Randal was only at "The Flutes" two days, but he effected a good deal
in that time. He did nothing very active--called on Mrs. le Terry and
rode over the Downs once with Robin--but he managed to leave a flock of
very active impressions behind him. That, as he knew well, was his
strong point. He could not be with you a day without vaguely, almost
indistinctly, but nevertheless quite certainly, influencing your
opinions. He never said anything very definite, and, on looking back,
you could never assert that he had positively taken any one point of
view; but he had left, as it were, atmosphere--an assurance that this
was the really right thing to do, this the proper attitude for correct
breeding to adopt. It was always, with him, a case of correct
breeding, and that was why the Trojans liked him so very much.
"Randal," as Clare said, "knew so precisely who were sheep and who were
goats, and he showed you the difference so clearly."
Whenever he came to stay some former acquaintances were dropped as
being, perhaps, not quite the right people. He never said that any one
was not the right person, that would be bad breeding, but you realised,
of your own accord, that they were not quite right. That was why the
impression was so strong--it seemed to come from yourself; your eyes
were suddenly opened and you wondered that you hadn't seen it before.
He said very little of Trojan people this time; the main result of his
visit was its effect on Harry's position.
Had you been a stranger you would have noticed nothing; the motto of
the gentleman of good breeding is, "The end and aim of all true
opinions is the concealing of them from the wrong person."
Randal was exceedingly polite to Harry, so polite that Robin and Clare
knew immediately that he disapproved, but Harry was pleased. Randal
spoke warmly to Robin. "You are lucky to have such a father, Bob; it's
what we all want, you and I especially, a little fresh air let into our
Cambridge dust and confusion; it's most refreshing to find some one who
cares nothing about all those things that have seemed to us, quite
erroneously probably, so valuable. You should copy him, Robin."
But Robin made no reply. He understood perfectly. There had been some
qualities in his father that he had, deep down in his nature, admired.
He had seemed to be without doubt a man on whom one could rely in a
tight corner, and in spite of himself he had liked his father's
frankness. It was unusual. There was always another meaning in
everything that Robin's friends said, but there was never any doubt
about Harry. He missed the fine shades, of course, and was lamentably
lacking in discrimination, but you did know where you were. Robin had,
almost reluctantly, admired this before the coming of Randal. But now
there could be no question. When Randal was there you had displayed
before you the complete art of successful allusion. Nothing was ever
directly stated, but everything was hinted, and you were compelled to
believe that this really was the perfection of good breeding. Robin
admired Randal exceedingly. He took his dicta very seriously and
accepted his criticism. The judgment of his father completed the
impression that he had begun to receive. He was impossible. Randal
was going by the 10.45, and he would walk to the station.
"A whiff of fresh air, Robin, is absolutely essential. You must walk
down with me. I hate to go, Miss Trojan."
"Very soon to return, I hope, Mr. Randal," answered Clare. She liked
him, and thought him an excellent influence for Robin.
"Thank you--it's very kind--but one's busy, you know. It's been hard
enough to snatch these few days. Besides, Robin isn't alone in the
same way now. He has his father."
Clare made no reply, but her silence was eloquent.
"I'm sorry for him, Miss Trojan," he said. "He is, I'm afraid, a
little out of it. Twenty years, you know, is a long time."
Clare smiled. "He is unchanged," she said. "What he was as a boy, he
is now."
"He is fortunate," Randal said gravely. "For most of us experience has
a jostling series of shocks ready. Life hurts."
He said good-bye with that air of courtly melancholy that Clare admired
so much. He shook Harry warmly by the hand and expressed a hope of
another meeting.
"I should be delighted," Harry said. "What sort of time am I likely to
catch you in town?"
But Randal, alarmed at this serious acceptance of an entirely ironical
proposal, was immediately vague and gave no definite promise. Harry
watched them pass down the drive, then he turned back slowly into the
house.
It was one of those blue and gold days that are only to be realised
perfectly in Cornwall--blue of the sky and the sea, gold on the roofs
and the rich background of red and brown in the autumn-tinted trees,
whilst the deep green of the lawns in front of the house seemed to hold
both blues and golds in its lights and shadows. The air was perfectly
still and the smoke from a distant bonfire hung in strange wreaths of
grey-blue in the light against the trees, as though carved delicately
in marble.
Randal discussed his prospects. He spoke, as he invariably did with
regard to his past and future, airily and yet impressively: "I don't
like to make myself too cheap," he said. "There are things any sort of
fellow can do, and I must say that I shrink from taking bread out of
the mouths of some of them. But of course there are things that one
_must_ do--where special knowledge is wanted--not that I'm any good,
you know, but I've had chances. Besides, one must work slowly.
Style's the thing--Flaubert and Pater for ever--the doctrine of the one
word."
Robin looked at him with admiration.
"By Jove, Randal, I wish I could write; I sometimes feel quite--well,
it sounds silly--but inspired, you know--as if one saw things quite
differently. It was very like that in Germany once or twice."
"Ah, we're all like that at times," Randal spoke encouragingly. "But
don't you trust it--an _ignis fatuus_ if ever there was one. That is
why we have bank clerks at Peckham and governesses in Bloomsbury
writing their reminiscences. It's those moments of inspiration that
are responsible for all our over-crowded literature."
They had chosen the path over the fields to the station, and suddenly
at the bend of the hill the sea sprang before them, a curving mirror
that reflected the blue of the sky and was clouded mistily with the
gold of the sun. That sudden springing forward of the sea was always
very wonderful, even when it had been seen again and again, and Robin
stopped and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"It's fine, isn't it, Randal?" he said. "One gets fond of the place."
He was a little ashamed to have betrayed such feeling and spoke
apologetically. He went on hurriedly. "There was an old chap in
Germany--at Worms--who was most awfully interesting. He kept a little
bookshop, and I used to go down and talk to him, and he said once that
the sea was the most beautiful dream that the world contained, but you
must never get too near or the dream broke, and from that moment you
had no peace."
Randal looked at Robin anxiously. "I say, old chap, this place is
getting on your nerves; always being here is bad for you. Why don't
you come up to town or go abroad? You're seedy."
"Oh, I'm all right," Robin said, rather irritably. "Only one wonders
sometimes if--" he broke off suddenly. "I'm a bit worried about
something," he said.
He was immediately aware that he had said nothing to Randal about the
Feverel affair and he wondered why. Randal would have been the natural
person to talk to about it; his advice would have been worth having.
But Robin felt vaguely that it would be better not. For some strange
reason, as yet unanalysed, he scarcely trusted him as he had done in
the old days. He was still wondering why, when they arrived at the
station.
They said good-bye affectionately--rather more affectionately than
usual. There was a little sense of strain, and Robin felt relieved
when the train had gone. As he hurried from the platform he puzzled
over it. He could hold no clue, but he knew that their friendship had
changed a little. He was sorry.
As he turned down the station road he decided that life was becoming
very complicated. There was first his father; that oughtn't in the
nature of things to have complicated matters at all--but it was
complicated, because there was no knowing what a man like that would
do. He might let the family down so badly; it was almost like having
gunpowder in your cellar. Randal had thought him absurd. Robin saw
that clearly, and Randal's opinion was that of all truly sensible
people. But, after all, the real complication was the Feverel affair.
It was now nearly ten days since that terrible evening and nothing had
happened. Robin wasn't sure what _could_ have happened, but he had
expected something. He had waited for a note; she would most assuredly
write and her letter would serve as a hint, he would know how to act;
but there had been no sign. On the day following the interview he had
felt, for the most part, relief. He was suddenly aware of the burden
that the affair had been, he was a free man; but with this there had
been compunction. He had acted like a brute; he was surprised that he
could have been so hard, and he was a little ashamed of meeting the
public gaze. If people only realised, he thought, what a cad he was,
they would assuredly have nothing to do with him. As the days passed,
this feeling increased and he was extremely uncomfortable. He had
never before doubted that he was a very decent fellow--nothing,
perhaps, exceptional in any way, but, judged by every standard, he
passed muster. Now he wasn't so sure, he had done something that he
would have entirely condemned in another man, and this showed him
plainly and most painfully the importance that he placed on the other
man's opinion. He was beginning to grow his crop of ideas and he was
already afraid of the probable harvest.
That his affection for Dahlia was dead there could be no question, but
that it was buried, either for himself or the public, was, most
unfortunately, not the case. He was afraid of discovery for the first
time in his life, and it was unpleasant. Dahlia herself would be
quiet; at least, he was almost sure, although her outbreak the other
evening had surprised him. But he was afraid of Mrs. Feverel. He felt
now that she had never liked him; he saw her as some grim dragon
waiting for his inevitable surrender. He did not know what she would
do; he was beginning to realise his inexperience, but he knew that she
would never allow the affair to pass quietly away. To do him justice,
it was not so much the fear of personal exposure that frightened him;
that, of course, would be unpleasant--he would have to face the
derision of his enemies and the contempt of those people whom formerly
he had himself despised. But it was not personal contempt, it was the
disgrace to the family; the house was suddenly threatened on two
sides--his father, the Feverels--and he was frightened. He saw his
name in the papers; the Trojan name dragged through the mud because of
his own folly--Oh! it must be stopped at all costs. But the
uncertainty of it was worrying him. Ten days had passed and nothing
was done. Ten days, and he had been able to speak of it to no one; it
had haunted him all day and had spoiled his sleep; first, because he
had done something of which he was ashamed, and secondly, because he
was afraid that people might know.
There were the letters. He remembered some of the sentences now and
bit his lip. How could he have been such a fool? She must give them
back--of course she would; but there was Mrs. Feverel.
The uncertainty was torturing him--he must find out how matters were,
and suddenly, on the inspiration of the moment, he decided to go and
see Dahlia at once. Things could not be worse, and at least the
uncertainty would be ended. The golden day irritated him, and he found
the dark gloom of the Feverels' street a relief. A man was playing an
organ at the corner, and three dirty, tattered children were dancing
noisily in the middle of the road. He watched them for a moment before
ringing the bell, and wondered how they could seem so unconcerned, and
he thought them abandoned.
He found Dahlia alone in the gaudy drawing-room. She gave a little cry
when she saw who it was, and her cheeks flushed red, and then the
colour faded. He noticed that she was looking ill and rather untidy.
There were dark lines under her eyes and her mouth was drawn. There
was an awkward pause; he had sat down with his hat in his hand and he
was painfully ill at ease.
"I knew you would come back, Robin," she began at last. "Only you have
been a long time--ten days. I have never gone out, because I was
afraid that I would miss you. But I knew that you would be sorry after
the other night, because you know, dear, you hurt me terribly, and for
a time I really thought you meant it."
"But I do mean it," Robin broke in. "I did and I do. I'm sorry,
Dahlia, for having hurt you, but I thought that you would see it as I
do--that it must, I mean, stop. I had hoped that you would understand."
But she came over and stood by him, smiling rather timidly. "I don't
want to start it all over again," she said. "It was silly of me to
have made such a fuss the other night. I have been thinking all these
ten days, and it has been my fault all along. I have bothered you by
coming here and interfering when I wasn't really wanted. Mother and I
will go away again and then you shall come and stay, and we shall be
all alone--like we were at Cambridge. I have learnt a good deal during
these last few days, and if you will only be patient with me I will try
very hard to improve."
She stood by his chair and laid her hand on his arm. He would have
thrilled at her touch six months before--now he was merely impatient.
It was so annoying that the affair should have to be reopened when they
had decided it finally the other night. He felt again the blind,
unreasoning fear of exposure. He had never before doubted his bravery,
but there had never been any question of attack--the House had been, it
seemed, founded on a rock, he had never doubted its stability before.
Now, with all the cruelty of a man who was afraid for the first time,
he had no mercy.
"It is over, Dahlia--there is no other possibility. We had both made a
mistake; I am sorry and regret extremely if I had led you to think that
it could ever have been otherwise. I see it more clearly than I saw it
ten days ago--quite plainly now--and there's no purpose served in
keeping the matter open; here's an end. We will both forget. Heroics
are no good; after all, we are man and woman--it's better to leave it
at that and accept the future quietly."
He spoke coldly and calmly, indeed he was surprised that he could face
it like that, but his one thought was for peace, to put this spectre
that had haunted him these ten days behind him and watch the world
again with a straight gaze--he must have no secrets.
She had moved away and stood by the fireplace, looking straight before
her. She was holding herself together with a terrible effort; she must
quiet her brain and beat back her thoughts. If she thought for a
moment she would break down, and during these ten days she had been
schooling herself to face whatever might come--shame, exposure,
anything--she would not cry and beg for pity as she had done before.
But it was the end, the end, the end! The end of so much that had
given her a new soul during the last few months. She must go back to
those dreary years that had had no meaning in them, all those
purposeless grey days that had stretched in endless succession on to a
dismal future in which there shone no sun. Oh! he couldn't know what
it had all meant to her--it could be flung aside by him without regret.
For him it was a foolish memory, for her it was death.
The tears were coming, her lips were quivering, but she clenched her
hands until the nails dug into the flesh. The sun poured in a great
flood of colour through the window, and meanwhile her heart was broken.
She had read of it often enough and had laughed--she had not known that
it meant that terrible dull throbbing pain and no joy or hope or light
anywhere. But she spoke to him quietly.
"I had thought that you were braver, Robin. That you had cared enough
not to mind what they said. You are right: it has all been a mistake."
"Yes," he said doggedly, without looking at her. "We've been foolish.
I hadn't thought enough about others. You see after all one owes
something to one's people. It would never do, Dahlia, it wouldn't
really. You'd never like it either--you see we're different. At
Cambridge one couldn't see it so clearly, but here--well, there are
things one owes to one's people, tradition, and, oh! lots of things!
You have got your customs, we have ours--it doesn't do to mix."
He hadn't meant to put it so clearly. He scarcely realised what he had
said because he was not thinking of her at all; it was only that one
thing that he saw in front of him, how to get out, away, clear of the
whole entanglement, where there was no question of suspicion and
possible revelation of secrets. He was not thinking of her.
But the cruelty of it, the naked, unhesitating truth of it, stung her
as nothing had ever hurt her before--it was as though he had struck her
in the face. She was not good enough, she was not fit. He had said it
before, but then he had been angry. She had not believed it; but now
he was speaking calmly, coldly--she was not good enough!
And in a moment her idol had tumbled to the ground--her god was lying
pitifully in the dust, and all the Creed that she had learnt so
patiently and faithfully had crumbled into nothing. Her despair
seemed, for the moment, to have gone; she only felt burning
contempt--contempt for him, that he could seem so small--contempt for
herself, that she could have worshipped at such altars.
She turned round and looked at him.
"That is rather unfair. You say that I am not your equal socially.
Well, we will leave it at that--you are quite right--it is over."
He lowered his eyes before her steady gaze. At last he was ashamed; he
had not meant to put it brutally. He had behaved like a cad and he
knew it. Her white face, her hands clenched tightly at her side, the
brave lift of her head as she faced him, moved him as her tears and
emotions had never done.
He sprang up and stood by her.
"Dahlia, I've been a brute, a cad--I didn't know what I had said--I
didn't mean it like that, as you thought. Only I've been so worried,
I've not known where to turn and--oh, don't you see, I'm so young. I
get driven, I can't stand up against them all."
Why, he was nearly crying. The position was suddenly reversed, and she
could almost have laughed at the change. He was looking at her
piteously, like a boy convicted of orchard-robbing--and she had loved
him, worshipped him! Five minutes ago his helplessness would have
stirred her, she would have wanted to take him and protect him and
comfort him; but now all that was past--she felt only contempt and
outraged pride: her eyes were hard and her hands unclenched.
"It is no good, Robin. You were quite right. There is an end of
everything. It was a mistake for both of us, and perhaps it is as well
that we should know it now. It will spare us later."
So that was the end. He felt little triumph or satisfaction; he was
only ashamed.
He turned to go without a word. Then he remembered--"There are the
letters?"
"Ah! you must let me keep them--for a memory." She was not looking at
him, but out of the window on to the street. A cab was slowly crawling
in the distance--she could see the end of the driver's whip as he
flicked at his horses.
"You can't--you don't mean----?" Robin turned back to her.
"I mean nothing--only I am--tired. You had better go. We will write
if there is anything more."
"Look here!" Robin was trembling from head to foot. "You must let me
have them back. It's serious--more than you know. People might see
them and--my God! you would ruin me!"
He was speaking melodramatically, and he looked melodramatic and very
ridiculous. He was crushing his bowler in his hands.
"No. I will keep them!" She spoke slowly and quite calmly, as though
she had thought it all out before. "They are valuable. Now you must
go. This has been silly enough--Good-bye."
She turned to the window and he was dismissed. His pride came to the
rescue; he would not let her see that he cared, so he went--without
another word.
She stood in the same position, and watched him go down the street. He
was walking quickly and at the same time a little furtively, as though
he was afraid of meeting acquaintances. She turned away from the
window, and then, suddenly, knelt on the floor with her head in her
hands. She sobbed miserably, hopelessly, with her hands pressed
against her face.
And Mrs. Feverel found her kneeling there in the sunlight an hour later.
"Dahlia," she said softly, "Dahlia!"
The girl looked up. "He has gone, mother," she said. "And he is never
coming back. I sent him away."
And Mrs. Feverel said nothing.