGO
DALLAS -- SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
COPYRIGHT
_First Published April 1909
Second Impression October 1909
Wayfarers' Library 1914
New Edition 1919_
TO
W. FERRIS
AFFECTIONATELY
"_Er liebte jeden Hund, und wünschte von jedem Hund geliebt
zu sein._"--FLEGELJAHRE (JEAN PAUL).
CHAPTER I
Robin Trojan was waiting for his father.
Through the open window of the drawing-room came, faintly, the cries of
the town--the sound of some distant bell, the shout of fishermen on the
quay, the muffled beat of the mining-stamps from Porth-Vennic, a
village that lay two miles inland. There yet lingered in the air the
faint afterglow of the sunset, and a few stars, twinkling faintly in
the deep blue of the night sky, seemed reflections of the orange lights
of the herring-boats, flashing far out to sea.
The great drawing-room, lighted by a cluster of electric lamps hanging
from the ceiling, seemed to flaunt the dim twinkle of the stars
contemptuously; the dark blue of the walls and thick Persian carpets
sounded a quieter note, but the general effect was of something
distantly, coldly superior, something indeed that was scarcely
comfortable, but that was, nevertheless, fulfilling the exact purpose
for which it had been intended.
And that purpose was, most certainly, not comfort. Robin himself would
have smiled contemptuously if you had pleaded for something homely,
something suggestive of roaring fires and cosy armchairs, instead of
the stiff-backed, beautifully carved Louis XIV. furniture that stood,
each chair and table rigidly in its appointed place, as though bidding
defiance to any one bold enough to attempt alterations.
The golden light in the sky shone faintly in at the open window, as
though longing to enter, but the dazzling brilliance of the room seemed
to fling it back into the blue dome of sea and sky outside.
Robin was standing by a large looking-glass in the corner of the room
trying to improve the shape of his tie; and it was characteristic of
him that, although he had not seen his father for eighteen years, he
was thinking a great deal more about his tie than about the approaching
meeting.
He was, at this time, twenty years of age. Tall and dark, he had all
the Trojan characteristics; small, delicately shaped ears; a mouth that
gave signs of all the Trojan obstinacy, called by the Trojans
themselves family pride; a high, well-shaped forehead with hair closely
cut and of a dark brown. He was considered by most people
handsome--but to some his eyes, of the real Trojan blue, were too cold
and impassive. He gave you the impression of some one who watched,
rather disdainfully, the ill-considered and impulsive actions of his
fellow-men.
He was, however, exactly suited to his surroundings. He maintained the
same position as the room with regard to the world in general--"We are
Trojans; we are very old and very expensive and very, very good, and it
behoves you to recognise this fact and give way with fitting deference."
He had not seen his father for eighteen years, and, as he had been
separated from him at the unimpressionable age of two, he may be said
never to have seen him at all. He had no recollection of him, and the
picture that he had painted was constructed out of monthly rather
uninteresting letters concerned, for the most part, with the care and
maintenance of New Zealand sheep, and such meagre details as his Aunt
Clare and Uncle Garrett had bestowed on him from time to time. From
the latter he gathered that his father had been, in his youth, in some
vague way, unsatisfactory, and had departed to Australia to seek his
fortune, with a clear understanding from his father that he was not to
return thence until he had found it.
Robin himself had been born in New Zealand, but his mother dying when
he was two years old, he had been sent home to be brought up, in the
proper Trojan manner, by his aunt and uncle.
On these things Robin reflected as he tried to twist his tie into a
fitting Trojan shape; but it refused to behave as a well-educated tie
should, and the obvious thing was to get another. Robin looked at his
watch. It was really extremely provoking; the carriage had been timed
to arrive at half-past six exactly; it was now a quarter to seven and
no one had appeared. There was probably not time to search for another
tie. His father would be certain to arrive at the very moment when one
tie was on and the other not yet on, which meant that Robin would be
late; and if there was one thing that a Trojan hated more than another
it was being late. With many people unpunctuality was a fault, with a
Trojan it was a crime; it was what was known as an "odds and ends"--one
of those things, like untidiness, eating your fish with a steel knife
and wearing a white tie with a short dinner-jacket, that marked a man,
once and for all, as some one outside the pale, an impossible person.
Therefore Robin allowed his tie to remain and walked to the open window.
"At any rate," he said to himself, still thinking of his tie, "father
won't probably notice it." He wondered how much his father _would_
notice. "As he's a Trojan," he thought, "he'll know the sort of things
that a fellow ought to do, even though he has been out in New Zealand
all his life."
It would, Robin reflected, be a very pretty little scene. He liked
scenes, and, if this one were properly manoeuvred, he ought to be its
very interesting and satisfactory centre. That was why it was really a
pity about the tie.
The door from the library swung slowly open, and Sir Jeremy Trojan,
Robin's grandfather, was wheeled into the room.
He was very old indeed, and the only part of his face that seemed alive
were his eyes; they were continually darting from one end of the room
to the other, they were never still; but, for the rest, he scarcely
moved. His skin was dried and brown like a mummy's, and even when he
spoke, his lips hardly stirred. He was in evening dress, his legs
wrapped tightly in rugs; his chair was wheeled by a servant who was
evidently perfectly trained in all the Trojan ways of propriety and
decorum.
"Well, grandfather," said Robin, turning back from the window with the
look of annoyance still on his face, "how are you to-night?" Robin
always shouted at his grandfather although he knew perfectly well that
he was not deaf, but could, on the other hand, hear wonderfully well
for his age. Nothing annoyed his grandfather so much as being shouted
at, and of this Robin was continually reminded.
"Tut, tut, boy," said Sir Jeremy testily, "one would think that I was
deaf. Better? Yes, of course. Close the windows!"
"I'll ring for Marchant," said Robin, moving to the bell, "he ought to
have done it before." Sir Jeremy said nothing--it was impossible to
guess at his thoughts from his face; only his eyes moved uneasily round
the room.
He was wheeled to his accustomed corner by the big open stone
fireplace, and he lay there, motionless in his chair, without further
remark.
Marchant came in a moment later.
"The windows, Marchant," said Robin, still twisting uneasily at his
tie, "I think you had forgotten."
"I am sorry, sir," Marchant answered, "but Mr. Garrett had spoken this
morning of the room being rather close. I had thought that perhaps----"
He moved silently across the room and shut the window, barring out the
fluttering yellow light, the sparkling silver of the stars, the orange
of the fishing-boats, the murmured distance of the town.
A few moments later Clare Trojan came in. Although she had never been
beautiful she had always been interesting, and indeed she was (even
when in the company of women far more beautiful than herself) always
one of the first to whom men looked. This may have been partly
accounted for by her very obvious pride, the quality that struck the
most casual observer at once, but there was also an air of
indifference, a look in the eyes that seemed to pique men's curiosity
and stir their interest. It was not for lack of opportunity that she
was still unmarried, but she had never discovered the man who had
virtue and merit sufficient to cover the obvious disadvantages of his
not having been born a Trojan. Middle age suited the air of almost
regal dignity with which she moved, and people who had known her for
many years said that she had never looked so well as now. To-night, in
a closely-fitting dress of black silk relieved by a string of pearls
round her neck, and a superb white rose at her breast, she was almost
handsome. Robin watched her with satisfaction as she moved towards him.
"Ah, it's cold," she said. "I know Marchant left those windows open
till the last moment. Robin, your tie is shocking. It looks as if it
were made-up."
"I know," said Robin, still struggling with it; "but there isn't time
to get another. Father will be here at any moment. It's late as it
is. Yes, I told Marchant to shut the windows, he said something about
Uncle Garrett's saying it was stuffy or something."
"Harry's late." Clare moved across to her father and bent down and
kissed him.
"How are you to-night, father?" but she was arranging the rose at her
breast and was obviously thinking more of its position than of the
answer to her question.
"Hungry--damned hungry," said Sir Jeremy.
"Oh, we'll have to wait," said Clare. "Harry's got to dress. Anyhow
you've got no right to be hungry at a quarter to seven. Nobody's ever
hungry till half-past seven at the earliest."
It was evident that she was ill at ease. Perhaps it was the prospect
of meeting her brother after a separation of eighteen years; perhaps it
was anxiety as to how this reclaimed son of the house of Trojan would
behave in the face of the world. It was so very important that the
house should not be in any way let down, that the dignity with which it
had invariably conducted its affairs for the last twenty years should
be, in no way, impaired. Harry had been anything but dignified in his
early days, and sheep-farming in New Zealand--well, of course, one knew
what kind of life that was.
But, as she looked across at Robin, it was easy to see that her anxiety
was, in some way, connected with him. How was this invasion to affect
her nephew? For eighteen years she had been the only father and mother
that he had known, for eighteen years she had educated him in all the
Trojan laws and traditions, the things that a Trojan must speak and do
and think, and he had faithfully responded to her instruction. He was
in every way everything that a Trojan should be; but there had been
moments, rare indeed and swiftly passing, when Clare had fancied that
there were other impulses, other ideas at work. She was afraid of
those impulses, and she was afraid of what Henry Trojan might do with
regard to them.
It was, indeed, hard, after reigning absolutely for eighteen years, to
yield her place to another, but perhaps, after all, Robin would be true
to his early training and she would not be altogether supplanted.
"Randal comes to-morrow," said Robin suddenly, after a few minutes'
silence. "Unfortunately he can only stop for a few days. His paper on
'Pater' has been taken by the _National_. He's very much pleased, of
course."
Robin spoke coldly and without any enthusiasm. It was not considered
quite good form to be enthusiastic; it was apt to lead you into rather
uncertain company with such people as Socialists and the Salvation Army.
"I'm glad he's coming--quite a nice fellow," said Clare, looking at the
gold clock on the mantelpiece. "The train is shockingly late. On
'Pater' you said! I must try and get the _National_--Miss Ponsonby
takes it, I think. It's unusual for Garrett to be unpunctual."
He entered at the same moment--a tall, thin man of forty years of age,
clean shaven and rather bald, with a very slight squint in the right
eye. He walked slowly, and always gave the impression that he saw
nothing of his surroundings. For the rest, he was said to be extremely
cynical and had more than a fair share of the Trojan pride.
"The train is late," he said, addressing no one in particular.
"Father, how are you this evening?"
This third attack on Sir Jeremy was repelled by a snort, which Garrett
accepted as an answer. "Robin, your tie is atrocious," he continued,
picking up the _Times_ and opening it slowly; "you had better change
it."
Robin was prevented from answering by the sound of carriage-wheels on
the drive. Clare rose and stood by the fireplace near Sir Jeremy;
Garrett read to the end of the paragraph and folded the paper on his
knee; Robin fingered his watch-chain nervously and moved to his aunt's
side--only Sir Jeremy remained motionless and gave no sign that he had
heard.
Perhaps he was thinking of that day twenty years before when, after a
very heated interview, he had forbidden his son to see his face again
until he had done something that definitely justified his existence.
Harry had certainly done several things since then that justified his
existence; he had, for one thing, made a fortune, and that was not so
easily done nowadays. Harry was five-and-forty now; he must be very
much changed; he had steadied down, of course ... he would be well
able to take his place as head of the family when Sir Jeremy himself....
But he gave no sign. You could not tell that he had heard the
carriage-wheels at all; he lay motionless in his chair with his eyes
half closed.
There were voices in the hall. Beldam's superlatively courteous tones
as of one who is ready to die to serve you, and then another
voice--rather loud and sharp, but pleasant, with the sound of a laugh
in it.
"They are in the blue drawing-room, sir--Mr. Henry," Beldam's voice was
heard on the stairs, and, in a moment, Beldam himself appeared--"Mr.
Henry, Sir Jeremy." Then he stood aside, and Henry Trojan entered the
room.
Clare made a step forward.
"Harry--old boy--at last------"
Both her hands were outstretched, but he disregarded them, and,
stepping forward, crushed her in his arms, crushed her dress, crushed
the beautiful rose at her breast, and, bending down, kissed her again
and again.
"Clare--after twenty years!"
He let her go and she stepped back, still smiling, but she touched the
rose for a moment and her hair. He was very strong.
And then there was a little pause. Harry Trojan turned and faced his
father. The old man made no movement and gave no sign, but he said,
his lips stirring very slightly, "I am glad to see you here again,
Harry."
The man flushed, and with a little stammer answered, "I am gladder to
be back than you can know, father."
Sir Jeremy's wrinkled hand appeared from behind the rugs, and the two
men shook in silence.
Then Garrett came forward. "You're not much changed, Harry," he said
with a laugh, "in spite of the twenty years."
"Why, Garrie!" His brother stepped towards him and laid a hand on his
shoulder. "It's splendid to see you again. I'd almost forgotten what
you were like--I only had that old photo, you know--of us both at
Rugby."
Robin had stood aside, in a corner by the fireplace, watching his
father. It was very much as he had expected, only he couldn't, try as
he might, think of him as his father at all. The man there who had
kissed Aunt Clare and shaken hands with Sir Jeremy was, in some
unexplained way, a little odd and out of place. He was big and strong;
his hair curled a little and was dark brown, like Robin's, and his eyes
were blue, but, in other respects, there was very little of the Trojan
about him. His mouth was large, and he had a brown, slightly curling
moustache. Indeed the general impression was brown in spite of the
blue, badly fitting suit. He was deeply tanned by the sun and was
slightly freckled.
He would have looked splendid in New Zealand or Klondyke, or, indeed,
anywhere where you worked with your coat off and your shirt open at the
neck; but here, in that drawing-room, it was a pity, Robin thought,
that his father had not stopped for two or three days in town and gone
to a West End tailor.
But, after all, it was a very nice little scene. It really had been
quite moving to see him kiss Clare like that, but, at the same time,
for his part, kissing...!
"And Robin?" said Harry.
"Here's the son and heir," said Garrett, laughing, and pushing Robin
forward.
Now that the moment had really come, Robin was most unpleasantly
embarrassed. How foolish of Uncle Garrett to try and be funny at a
time like that, and what a pity it was that his tie was sticking out at
one end so much farther than at the other. He felt his hand seized and
crushed in the grip of a giant; he murmured something about his being
pleased, and then, suddenly, his father bent down and kissed him on the
forehead.
They were both blushing, Robin furiously. How he hated sentiment! He
felt sure that Uncle Garrett was laughing at him.
"By Jove, you're splendid!" said Harry, holding him back with both his
hands on his shoulders. "Pretty different from the nipper that I sent
over to England eighteen years ago. Oh, you'll do, Robin."
"And now, Harry," said Clare, laughing, "you'll go and dress, won't
you? Father's terribly hungry and the train was late."
"Right," said Harry; "I won't be long. It's good to be back again."
When the door had closed behind him, there was silence. He gave the
impression of some one filled with overwhelming, rapturous joy. There
was a light in his eyes that told of dreams at length fulfilled, and
hopes, long and wearily postponed, at last realised. He had filled
that stiff, solemn room with a spirit of life and strength and sheer
animal good health--it was even, as Clare afterwards privately
confessed, a little exhausting.
Now she stood by the fireplace, smiling a little. "My poor rose," she
said, looking at some of the petals that had fallen to the ground.
"Harry is strong!"
"He is looking well," said Garrett. It sounded almost sarcastic.
Robin went up to his room to change his tie--he had said nothing about
his father.
As Harry Trojan passed down the well-remembered passages where the
pictures hung in the same odd familiar places, past staircases
vanishing into dark abysses that had frightened him as a child, windows
deep-set in the thick stone walls, corners round which he had crept in
the dark on his way to his room, it seemed to him that those long,
dreary years of patient waiting in New Zealand were as nothing, and
that it was only yesterday that he had passed down that same way, his
heart full of rage against his father, his one longing to get out and
away to other countries where he should be his own master and win his
own freedom. And now that he was back again, now that he had seen what
that freedom meant, now that he had tasted that same will-o'-the-wisp
liberty, how thankful he was to rest here quietly, peacefully, for the
remainder of his days; at last he knew what were the things that were
alone, in this world, worth striving for--not money, ambition, success,
but love for one's own little bit of country that one called home, the
patient resting in the heritage of all those accumulating traditions
that ancestors had been making, slowly, gradually, for centuries of
years.
He had hoped that he would have the same old rooms at the top of the
West Towers that he had had when a boy; he remembered the view of the
sea from their windows--the great sweep of the Cornish coast far out to
Land's End itself, and the gulls whirring with hoarse cries over his
head as he leant out to view the little cove nestling at the foot of
the Hall. That view, then, had meant to him distant wonderful lands in
which he was to make his name and his fortune: now it spoke of home and
peace, and, beyond all, of Cornwall.
They had put him in one of the big spare rooms that faced inland. As
he entered the sense of its luxury filled him with a delicious feeling
of comfort: the log-fire burning in the open brown-tiled fireplace, the
softness of the carpets, the electric light, shaded to a soft glow--ah!
these were the things for which he had waited, and they had, indeed,
been worth waiting for.
His man was laying his dress-clothes on his bed.
"What is your name?" he said, feeling almost a little shy; it was so
long since he had had things done for him.
"James Treduggan, sir," the man answered, smiling. "You won't remember
me, sir, I expect. I was quite a youngster when you went away. But
I've been in service here ever since I was ten."
When Harry was left alone, he stood by the fire, thinking. He had been
preparing for this moment for so long that now that it was actually
here he was frightened, nervous. He had so often imagined that first
arrival in England, the first glimpse of London; then the first meeting
and the first evening at home. Of course, all his thoughts had centred
on Robin--everything else had been secondary, but he had, in some
unaccountable way, never been able to realise exactly what Robin would
be. He had had photographs, but they had been unsatisfactory and had
told him nothing; and now that he had seen him, he was at rest; he was
all that he had hoped--straight, strong, manly, with that clear steady
look in the eyes that meant so much; yes, there was no doubt about his
son. He remembered Robin's mother with affectionate tenderness; she
had been the daughter of a doctor in Auckland--he had fallen in love
with her at once and married her, although his prospects had been so
bad. They had been very happy, and then, when Robin was two years old,
she had died; the boy had been sent home, and he had been alone
again--for eighteen years he had been alone. There had been other
women, of course; he did not pretend to have been a saint, and women
had liked him and been rather sorry for him in those early years; but
they had none of them been very much to him, only episodes--the central
fact of his existence had always been his son. He had had a friend
there, a Colonel Durand, who had three sons of his own, and had given
him much advice as to his treatment of Robin. He had talked a great
deal about the young generation, about its impatience of older theories
and manners, its dislike of authority and restraint; and Harry,
remembering his own early hatred of restriction and longing for
freedom, was determined that he would be no fetter on his son's
liberty, that he would be to him a friend, a companion rather than a
father. After all, he felt no more than twenty-five--there was really
no space of years between them--he was as young to-day as he had been
twenty years ago.
As to the others, he had never cared very much for Clare and Garrett in
the old days; they had been stiff, cold, lacking all sense of family
affection. But that had been twenty years ago. There had been a time,
in New Zealand, when he had hated Garrett. When he had been away from
home for some ten years, the longing to see his boy had grown too
strong to be resisted, and he had written to his father asking for
permission to return. He had received a cold answer from Garrett,
saying that Sir Jeremy thought that, as he was so successful there, it
would be perhaps better if he remained there a little while longer;
that he would find little to do at home and would only weary of the
monotony--four closely written pages to the same effect. So Harry had
remained.
But that was ten years ago. At last, a letter had come, saying that
Sir Jeremy was now very old and feeble, that he desired to see his son
before he died, and that all the past was forgotten and forgiven. And
now there was but one thought in his heart--love for all the world, one
overwhelming desire to take his place amongst them decently, worthily,
so that they might see that the wastrel of twenty years ago had
developed into a man, able to take his place, in due time, at the head
of the Trojan family. Oh! how he would try to please them all! how he
would watch and study and work so that that long twenty years' exile
might be forgotten both by himself and by them.
He bathed and dressed slowly by the fire. As he saw his clothes on the
bed he fancied, for a moment, that they might be a little worn, a
little old. They had seemed very good and smart in Auckland, but in
England it was rather different. He almost wished that he had stayed
in London for two days and been properly fitted by a tailor. But then
he had been so eager to arrive, he had not thought of clothes; his one
idea had been to rush down as soon as possible and see them all, and
the place, and the town.
Then he remembered that Clare had asked him to be quick. He finished
his dressing hurriedly, turned out the electric light, and left the
room.
He was pleased to find that he had not forgotten the turns and twists
of the house. He threaded the dark passages easily, humming a little
tune, and smelling that same sweet scent of dried rose leaves that he
had known so well when he was a small boy. He could see, in
imagination, the great white-and-pink china pot-pourri bowls standing
at the corner of the stairs--nothing was changed.
The blue drawing-room was deserted when he entered it--only the blaze
of the electric light, the golden flame of the log-fire in the great
open fireplace, and the solemn ticking of the gold clock that had stood
there, in the same place of honour, for the last hundred years. He
passed over to the windows and flung them open; the hum of the town
came, with the cold night air, into the room. The stars were brilliant
to-night and the golden haze of the lamplight hung over the streets
like a magic curtain. Ah! how good it was! The peace of it, the
comfort, the homeliness!
Above all, it was Cornwall--the lights of the herring fleet, the
distant rhythmical beat of the mining-stamps, that peculiar scent as of
precious spices coming with the wind of the sea, as though borne from
distant magical lands, all told him that he was, at last, again in
Cornwall.
He drank in the night air, bending his eyes on the town as though he
were saluting it again, tenderly, joyously, with the greeting of an old
familiar friend.
Robin closed the door behind him and shivered a little. The windows
were open--how annoying when Aunt Clare had especially asked that they
should be closed. Oh! it was his father! Of course, he did not know!
He had not been noticed, so he coughed. Harry turned round.
"Hullo, Robin, my boy!" He passed his arm through his son's and drew
him to the window. "Isn't it splendid?" he said. "Oh! I don't
suppose you see it now, after having been here all this time; you want
to go away for twenty years, then you'd know how much it's worth. Oh!
it's splendid--what times we'll have here, you and I!"
"Yes," said Robin, a little coldly. It was very chilly with the window
open, and there was something in all that enthusiasm that was almost a
little vulgar. Of course, it was natural, after being away so long ...
but still.... Also his father's clothes were really very old--the back
of the coat was quite shiny.
Sir Jeremy entered in his chair, followed by Clare and Garrett.
Clare gave a little scream.
"Oh! How cold!" she cried. "Now whoever----!"
"I'm afraid I was guilty," said Harry, laughing. "The town looked so
splendid and I hadn't seen it for so long. I----"
"Of course, I forgot," said Clare. "I don't suppose you notice open
windows in New Zealand, because you're always outside in the Bush or
something. But here we're as shivery as you make them. Dinner's
getting shivery too. The sooner we go down the better."
She passed back through the door and down the hall. There was no doubt
that she was a magnificent woman.
As Sir Jeremy was wheeled through the doors he gripped Harry's hand.
"I'm damned glad that you're back," he whispered.
Robin, who was the last to leave the room, closed the windows and
turned out the lights. The room was in darkness save for the golden
light of the leaping fire.