There was something attractive and appealing about him; he was rather
like a naughty child, caught in the act--indoors on a summer afternoon
with his shag tobacco and his whisky and his advanced dishabille.
Wilbraham was one of those who hated the reek of shag, but he forgave
him for it readily and took out his own cigarette case. He did not
reply to the offer of whisky.
"I'll go and get you a glass," said Bastian. "I'm afraid there's no
soda-water, but it's good whisky and better with water."
He went out of the room, and Wilbraham stood with his eyes fixed upon
the whisky bottle, and a queer look in them, half of eagerness, half of
repulsion.
Bastian was away longer than it would have taken him to get a glass, and
when he returned he had on a collar and a flowing brightly coloured tie.
He now looked like an artist, and not so much like a broken-down
gentleman-loafer.
"Say when!" he said, pouring out the whisky, and Wilbraham said when,
but not immediately.
"I get tired of painting," said Bastian. "It's very hot out there on
the moor, and I didn't bring a sketching umbrella with me. I thought
I'd have a lazy time with a book. 'David Copperfield.' One of the best
books, I consider." He held his head aside as he looked at Wilbraham.
Wilbraham had taken his first sip of whisky. It was only a sip, but his
face seemed to expand under it. His heart also expanded towards a
Dickens enthusiast, and for a time they talked about Dickens, and found
themselves always in encouraging agreement.
"It's a pleasure to have somebody to talk to," said Bastian. "I love
being in the country and I hate being in London. I came down here to be
as far away from London as possible, but there's no doubt one does want
human intercourse. I'm devoted to my little girl, who's here with me;
but one wants men to talk to."
"Oh, you've got a daughter with you," said Wilbraham. He had been
considering all the time, underneath the conversation, whether or not
Bastian could be introduced to Royd. He was a gentleman: that was
obvious. But it was equally obvious that he had shed some of the
customs usually followed by gentlemen. Would his innate breeding carry
him through, with women--with Lady Brent? With a man, or at least with
one who prided himself on being able to see beneath the surface, the
shocking old clothes and the shag tobacco would make no difference.
Then there was the whisky. Wilbraham had rather more than a suspicion
that Bastian's case was not so very different from his own: that whisky
meant a good deal to Bastian. There were signs of it on his smooth
child-like face--a lack of clearness in a skin that was meant to be
unusually clear, a slackness of muscle, a look in the eye and in the
droop of the mouth; and the second--or possibly the third--allowance
that Bastian had poured into his glass had exceeded by a good half inch
the not meagre allowance that Wilbraham had accepted in his own. Perhaps
it might lead to complications to invite him to Royd. If Wilbraham
should decide not to, the daughter might be made an excuse.
"She's a dear child," said Bastian. "Her mother's dead. She was one in
a thousand." He sighed. "Viola and I are everything to one another.
We're scarcely ever parted, except when we're at work. She has to earn
money, poor child, and neither of us manages to earn very much. Still,
we're happy together, and happiest of all when we leave the streets
behind us and get out into the country."
He was revealing himself as one of those people who like to pour
themselves out about their own affairs, not so much out of egotism as
from an impulse to show confidence towards their hearers, to establish
relations which shall rest upon no misunderstanding, in which nothing
shall be kept back.
Wilbraham was without that impulse, but he was also without any large
share of egotism. He was interested in other people, and usually
preferred that they should talk about themselves, since few people are
interesting upon any other subject. He had some curiosity about
Bastian's history, which seemed to have had contradictions in it, when
his refinement of speech and manner was compared with his confessed and
apparent indigence, which was rather below that to which men of birth
and breeding sink, even if they are without the earning capacity.
"How old is your daughter?" he asked, a little confused between the
mention of her as a child and that of her work.
"Sixteen or seventeen," said Bastian. "I can't quite remember which,
and I don't particularly want to. I don't suppose I shall keep her with
me for many years. She's a very beautiful girl. So was her mother. And
gentle and sweet and good too--both of them. Ah, whatever I've missed
in life--whatever mistakes I've made--I've had that. There's nothing in
this world like a good and beautiful woman,--'A lovely apparition, sent
to be a moment's ornament'--how does it go on? I can't keep these things
in my head."
Wilbraham threw a look at Bastian's glass, of which the contents were
now reduced by half. His speech showed no sign of deterioration--he was
evidently one of those people who could "carry their liquor"--but
Wilbraham recognized his state as one in which the ordinary dictates of
reticence would be considerably relaxed.
His own glass was nearly as full as before. He could quite easily have
gone away and left it there. He felt that the small amount he had
already drunk had done him a vast amount of good, enlightened his brain
and stimulated his body. He had an impulse of pity towards Bastian, who
was under the influence of the desire from which he had emancipated
himself, and of self-congratulation at his own freedom. Thank God that
he could drink what was good for him, and stop there. He was inclined
to like Bastian exceedingly. It might be possible, if he got to know
him better, to help him out of the morass into which he had fallen. It
seemed probable that the state of poverty to which he had come was owing
to habits of intemperance. A man who had had the same inclinations and
might have been brought under by them, but had overcome them instead,
would be the right man to help another, if he could gain his confidence.
And Bastian seemed to be in the mood to give confidence.
"I'm afraid I don't know your name as an artist," said Wilbraham with a
glance at the picture on the mantelpiece. "But it's years since I went
to an exhibition. I'm interested in art, though, and have read a good
deal about the modern movements."
"Art!" echoed Bastian. "There's nothing like it, is there? The older I
get the more I love it. Poetry, music, painting--everything. To tell
you the truth, art has been my downfall."
Wilbraham felt some surprise. He had thought that if Bastian had been
through any experience that might be described as a downfall, it had
been from other causes. "Well, if you've followed it when you might
have been doing something else that would have brought you more money,"
he said, "I don't know that you're so much to be pitied. If I had the
gift for painting, which I haven't at all, I'd rather do what you're
doing now, than get rich."
Bastian laughed. "I'm afraid I haven't much gift either," he said.
"I'm a rotten artist, and I'm a rotten musician, and I'm a rotten poet.
I've tried to make my living out of all three; but perhaps you might say
that I haven't tried very hard. I love 'em all too much. It's rotten to
have to make your living out of what you love. You want to enjoy it,
not to practise it, unless you've got a turn that way. You don't have
to be a singer yourself to enjoy other people's singing; it doesn't
follow that you can paint good pictures because you know a bad one when
you see it. There ought to be scholarships at the Universities for
people with a genius for contemplation, and life fellowships to follow
them up."
"The holders of life fellowships have sometimes been known to practise
contemplation to an excessive extent," said Wilbraham.
Bastian laughed heartily. "That's rather good," he said. "But what a
pleasant life, eh? These jolly places--and plenty of good company, and
good wine! Why should that happy lot be reserved for people who happened
to interest themselves in one or two subjects, out of all that there are
to interest one, in their extreme youth? I suppose you were at Oxford
or Cambridge in those happy days of long ago?"
"Cambridge," said Wilbraham. "I was at Christ's."
"We must have been there about the same time. I was at Magdalene--a
nice snug little college, and becoming quite an intelligent one, from
what I've heard. But I haven't been there since I came down. They
wouldn't be very proud of me now, I'm afraid. One or two touts or
stablemen might recognize me perhaps. They had plenty of money out of
me when I had it. I don't belong to that life any more."
He had a sudden mournful droop, and drank what was left in his glass.
Wilbraham had lost the impression that he was much affected by what he
had drunk, but it returned now. That drop into self-pitying depression
immediately after smiling excitement told its tale. His own sobriety
was indicated by his glass, still two-thirds full. He had half a mind
to remark upon Bastian's helping himself to another stiff peg, which he
did with a perfectly steady hand. But he did not know him well enough
yet; the time for that sort of sympathy had not yet come.
But he was more than ever interested in him. His fall must have been
from a higher social plane than he had suspected. Undergraduates whose
money had been spent in connection with horse-flesh usually had more
than the average to begin with, and Magdalene had been a super-sporting
college in his day and Bastian's day.
"I was the son of a poor parson," he said. "I got my scholarship, and
if I had worked I should probably have got my fellowship too. I did
work at what interested me, but the devil of it was that it didn't
interest the dons. Those prizes are reserved for the people who have
the sense to stick at one thing till they've got them. Then they can do
what they like. They're not necessarily the people who are best at
their subjects. I've got a real love for the classics, and I probably
know a good deal more about them than a lot of the people who got Firsts
when I only got a Second. It's the concentration of those few years
that counts."
Bastian laughed again. "Firsts and Seconds!" he said. "I didn't take a
degree at all. The smash had come before then, and I was tied up for
life."
Wilbraham was rather taken aback. It looked as if confidences were
coming, and he had the gentleman's dislike to receiving them unless they
are given with full intention. "Don't tell me anything you'll be sorry
for afterwards," he said, with another look at Bastian's glass.
"Oh, my dear fellow, I'm not drunk," said Bastian. "I drink a lot, and
no doubt it has had a good deal to do with keeping me where I am; but I
don't get drunk. I don't often meet anybody like you, who belongs to the
world I used to inhabit. It's a relief sometimes to unburden oneself.
Besides, there's Viola. Viola doesn't often get the chance of talking
to a gentleman. I think you'll open your eyes when you see Viola. I
haven't been able to raise myself out of the muck, but it hasn't touched
her. She's the flower that has grown out of it."
Wilbraham still felt some discomfort. If it were true that Bastian
never got drunk, he was none the less under the influence of drink now,
or he wouldn't have talked about himself with quite that absence of
control. He must have been referring to his wife when he had said that
he had been tied up for life, and men don't talk to one another in that
way about their wives on a first acquaintance when they are in full
possession of themselves.
"I shouldn't let anything you told me go any further," Wilbraham said.
Bastian did not seem to have heard this. He was looking down with a
frown of concentrated purpose. To unburden himself was evidently
imperative on him for the moment, and he was collecting his faculties to
that end.
"I don't want to give you a false impression," he said. "My wife was a
woman in a thousand. Never did I have one moment's regret that I had
married her. I think, if she'd lived, she might have made a man of me
still. Perhaps it was a fluke--I don't want to make myself out better
than I was, and I was a rotten young fool in those days--perhaps it was
a fluke that she was what she was, because it was only her beauty that I
fell in love with, and I hadn't the sense then to see what there was
behind it. But what I do say is that my people ought to have seen.
I'll never forgive them for that, and I'll never let Viola have anything
to do with them. She doesn't even know their name, and----"
"I don't quite understand," said Wilbraham, as he seemed to be off on
another gallop. "Why did your people object to your marrying?"
"Oh, well of course it was a fool's trick. I wasn't even of age, and
she was a girl off the stage, but one of the sweetest, kindest girls
that ever stepped. I only had her for a few years, but I tell you I'm
in love with her memory still. She's been dead seventeen years and I
miss her as much as ever. Life's nothing to me, though I'm not old yet;
I buried it all in her grave."
It was curious, thought Wilbraham, that there should be a story here not
dissimilar from the one that he had lived with for about the same length
of time. But the girl whose father had made the same mistake as Harry's
had not been shielded from its consequences as he had. She was hardly
likely to have escaped the contamination of the rougher, harder world to
which her father had descended. Wilbraham attributed Bastian's praise
of his wife largely to the diffuse sentiment of the moment. He had not
otherwise created the impression of a man living upon a life-long
regret. His daughter, if she was the close companion of his poverty and
the witness of his habits, could hardly be the rare and delicate flower
that he painted her, though she was probably beautiful. At any rate it
would be just as well to preserve Harry from contact with her. It would
be an ironic stroke of fate if in this remote corner in which he had
been brought up the glamour of the stage should obtrude itself once
more.
"Is your daughter on the stage?" he asked outright, at this point in his
reflections.
Bastian roused himself, and seemed to shake off completely his mood of
hopeless regret. "God forbid!" he said. "I wouldn't have risked that,
though if I had I believe she'd have come through it. You must see
Viola. I don't know where she is now. She's like a sweet young creature
of the woods--roams about in them all day. That'll tell you what she
is--a London girl, who can throw London off her altogether when she gets
away from it. She's less bound to it even than I am. Come up
to-morrow, will you? I'll tell her to be in to tea. She sometimes takes
it out with her. Can you come about half-past four?"
Wilbraham had been thinking rapidly. If this girl was in the habit of
roaming the woods all day she might come across Harry, who was also in
the habit of roaming the woods. All the ideas with which Wilbraham had
lived for years past gathered themselves into the instinct to watch and
guard. He must see this girl of Bastian's, and he must be prepared for
what should come, so that he could deal with it without surprise and
without hurry. Fortunately, he had not announced his intention of
calling upon the artist that afternoon. He would say nothing about his
visit at the Castle, but would announce one for the next day.
"Yes, I should like to come," he said, as he rose from his seat. "I
must be getting back now."
About a third of the whisky remained in his glass. He stood looking at
it, as Bastian expressed his pleasure in having seen him, and then
drained it off before he left the room.
*CHAPTER XV*
*WILBRAHAM*
Harry and Viola were in the log cabin. They had varied their
meeting-places. Best of them all they loved the secret pool, but that
was only for very hot still weather. Rain was falling intermittently
this afternoon, but every now and then the sun shone. The weather made
little difference to their happiness, and the cabin, Harry's handiwork,
provided them with a shelter when they needed it, which brought them
also a grateful sense of seclusion and joint possession. The Rectory
was empty; Sunday duty was performed by a visiting clergyman; nobody was
in the least likely to disturb them in their retreat. Viola had got rid
of her slight suspicion of Jane, which she had already confessed to
Harry, with happy laughter. "She may not know it," she had said, "but
of course she's in love with you, poor child! She couldn't help being,
if she was only nine instead of thirteen. I was a little jealous of her
being so much with you. But I love her for loving you, and of course
I'm not jealous of anybody now."
The log cabin was roughly furnished. Not much more would have been
required if it had really been the home of a pioneer. Harry and Viola
had played with the idea of living together in such a cabin, with a new
beautiful world to be tamed all around them, and this as the nest of
their love and companionship. So he had played with the children, but
Viola's presence had given their cabin a wonderful romantic charm which
it had never had and which it would never lose. Her presence would
illumine every place in which she might rest. Harry's old castle was
still in shadow because she had not yet visited it.
It was the morning of the day upon which Wilbraham was to take tea with
Bastian, and Viola was to be there to be exhibited to him. Harry had
been concerned at hearing that he had already been to the cottage.
"He has said nothing about it at home," he said. "This morning at
breakfast he did say that he had thought of going to see your father
this afternoon, but that it looked like raining all day. What does it
mean?"
"Nothing very dreadful," said Viola. "He and father seem to have got on
very well together yesterday, but perhaps he wasn't quite sure enough of
him to ask him to the Castle. Perhaps he wants to see what I'm like
first."
Harry threw her a quick loving look. They were sitting together on a
bench underneath the eaves of the hut. They might not have been taken
for lovers by anyone who had seen them; their caresses were rarer than
might have been expected, fathoms deep in love with one another as they
were; but looks and smiles flashed between them like summer lightning,
and scarcely the lightest word was spoken without emotion.
"When he sees you," Harry began; but she interrupted him. "Father
doesn't want to go if he does ask us," she said. "And I couldn't go,
Harry dear. I love you so much that I couldn't keep it back. I'm
afraid I shan't be able to keep it back this afternoon from Mr.
Wilbraham, if he says anything about you."
"I've asked myself sometimes," Harry said, thoughtfully, "whether it's
right to keep it back. You're so much above everybody else in the
world, Viola, that----"
Again she interrupted him. "Harry darling," she said, "I've thought
about it too. There are lots of things that I know about in the world
that you don't. I only want to forget them while I'm here with you; and
I can't if other people know how much I love you, and that you love me.
They wouldn't let us forget them."
"What sort of things, Viola dear? I'm not a child, though perhaps they
have tried to keep me one for too long, at home. I'm going to take care
of you, for all our lives. I ought to know as much as you do."
"I hope you never will, darling," she said, a little sadly. "I know
that the things I have learnt haven't spoilt me, or else I shouldn't
feel so happy as I do in your loving me. But other people might not
believe that. We're very young, both of us. We love as deeply as
people who are older love, and we know we shall go on loving each other
all our lives. But others wouldn't believe that. They would try to
part us. They would part us, as long as I stayed here; and there's such
a little time left. Oh, let us be happy together while it lasts, and
keep our lovely secret."
"Why should they try to part us, Viola? Who is there? My grandmother
and my mother. If they only saw you!"
She smiled at him. "It wouldn't be enough," she said, "whatever I was.
And they wouldn't look at me with your eyes. Perhaps nobody else would.
What was it made you love me so much, Harry?"
He had told her a hundred times, and now told her again; and she told
him that she had loved him the very first moment she had set eyes on
him, riding up on his gallant horse with his dogs around him. "You were
like a splendid young knight," she said. "No girl could have helped
loving you. But I love you a thousand times more now than I did then,
and I suppose I shall go on loving you more and more all my life."
It was like the old stories of his childhood, which had to be told over
and over again, and were better every time they were told. But now it
was not as it had been then, when no variation must be admitted in the
telling. There was always something new--some little discovery that
deepened the sense of perfection and wonderment, some answering thought
that showed them to have been close to one another, even in the hours in
which they were parted and were pasturing on their sweet memories of one
another.
It was with a kind of solemnity of sweetness that Harry dwelt upon
Viola's trust in him and his manhood. By a thousand little signs it had
been made plain that she knew more of the world than he, but she put all
that knowledge aside and looked up to him and submitted to him as if
infinite wisdom and experience were his. And in truth he had grown
greatly in mental stature since her love had come into his life to
change it so completely. They must have remarked upon it at home if he
had not taken such advantage of the freedom that was granted him and
been so little at home at this time. His mother actually had told him
that he was altered, after he had expressed himself with more than usual
self-confidence when they had talked about the war over the
dinner-table. She was always on the look-out for signs of something
that might take him from her, and she feared the war and what might come
of it with an unreasoning fear, considering the information at her
command. Harry was thinking a great deal about the war now, which does
not mean that there were any times at which he was not thinking about
Viola. With the coming of love his sense of the deeper values of life
had become strengthened. If he had felt himself borne along on a strong
current that would carry him to whatever of action or duty or mere state
of being that was laid down for him, then whatever happened to him was
part of the whole, and nothing in his life would be dissociated from
anything else. It was this sense of unity that lifted his fresh boy's
adoration of a girl as young and as pure as himself into something
bigger and more rooted than that, beautiful as it is. His love gave the
divine note of joy to all his purpose, sweetened and solemnized it at
the same time. It was not like a great happiness in which he could
forget himself, and which he must also forget for a time if something
more serious had to be faced.
This morning, for the first time, influenced perhaps by the breath from
outside which had come through Wilbraham's advent upon the scene, which,
however, they put aside from them, they talked about the time when Viola
should have gone away.
Their extreme youth moved them to sadness, which was not wholly painful
because the time was not near yet, and present bliss was only heightened
by the thought of parting. They were so far unlike most young lovers
that no mention was made of writing, or even of meeting again. It was
as if the contact between them was so close and so sure that however far
apart they might be in space, and for whatever time, they would still be
together.
Harry was serious about the future. "I don't know exactly what is going
to happen," he said. "I'm supposed to be going to Sandhurst in January,
but that's a long time ahead. I seem to see the war swallowing up
everything. There's something to be done here about it, and perhaps it
will be for me to do it. But there's nothing to show yet. I think
there won't be till you go away, my darling. I think there's nothing
that will come in the way of my being with you, and thinking about
nothing but you."
"Do you think you will have to go and fight, Harry? Oh, surely you're
too young for that, darling!"
"I'm not too young to love you."