Some letters during this week:--
23 SOUTHWICK CRESCENT, W.,
_October_ 10, 1906.
My dear Robin--I should have written before, I am ashamed of my
omission, but my approaching departure abroad has thrown a great many
things on my hands; I have a paper to finish for Clarkson and an essay
for the _New Review_, and letter-writing has been at a standstill. It
was delightful--that little peep of you that I got--and it only made me
regret the more that it is impossible to see much of you nowadays. I
cannot help feeling that there is a danger of vegetation if one limits
oneself too completely to a provincial life, and, charming though
Cornwall is, its very fascination causes one to forget the importance
of the outer world. I fancied that I discerned signs that you yourself
felt this confinement and wished for something broader. Well, why not
have it? I confess that I see no reason. Come up to London for a
time--go abroad--your beloved Germany is waiting for you, and a year at
one of the Universities would be both amusing and instructive. These
are only suggestions; I should hesitate to offer them at all were it
not that there has always been such sympathy between us that I know you
will not resent them. Of course, the arrival of your father has made
considerable difference. I must say, honestly, that I regretted to see
that you had not more in common. The fault, I expect, has been on both
sides; as I said to you before, it has been hard for him to realise
exactly what it is that we consider important. We--quite mistakenly
possibly--have come to feel that certain things, art, literature,
music, are absolutely essential to us, morally and physically.
They are nothing at all to him, and I can quite understand that you
have found it difficult--almost impossible--to grasp his standpoint. I
must confess that he did not seem to me to attempt to consider yours;
but it is easy, and indeed impertinent, to criticise, and I hope that,
on the next occasion of your writing, I shall hear that things are
going smoothly and that the first inevitable awkwardnesses have worn
off.
I must stop. I have let my pen wander away with me. But do consider
what I said about coming up to town; I am sure that it is bad for you
in every way--this burial. Think of your friends, old chap, and let
them see something of you.--Yours ever,
LANCELOT RANDAL.
"THE FLUTES," PENDRAGON,
_October_ 12, 1906.
My dear Lance--Thanks very much for your letter. This mustn't pretend
to be anything of a letter. I have a thousand things to do, and no
time to do them. It was very delightful seeing you, and I, too, was
extremely sorry we could not see more of you. My aunt enjoyed your
visit enormously, and told me to remind you that you are expected here,
for a long stay, on your return from Germany.
Yes, I was worried and am still. There are various things--"it never
rains but it pours"--but I cannot feel that they are in the least due
to my vegetating. I haven't the least intention of sticking here, but
my grandfather is, as you know, very ill, and it is impossible for me
to get away at present.
Resent what you said! Why, no, of course not. We are too good friends
for resentment, and I am only too grateful for your advice. The
situation here at this moment is peculiarly Meredithian--and, although
one ought perhaps to be silent concerning it, I know that I can trust
you absolutely and I need your advice badly. Besides, I must speak to
some one about it; I have been thinking it over all day and am quite at
a loss. There was battle royal this morning after breakfast, and my
father was extremely rude to my aunt, acting apparently from quite
selfish motives. I want to look at it fairly, but I can, honestly, see
it in no other light. My aunt accused him of indifference with regard
to the family good name. She, quite rightly, I think, pointed out that
his behaviour from first to last had been the reverse of courteous to
herself and her friends, and she suggested that he had, perhaps,
scarcely realised the importance of maintaining the family dignity in
the eyes of Pendragon. You remember his continual absences and the
queer friendships that he formed. She suggested that he should modify
these, and take a little more interest in the circle to which we,
ourselves, belong. Surely there is nothing objectionable in all this;
indeed, I should have thought that he would have been grateful for her
advice. But no--he fired up in the most absurd manner, accused us of
unfairness and prejudice, declared his intention of going his own way,
and gave us all his congé. In fact, he was extremely rude to my aunt,
and I cannot forgive him for some of the things that he said. His
attitude has been absurd from the first, and I cannot see that we could
have acted otherwise, but the situation is now peculiar, and what will
come of it I don't know. I must dress for dinner--I am curious to see
whether he will appear--he was out for lunch. Let me have a line if
you have a spare moment. I scarcely know how to act.--Yours,
ROBERT TROJAN.
23 SOUTHWICK CRESCENT, W.,
_October_ 14, 1906.
Dear Robin--In furious haste, am just off and have really no time for
anything. I am more sorry than I can say to hear your news. I must
confess that I had feared something of the kind; matters seemed working
to a climax when I was with you. As to advice, it is almost
impossible; I really don't know what to say, it is so hard for me to
judge of all the circumstances. But it seems to me that your father
can have had no warrant for the course that he took. One is naturally
chary of delivering judgment in such a case, but it was, obviously, his
duty to adapt himself to his environment. He cannot blame you for
reminding him of that fact. Out of loyalty to your aunt, I do not see
that you can do anything until he has apologised. But I will think of
the matter further, and will write to you from abroad.--In great haste,
your friend, LANCELOT RANDAL.
"THE FLUTES," PENDRAGON, CORNWALL,
_October_ 13, 1906.
Dear Miss Feverel--I must apologise for forcing you to realise once
more my existence. Any reminder must necessarily be painful after our
last meeting, but I am writing this to request the return of all other
reminders of our acquaintance that you may happen to possess; I enclose
the locket, the ring, your letters, and the tie that you worked. We
discussed this matter the other day, but I cannot believe that you will
still hold to a determination that can serve no purpose, except perhaps
to embitter feelings on both sides. From what I have known of you I
cannot believe that you are indulging motives of revenge--but,
otherwise, I must confess that I am at a loss.--Expecting to receive
the letters by return, I am, yours truly,
ROBERT TROJAN.
9 SEA VIEW TERRACE, PENDRAGON, CORNWALL,
_October_ 14, 1906.
Dear Mr. Trojan--Thank you for the locket, the ring, and the letters
which I have received. I regret that I must decline to part with the
letters; surely it is not strange that I should wish to keep
them.--Yours truly, DAHLIA FEVEREL.
"THE FLUTES,"
_October_ 15, 1906.
What do you mean? You have no right to them. They are mine. I wrote
them. You serve no purpose by keeping them. Please return them at
once--by return. I have done nothing to deserve this. Unless you
return them, I shall know that you are merely an intriguing--; no, I
don't mean that. Please send them back. Suppose they should be
seen?--In haste, R. T.
9 SEA VIEW TERRACE, PENDRAGON, CORNWALL,
_October_ 15, 1906.
My decision is unalterable.
D. F.
But Dahlia sat in the dreary little drawing-room watching the grey sea
with a white face and hard, staring eyes.
She had sat there all day. She thought that soon she would go mad.
She had not slept since her last meeting with Robin; she had scarcely
eaten--she was too tired to think.
The days had been interminable. At first she had waited, expecting
that he would come back. A hundred impulses had been at work. At
first she had thought that she would go and tell him that she had not
meant what she said; she would persuade him to come back, She would
offer him the letters and tell him that she had meant nothing--they had
been idle words. But then she remembered some of the things that he
had said, some of the stones that he had flung. She was not good
enough for him or his family; she had no right to expect that an
alliance was ever possible. His family despised her. And then her
thoughts turned from Robin to his family. She had seen Clare often
enough and had always disliked her. But now she hated her so that she
could have gladly killed her. It was at her door that she laid all the
change in Robin and her own misery. She felt that she would do
anything in the world to cause her pain. She brooded over it in the
shabby little room with her face turned to the sea. How could she hurt
her? There were the others, too--the rest of the family--all except
Robin's father, who was, she felt instinctively, different. She
thought that he would not have acted in that way. And then her
thoughts turned back to Robin, and for a moment she fancied that she
hated him, and then she knew that she still loved him--and she stared
at the grey sea with misery in her heart and a dull, sombre confusion
in her brain. No, she did not hate Robin, she did not really want to
hurt him. How could she, when they had had those wonderful months
together? Those months that seemed such centuries and centuries away.
But, nevertheless, she kept the letters. Her mother had talked about
them, had advised her to keep them. She did not mean to do anything
very definite with them--she could not look ahead very far--but she
would keep them for a little.
When she had seen Robin's handwriting again it had been almost more
than she could bear. For some time she had been unable to tear open
the envelope and speculated, confusedly, on the contents. Perhaps he
had repented. She judged him by her own days and nights of utter
misery and knew that, had it been herself, they would have driven her
back crying to his feet. Perhaps it was to ask for another interview.
That she would refuse. She felt that she could not endure another such
meeting as their last; if he were to come to her without warning, to
surprise her suddenly--her heart beat furiously at the thought; but the
deliberate meeting merely for the purpose of his own advantage--no!
She opened the letter, read the cold lines, and knew that it was
utterly the end. She had fancied, at their last meeting, that her
love, like a bird shot through the heart, had fallen at his feet, dead;
then, after those days of his absence, his figure had grown in her
sight, glorified, resplendent, and love had revived again--now, with
this letter she knew that it was over. She did not cry, she scarcely
moved. She watched the sea, with the letter on her lap, and felt that
a new Dahlia Feverel, a woman who would traffic no longer with
sentiment, who knew the world for what it was--a hard, merciless prison
with fiends for its gaolers--had sprung to birth.
She replied to him and showed her mother her answer. She scarcely
listened to Mrs. Feverel's comments and went about her daily affairs,
quietly, without confusion. She saw herself and Robin like figures in
a play--she applauded the comedy and the tragedy left her unmoved.
Robin Trojan had much to answer for.
He read her second letter with dismay. He had spent the day in
solitary confinement in his room, turning the situation round and round
in his mind, lost in a perfect labyrinth of suggested remedies, none of
which afforded him any outlet. The thought of exposure was horrible;
anything must be done to avoid that--disgrace to himself was bad
enough; to be held up for laughter before his Cambridge friends,
Randal, his London acquaintances--but disgrace to the family! That was
the awful thing!
From his cradle this creed of the family had been taught him; he had
learnt it so thoroughly that he had grown to test everything by that
standard; it was his father's disloyalty to that creed that had roused
the son's anger--and now, behold, the son was sinning more than the
father! It was truly ironic that, three days after his attacking a
member of the family for betraying the family, he himself should be
guilty of far greater betrayal! How topsy-turvy the world seemed, and
what was to be done?
The brevity and conciseness of Dahlia's last letter left him in no
doubt as to her intentions. Breach of Promise! The letters would be
read in court, would be printed in the newspapers for all the world to
see. With youth's easy grasping of eternity, it seemed to him that his
disgrace would be for ever. Beddoes' "Death's Jest-book" was lying
open on his knee. Wolfram's song--
Old Adam, the carrion crow,
The old crow of Cairo;
He sat in the shower, and let it flow
Under his tail and over his crest;
And through every feather
Leaked the wet weather;
And the bough swung under his nest;
For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
Is that the wind dying? Oh no;
It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghost's moonshine--
had always seemed to him the most madly sinister verse in English
literature. It had been read to him by Randal at Cambridge and had had
a curious fascination for him from the first. He had found that the
little bookseller at Worms had known it and had indeed claimed Beddoes
for a German--now it seemed to warn him vaguely of impending disaster.
He did not see that he himself could act any further in the matter; she
would not see him and writing was useless. And yet to leave the matter
uncertain, waiting for the blow to fall, with no knowledge of the
movements in the other camp, was not to be thought of. He must do
something.
The moment had arrived when advice must be taken--but from whom? His
father was out of the question. It was three days since the explosion,
and there was an armed truce. He had, in spite of himself, admired his
father's conduct during the last three days, and he was surprised to
find that it was his aunt and uncle rather than his father who had
failed to carry off the situation. He refused as yet to admit it to
himself, but the three of them, his aunt, his uncle, and himself, had
seemed almost frightened. His father was another person; stern, cold,
unfailingly polite, suddenly apparently possessed of those little
courtesies in which he had seemed before so singularly lacking. There
had been conversation of a kind at meals, and it had always been his
father who had filled awkward pauses and avoided difficult moments.
The knowledge, too, that his father would, in a few months' time, be
head of the house, was borne in upon him with new force; it might be
unpleasant, but it would not, as he had formerly fancied, be ludicrous.
A sign of his changed attitude was the fact that he rather resented
Randal's letter and wished a little that he had not taken him into his
confidence.
Nevertheless, to ask advice of his father was impossible. He must
speak to his uncle and aunt. How hard this would be only he himself
knew. He had never in their eyes failed, in any degree, towards the
family honour. From whatever side the House might be attacked, it
would not be through him. There was nothing in his past life, they
thought, at which they would not care to look.
He realised, too, Clare's love for him. He had known from very early
days that he counted for everything in her life; that her faith in the
family centred in his own honour and that her hopes for the family were
founded completely in his own progress--and now he must tell her this.
He could not, he knew, have chosen a more unfortunate time. The House
had already been threatened by the conduct of the father; it was now to
totter under blows dealt by the son. The first crisis had been severe,
this would be infinitely more so. He hated himself for the first time
in his life, and, in doing so, began for the first time to realise
himself a little.
Well, he must speak to them and ask them what was to be done, and the
sooner it was over the better. He put the Beddoes back into the shelf,
and went to the windows. It was already dark; light twinkled in the
bay, and a line of white breakers flashed and vanished, keeping time,
it seemed, with the changing gleam of the lighthouse far out to sea.
His own room was dark, save for the glow of the fire. They would be at
tea; probably his father would not be there--the present would be a
good time to choose. He pulled his courage together and went
downstairs.
As he had expected, Garrett was having tea with Clare in her own
room--the Castle of Intimacy, as Randal had once called it. Garrett
was reading; Clare was sitting by the fire, thinking.
"She will soon have more to think about," thought Robin wretchedly.
She looked up as he came in. "Ah, Robin, that's splendid! I was just
going to send up for you. Come and sit here and talk to me. I've
hardly seen you to-day."
She had been very affectionate during the last three days--rather too
affectionate, Robin thought. He liked her better when she was less
demonstrative.
"Where have you been all the afternoon?"
"In my room. I've been busy."
"Tea? You don't mind it strong, do you, because it's been here a good
long time? Gingerbread cake especially for you."
But gingerbread cake wasn't in the least attractive. Beddoes suited
him much better:--
Is that the wind dying? Oh no;
It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghost's moonshine.
"Do you know Beddoes, aunt?"
"No, dear. What kind of thing is it? Poetry?"
"Yes. You wouldn't like it, though----only I've been reading him this
afternoon. He suited my mood."
"Boys of your age shouldn't have moods." This from Garrett. "I never
had."
Robin took his tea without answering, and sat down on the opposite side
of the fire to his aunt. How was he to begin? What was he to say?
There followed an awful pause--life seemed to have been full of pauses
lately.
Clare was watching him anxiously. How had his father's outbreak
affected him? She was afraid, from little things that she had seen,
that he had been influenced. Harry had been so different those last
three days--she could not understand it. She watched him eagerly,
hungrily. Why was he not still the baby that she could take on her
knees and kiss and sentimentalise over? He, too, she fancied, had been
different during these last days.
"More tea, Robin? You'd better--it's a long while before dinner."
"No, thanks, aunt. I--that is--well, I've something I wanted to say."
He turned round in his chair and faced the fire. He would rather not
look at her whilst he was speaking. Garrett put down his book and
looked up. Was there going to be more worry? What had happened lately
to the world? It seemed to have lost all proper respect for the Trojan
position. He could not understand it. Clare drew her breath sharply.
Her fears thronged about her, like shadows in the firelight--what was
it? ... Was it Harry?
"What about, Robin? Is anything the matter?"
"Why, no--nothing really--it's only--that is--Oh, dash it all--it's
awfully difficult."
There was another silence. The ticking of the clock drove Robin into
further speech.
"Well--I've made a bit of a mess. I've been rather a fool and I want
your advice."
Another pause, but no assistance save a cold "Well?" from Garrett.
"You see it was at Cambridge, last summer. I was an awful fool, I
know, but I really didn't know how far it was going until--well, until
afterwards----"
"Until--after what?" said Garrett. "Would you mind being a little
clearer, Robin?"
"Well, it was a girl." Robin stopped. It sounded so horrible, spoken
like that in cold blood. He did not dare to look at his aunt, but he
wondered what her face was like. He pulled desperately at his tie, and
hurried on. "Nothing very bad, you know. I meant, at first, anyhow--I
met her at another man's--Grant of Clare--quite a good chap, and he
gave a picnic--canaders and things up the river. We had a jolly
afternoon and she seemed awfully nice and--her mother wasn't there.
Then--after that--I saw a lot of her. Every one does at Cambridge--I
mean see girls and all that kind of thing--and I didn't think anything
of it--and she really _seemed_ awfully nice then. There isn't much to
do at Cambridge, except that sort of thing--really. Then, after term,
I came down here, and I began to write. I'm afraid I was a bit silly,
but I didn't know it then, and I used to write her letters pretty
often, and she answered them. And--well, you know the sort of thing,
Uncle Garrett--I thought I loved her----"
At this climax, Robin came to a pause, and hoped that they would help
him, but they said no word until, at last, Garrett said impatiently,
"Go on."
"Well," continued Robin desperately, "that's really all--" knowing,
however, that he had not yet arrived at the point of the story.
"She--and her mother--came down to live here--and then, somehow, I
didn't like her quite so much. It seemed different down here, and her
mother was horrid. I began to see it differently, and at last, one
night, I told her so. Of course, I thought, naturally, that she would
understand. But she didn't--her mother was horrid--and she made a
scene--it was all very unpleasant." Robin was dragging his
handkerchief between his fingers, and looking imploringly at the fire.
"Then I went and saw her again and asked her for--my letters--she said
she'd keep them--and I'm afraid she may use them--and--well, that's
all," he finished lamely.
He thought that hours of terrible silence followed his speech. He sat
motionless in his chair waiting for their words. He was rather glad
now that he had spoken. It had been a relief to unburden himself; for
so many days he had only had his own thoughts and suggestions to apply
to the situation. But he was afraid to look at his aunt.
"You young fool," at last from Garrett. "Who is the girl?"
"A Miss Feverel--she lives with her mother at Sea view Terrace--there
is no father."
"Miss Feverel? What! That girl! You wrote to her! You----"
At last his aunt had spoken. He had never heard her speak like that
before--the "You!" was a cry of horror. She suddenly got up and went
over to him. She bent over him where he sat, with head lowered, and
shook him by the shoulder.
"Robin! It can't be true--you haven't written to that girl! Not
love-letters! It is incredible!"
"It is true--" he said, looking up. "Don't look at me like that, Aunt
Clare. It isn't so bad--other fellows----" but then he was ashamed and
stopped. He would leave his defence alone.
"Is that all?" said Garrett. "All you have done, I mean? You haven't
injured the girl?"
"I swear that's all," Robin said eagerly. "I meant no harm by it. I
wrote the letters without thinking I----"
Clare stood leaning on the mantelpiece, her head between her hands.
"I can't understand it. I can't understand it," she said. "It isn't
like you--not a bit. That girl and you--why, it's incredible!"
"That's only because you had your fancy idea of him, Clare," said
Garrett. "We'd better pass the lamentation stage and decide what's to
be done."
For once Garrett seemed practical; he was pleased with himself for
being so. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was the only person
who could really deal with the situation. Clare was a woman, Harry was
out of the question, Robin was a boy.
"Have you spoken to your father?" he asked.
"No. Of course not!" Robin answered, rather fiercely. "How could I?"
Clare went back to her chair. "That girl! But, Robin, she's
plain--quite--and her manners, her mother--everything impossible!"
It was still incredible that Robin, the work of her hands as it were,
into whom she had poured all things that were lovely and of good
report, could have made love to an ordinary girl of the middle
classes--a vulgar girl with a still more vulgar mother.
But in spite of her vulgarity she was jealous of her. "You don't care
for her any longer, Robin?"
"Now?--oh no--not for a long time--I don't think I ever did really. I
can't think how I was ever such a fool."
"She still threatens Breach of Promise," said Garrett, whose mind was
slowly working as to the best means of proving his practical utility.
"That's the point, of course. That the letters are there and that we
have got to get them back. What kind of letters were they? Did you
actually give her hopes?"
Robin blushed. "Yes, I'm afraid I did--as well as I can remember, and
judging by her answers. I said the usual sort of things----" He
paused. It was best, he felt, to leave it vague.
But Clare had scarcely arrived at the danger of it yet--the danger to
the House. Her present thought was of Robin; that she must alter her
feelings about him, take him from his pedestal--a Trojan who could make
love to any kind of girl!
"I can't think of it now," she said; "it's confusing. We must see
what's to be done. We'll talk about it some other time. It's hard to
see just at present."
Garrett looked puzzled. "It's a bit of a mess," he said. "But we'll
see----" and left the room with an air of importance.
Robin turned to go, and then walked over to his aunt, and put his hand
on her sleeve.
"Don't think me such a rotter," he said. "I am awfully sorry--it's
about you that I care most--but I've learnt a lesson; I'll never do
anything like that again."
She smiled up at him, and took his hand in hers.
"Why, old boy, no. Of course I was a little surprised. But I don't
mind very much if you care for me in the same way. That's all I have,
Robin--your caring; and I don't think it matters very much what you do,
if I still have that."
"Of course you have," he said, and bent down and kissed her. Then he
left the room.