Читать книгу Maradick at Forty: A Transition - Hugh Walpole - Страница 9

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MARADICK MAKES A PROMISE AND MEETS AN

ITINERANT OPTIMIST

The house was the cleverest in the world. There was nothing in Europe of its kind, and that was because its cleverness lay in the fact that you never thought it clever at all. It could, most amazingly, disappear so utterly and entirely that you never had any thoughts about it at all, and merely accepted it without discussion as a perfect background. And then, suddenly, on a morning or an evening, it would leap out at you and catch you by the throat; and the traveller wondered and was aghast at its most splendid adaptability.

It was, indeed, all things to all men; but it nevertheless managed to bring out the best parts of them. All those strange people that it had seen—painters and musicians, the aristocracy and old maids, millionaires and the tumbled wastrels cast out from a thousand cities—it gathered them all, and they left it, even though they had passed but a night in its company, altered a little. And it achieved this by its adaptability. In its rooms and passages, its gardens and sudden corners, its grey lights and green lawns, there was that same secret waiting for an immediate revelation. Some thought the house a tyranny, and others called it a surprise, and a few felt that it was an impossibility, but no one disregarded it.

For Maradick, in these strange new days into which he was entering, its charm lay in its age. That first view with the dark, widening staircase that passed into hidden lights and mysteries overhead and turned so nobly towards you the rich gleam of its dark brown oak, the hall with its wide fireplace and passages that shone, as all true passages should, like little cups of light and shadow, grey and blue and gold, before vanishing into darkness—this first glimpse had delighted him; it was a hall that was a perfect test of the arriving visitor, and Maradick had felt that he himself had been scarcely quite the right thing. It was almost as though he ought to have apologised for the colourless money-making existence that had hitherto been his; he had felt this vaguely and had been a little uncomfortable. But there were things higher up that were better still. There were rooms that had, most wisely, been untouched, and their dark, mysterious panelling, the wistful scent of dried flowers and the wax of dying candles; the suggestion—so that he held his breath sometimes to listen whether it were really so—of rustling brocades and the tiny click of shining heels on the polished floor, was of a quite unequalled magic for him. Of course there was imagination in it, and in the last few days these things had grown and extended their influence over him, but there must have been something there before, he argued, to impress so matter-of-fact and solid a gentleman.

There was one room that drew him with especial force, so that sometimes, before going to bed, he would enter with his candle raised high above his head, and watch the shadow on the floor and the high gloom of the carved ceiling. It contained a little minstrels gallery supported on massive pillars of gleaming oak, and round the bottom of the platform were carved the heads of grinning lions, reminding one of that famous Cremona violin of Herr Prespil’s. In the centre of the room was an old table with a green baize cloth, and against the wall, stiffly ranged and dusty from disuse, high-backed quaintly carved chairs, but for the rest no carpet and no pictures on the dark, thick walls.

It was sometimes used for dancing, and at times for a meeting or a sale of work; or perchance, if there were gentlemen musically inclined, for chamber music. But it was empty during half the year, and no one disturbed its dust; it reminded Maradick of that tower in the market-place. They were, both of them, melancholy survivals, but he applauded their bravery in surviving at all, and he had almost a personal feeling for them in that he would have liked them to know that there was, at least, one onlooker who appreciated their being there.

There were rooms and passages in the upper part of the house that were equally delightful and equally solitary. He himself had in his former year at Treliss thought them melancholy and dusty; there had been no charm. But now the room of the minstrels had drawn him frequently to its doors, partly by reason of its power of suggestion—the valuation, for him, of light and sound and colour, in their true and most permanent qualities—partly by the amazing view that its deep-set windows provided. It hung forward, as it were, over the hill, so that the intervening space of garden and tower and wood was lost and there was only the sea. It seemed to creep to the very foot of the walls, and the horizon of it was so distant that it swept into infinite space, meeting the sky without break or any division. The height of the room gave the view colour, so that there were deeper blues and greens in the sea, and in the sky the greys and whites were shot with other colours that the mists of the intervening air had given them.

In these last few days Maradick had watched the view with ever-increasing wonder. The sea had been to him before something that existed for the convenience of human beings—a means of transit, a pleasant place to bathe, sands for the children, and the pier for an amusing walk. Now he felt that these things were an impertinence. It seemed to him that the sea permitted them against its will, and would, one day, burst its restraint and pour in overwhelming fury on to that crowd of nurses and nigger-minstrels and parasols; he almost hoped that it would.

Loneliness was, however, largely responsible for this change of view. There had been no one this time at the hotel to whom he had exactly taken. There had been men last year whom he had liked, excellent fellows. They had come there for the golf and he had seen a good deal of them. There might be some of the same kind now, but for some reason, unanalysed and very mistily grasped, he did not feel drawn towards them.

The Saturday of the end of that week was a terribly hot day, and after lunch he had gone to his room, pulled down his blinds, and slumbered over a novel. The novel was by a man called Lester; he had made his name several years before with “The Seven Travellers,” a work that had succeeded in pleasing both critics and public. It was now in its tenth edition. Maradick had been bored by “The Seven Travellers”; it had seemed effete and indefinite. They were, he had thought, always travelling and never getting there, and he had put it down unfinished. The man knew nothing of life at first hand, and the characters were too obviously concerned in their own emotions to arouse any very acute ones in the reader. But this one, “To Paradise,” was better. If the afternoon had not been so very hot it might even have kept him awake. The characters were still effete and indefinite, motives were still crudely handled and things were vague and obscure, but there was something in its very formlessness that was singularly pleasing. And it was beautiful, there was no doubt about that; little descriptions of places and people that were charming not only for themselves but also for the suggestions that they raised.

When he woke it was nearly four o’clock. He remembered that he had promised his wife to come down to tea. She had met the Gales the day before and they were coming to tea, and he had to be useful. There were a good many little drawing-rooms in the hotel, so that you could ask more people to tea than your own room would conveniently hold, and nevertheless be, to all intents and purposes, private.

He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, and left his room. Then he remembered that he had left a book in the room with the minstrels gallery that morning. He went upstairs to fetch it. The room itself lay in shadow, but outside, beyond the uncurtained windows, the light was so fierce that it hurt his eyes.

He had never seen anything to approach the colour. Sea and sky were a burning blue, and they were seen through a golden mist that seemed to move like some fluttering, mysterious curtain between earth and heaven. There was perfect stillness. Three little fishing-boats with brown sails, through which the sun glowed with the red light of a ruby, stood out against the staring, dazzling white of the distant cliffs.

He found his book, and stood there for a moment wondering why he liked the place so much. He had never been a man of any imagination, but now, vaguely, he filled the space around him with figures. He could not analyse his thoughts at all, but he knew that it all meant something to him now, something that had not been there a week ago.

He went down to tea.

The drawing-room was lying in shadow; the light and heat were shut out by heavy curtains. His wife was making tea, and as he came in at the door he realised her daintiness and charm very vividly. The shining silver and delicate china suited her, and there were little touches of very light blue about her white dress that were vague enough to seem accidental; you wondered why they had happened to be so exactly in precisely the right places. There were also there Lady and Sir Richard Gale, Alice Du Cane, Mrs. Lawrence, and in the background with a diminutive kitten, Tony.

“Something to eat, Miss Du Cane? What, nothing, really?” He sat down beside her and Tony. She interested him, partly because she was so beautiful and partly because she was perhaps going to marry Tony. She looked very cool now; a little too cool, he thought.

“Well? Do you like this place?” he said.

“I? Oh yes! It’s lovely, of course. But I think it would be better if one had a cottage here, quite quietly. Of course the hotel’s beautiful and most awfully comfortable, but it’s the kind of place where one oughtn’t to have to think of more than the place; it’s worth it. All the other things—dressing and thinking what you look like, and table d’hôte—they all come in between somehow like a wall. One doesn’t want anything but the place.”

That, he suddenly discovered, was why he liked the little room upstairs, because it was, so simply and clearly, the place. He looked at her gratefully.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s just what I’ve been feeling. I missed it last year somehow. It didn’t seem fine in quite the same way.”

But he saw that she was not really interested. She thought of him, of course, as a kind of middle-aged banker. He expected that she would soon try to talk to him about self and the table d’hôte and bridge. He was seriously anxious to show her that there were other things that he cared for.

“You’ve changed a lot since the other day, Alice,” said Tony suddenly. “You told me you didn’t like Treliss a bit, and now you think it’s lovely.”

“I do really,” said Alice, laughing. “That was only a mood. How could one help caring? All the same you know I don’t think it’s altogether good for one, it’s too complete a holiday.”

“That’s very strenuous, Miss Du Cane,” said Maradick. “Why shouldn’t we have holidays? It helps.”

“Ah, yes,” said Alice. “But then you work. Here am I doing nothing all the year round but enjoy myself; frankly, I’m getting tired of it. I shall buy a typewriter or something. Oh! if I were only a man!”

She looked at Tony. He laughed.

“She’s always doing that, Maradick—pitching into me because I don’t do anything; but that’s only because she doesn’t know in the least what I’m really doing. She doesn’t know——”

“Please, Mr. Maradick,” she said, turning round to him, “make him start something seriously. Take him into your office. He can add, I expect, or be useful in some way. He’s getting as old as Methuselah, and he’s never done a day’s work in his life.”

Although she spoke lightly, he could see that she meant it very seriously. He wondered what it was that she wanted him to do, and also why people seemed to take it for granted that he had influence over Tony; it was as if Fate were driving him into a responsibility that he would much rather avoid. But the difficulty of it all was that he was so much in the dark. These people had not let him into things, and yet they all of them demanded that he should do something. He would have liked to have asked her to tell him frankly what it was that she wanted him to do, and, indeed, why she had appealed to him at all; but there was no opportunity then. At any rate he felt that some of her indifference was gone; she had let him see that there were difficulties somewhere, and that at least was partial confidence.

Mrs. Maradick interrupted: “Miss Du Cane, I wonder if you would come and make a four at bridge. It’s too hot to go out, and Sir Richard would like a game. It would be most awfully good of you.”

Alice moved over to the card-table. Sir Richard played continually but never improved. He sat down now with the air of one who condescended; he covered his mistakes with the assurance that it was his partner who was playing abominably, and he explained carefully and politely at the end of the game the things that she ought to have done. Mrs. Maradick and Mrs. Lawrence played with a seriousness and compressed irritation that was worthy of a greater cause.

Tony had slipped out of the room, and Lady Gale crossed over to Maradick by the window.

“How quickly,” she said, “we get to know each other in a place like this. We have only been here a week and I am going to be quite confidential already.”

“Confidential?” said Maradick.

“Yes, and I hope you won’t mind. You mustn’t mind, because it’s my way. It always has been. If one is going to know people properly then I resent all the wasted time that comes first. Besides, preliminaries aren’t necessary with people as old as you and I. We ought to understand by this time. Then we really can’t wait.”

He looked into her face, and knew that here at least there would be absolute honesty and an explanation of some kind.

“Forgive me, Lady Gale,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’ve been in the dark and perhaps you’ll explain. Before I came down here I’d been living to myself almost entirely—a man of my age and occupations generally does—and now suddenly I’m caught into other people’s affairs, and it’s bewildering.”

“Well, it’s all very simple,” she answered. “Of course it’s about Tony. Everyone’s interested in Tony. He’s just at the interesting age, and he’s quite exciting enough to make his people wonder what he’ll turn into. It’s the chrysalis into the—well, that just depends. And then, of course, I care a great deal more than the rest. Tony has been different to me from the rest. I suppose every mother’s like that, but I don’t think most of them have been such chums with their sons as I’ve been with Tony. We were alone in the country together for a long time and there was nobody else. And then the time came that I had prepared for and knew that I must face, the time when he had things that he didn’t tell me. Every boy’s like that, but I trusted him enough not to want to know, and he often told me just because I didn’t ask. Then he cared for all the right things and always ran straight; he never bent his brain to proving that black’s white and indeed rather whiter than most whites are, as so many people do. But just lately I’ve been a little anxious—we have all been—all of us who’re watching him. He ought to have settled down to something or some one by this time and one doesn’t quite know why he hasn’t; and he hasn’t been himself for the last six months. Things ought to have come to a head here. I don’t know what he’s been up to this week, but none of us have seen anything of him, and I can see that his thoughts are elsewhere all the time. It isn’t in the least that I doubt him or am unhappy, it is only that I would like some one to be there to give him a hand if he wants one. A woman wouldn’t do; it must be a man, and——”

“You think I’m the person,” said Maradick.

“Well, he likes you. He’s taken to you enormously. That’s always been a difficulty, because he takes to people so quickly and doesn’t seem to mind very much whom it is; but you are exactly the right man, the man I have wanted him to care for. You would help him, you could help him, and I think you will.”

Maradick was silent.

“You mustn’t, please, think that I mean you to spy in any way,” she continued. “I don’t want you to tell me anything. I shall never ask you, and you need never say anything to me about it. It is only that I shall know that there is some one there if he gets into a mess and I shall know that he’s all right.” She paused again, and then went on gently—

“You mustn’t think it funny of me to speak to you like this when I know you so slightly. At my age one judges people quickly, and I don’t want to waste time. I’m asking a good deal of you, perhaps; I don’t know, but I think it would have happened in any case whether I had spoken or no. And then you will gain something, you know. No one can be with Tony—get to know him and be a friend of his—without gaining. He’s a very magical person.”

Maradick looked down on the ground. He knew quite well that he would have done whatever Lady Gale had asked him to do. She had seemed to him since he had first seen her something very beautiful and even wonderful, and he felt proud and grateful that she had trusted him like that.

“It’s very good of you, Lady Gale,” he said; “I will certainly be a friend of Tony’s, if that is what you want me to do. He is a delightful fellow, much too delightful, I am afraid, to have anything much to do with a dull, middle-aged duffer like myself. I must wake up and shake some of the dust off.”

She smiled. “Thank you; you don’t know how grateful I am to you for taking an interest in him. I shall feel ever so much safer.”

And then the door opened and Tony came in. He crossed over to her and said eagerly, “Mother, the Lesters are here. Came this afternoon. They’re coming up in a minute; isn’t it splendid!”

“Oh, I am glad—not too loud, Tony, you’ll disturb the bridge. How splendid they’re coming; Mildred said something in town about possibly coming down in the car.”

“He’s the author-fellow, you know,” said Tony, turning round to Maradick. “You were reading ‘To Paradise’ yesterday; I saw you with it. His books are better than himself. But she’s simply ripping; the best fun you ever saw in your life.”

That Maradick should feel any interest in meeting a novelist was a new experience. He had formerly considered them, as a class, untidy both in morals and dress, and had decidedly preferred City men. But he liked the book.

“Yes. I was reading ‘To Paradise this afternoon,’ he said. “It’s very good. I don’t read novels much, and it’s very seldom that I read a new one, but there was something unusual——”

Then the door opened and the Lesters came in. She was not pretty exactly, but striking—even, perhaps, he thought afterwards, exciting. He often tried on later days to call back the first impression that he had had of her, but he knew that it had not been indifference. In the shaded half-lights of the room, the grey blue shadows that the curtains flung on to the dark green carpet made her dress of light yellow stand out vividly; it had the color of primroses against the soft, uncertain outlines of the walls and hidden corners. There was a large black hat that hid her face and forehead, but beneath it there shone and sparkled two dark eyes that flung the heightened colour of her cheeks into relief. But the impression that he had was something most brilliantly alive; not alive in quite Tony’s way—that was a vitality as natural as the force of streams and torrents and infinite seas; this had something of opposition in it, as though some battle had created it. Her husband, a dark, plain man, a little tired and perhaps a little indifferent, was in the background. He did not seem to count at the moment.

“Oh, Mildred, how delightful!” Lady Gale went forward to her. “Tony’s just told me. I had really no idea that you were coming; of course with a car one can do anything and get anywhere, but I thought it would have been abroad!”

“So it ought to have been,” said Mrs. Lester. “Fred couldn’t get on with the new book, and suddenly at breakfast, in the way he does, you know, said that we must be in Timbuctoo that evening. So we packed. Then we wondered who it was that we wanted to see, and of course it was you; and then we wondered where we wanted to go, and of course it was Treliss, and then when we found that you and Treliss were together of course the thing was done. So here we are, and it’s horribly hot. I only looked in to see you for a second because I’m going to have a bath immediately and change my things.”

She crossed for a moment to the card-table and spoke to Sir Richard. “No, don’t get up, Sir Richard, I wouldn’t stop the bridge for the world. Just a shake of the fingers and I’m off. How are you? Fit? I’m as right as a trivet, thanks. Hullo, Alice! I heard you were here! Splendid! I’ll be down later.”

Her husband had shaken hands with Lady Gale and talked to her for a moment, then they were gone.

“That’s just like Mildred,” said Lady Gale, laughing. “In for a moment and out again, never still. When she and Tony are together things move, I can tell you. Well, I must go up to my room, any amount of letters to write before dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Maradick, for the moment. Thank you for the chat.”

When they were left alone Tony said, “Come out. It’s much cooler now. It will be ripping by the sea. You’ve been in all the afternoon.”

“Yes,” said Maradick, “I’ll come.”

He realised, as he left the room, that he and his wife had scarcely met since that first evening. There had always been other people, at meals, outside, after dinner; he knew that he had not been thinking of her very much, but he suddenly wondered whether she had not been a little lonely. These people had not accepted her in quite the same way that they had accepted him, and that was rather surprising, because at Epsom and in town it had always been the other way about. He had been the one whom people had thought a bore; everyone knew that she was delightful. Of course the explanation was that Tony had, as it were, taken him up. All these people were interested in Tony, and had, therefore, included Maradick. He could help a little in the interpretation or rather the development of Tony, and therefore he was of some importance. For a moment there was a feeling of irritation at the position, and then he remembered that it was scarcely likely that anyone was going to be interested in him for himself, and the next best thing was to be liked because of Tony. But it must, of course, be a puzzle to his wife. He had caught, once or twice, a look, something that showed that she was wondering, and that, too, was new; until now she had never thought about him at all.

Tony chattered all the way down to the hall.

“The Lesters are ripping. We’ve known Milly Lester ever since the beginning of time. She’s not much older than me, you know, and we lived next door to each other in Carrington Gardens. Our prams always went out and round the Square together, and we used to say goo-goo to each other. Then later on I used to make up stories for her. She was always awfully keen on stories and I was rather a nailer at them; then we used to fight, and I slapped her face and she pinched me. Then we went to the panto together, and used to dance with each other at Christmas parties. I was never in love with her, you know: she was just a jolly good sort whom I liked to be with. She’s always up to a rag; he thinks it’s a little too often. He’s a solemn sort of beggar and jolly serious, lives more in his books than out of them, which doesn’t make for sociability. Rather hard luck on her.”

“What was his attraction for her?” asked Maradick.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tony; “she admired his books awfully and made the mistake of thinking that the man was like them. So he is, in a way; it’s as if you’d married the books, you know, and there wasn’t anything else there except the leather.”

They were silent for a little time, and then Tony said, “On a day like this one’s afraid—‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ you know—it’s all too beautiful and wonderful and makes such a splendid background for the adventure that we’re on the edge of.”

“Adventure?” said Maradick.

“Yes; you haven’t forgotten the other night, have you? I’ve been waiting for you to speak to me about it. And then this afternoon I saw it was all right. My asking you to come out was a kind of test, only I knew you’d say yes. I knew that mother had been talking to you about it. About me and whether you’d help me? Wasn’t it?”

“That’s between your mother and myself,” said Maradick.

“Well, it was, all the same. And you said yes. And it’s ripping, it’s just what I so especially wanted. They’ve all been wondering what I’m up to. Of course they could see that something was up; and they’re simply longing to know all about it, the others out of curiosity and mother because she cares. It isn’t a bit curiosity with her, you know, it’s only that she wants to know that I’m safe, and now that she’s stuck you, whom she so obviously trusts, as a kind of bodyguard over me she’ll be comfortable and won’t worry any more. It’s simply splendid—that she won’t worry and that you said yes.”

He paused and stood in the path, looking at Maradick.

“Because, you know,” he went on, with that charming, rather crooked little smile that he had, “I do most awfully want you for a friend quite apart from its making mother comfortable. You’re just the chap to carry it through; I’m right about it’s being settled, aren’t I?”

Maradick held out his hand.

“I expect I’m a fool,” he said, “at my age to meddle in things that don’t concern me, but anyhow, there’s my hand on it. I like you. I want waking up a bit and turning round, and you’ll do it. So it’s a bargain.”

They shook hands very solemnly and walked on silently down the path. They struck off to the right instead of turning to the left through the town. They crossed a stile, and were soon threading a narrow, tumbling little path between two walls of waving corn. In between the stems poppies were hiding and overhead a lark was singing. For a moment he came down towards them and his song filled their ears, then he circled up and far above their heads until he hung, a tiny speck, against a sky of marble blue.

“You might tell me.” said Maradick, “what the adventure really is. I myself, you know, have quite the vaguest idea, and as I’m so immediately concerned I think I ought to know something about it.”

“Why? I told you the other night,” said Tony; “and things really haven’t gone very much further. I haven’t seen her again, nor has Punch, and he has been about the beach such a lot that he’d have been sure to if she’d been down there. But the next step has to be taken with you.”

“What is it?” said Maradick a little apprehensively.

“To call on that man who gave us his card the other night. He’s got a lot to do with her, I know, and it’s the very best of luck that we should have met him as we did.”

“I must say I didn’t like him for some quite unexplained reason. But why not go and call without me? He doesn’t want to see me; it was you he gave the card to.”

“No, you must come. I should be afraid to go alone. Besides, he might show you things in Treliss that you’d like to see, although I suppose you’ve explored it pretty well for yourself by this time. But, by the way, wherever have you been this week? I’ve never seen you about the place or with people.”

“No,” said Maradick. “I discovered rather a jolly room up in the top of the house somewhere, a little, old, deserted place with an old-fashioned gallery and a gorgeous view. I grew rather fond of the place and have been there a good deal.”

“You must show it me. We ought to have struck the place by now. Oh, there it is, to the right.”

They had arrived at the edge of the cliff, and were looking for a path that would take them down to the beach. Below them was a little beach shut in on three sides by cliff. Its sand was very smooth and very golden, and the sea came with the very tiniest ripple to the edge of it and passed away again with a little sigh. Everything was perfectly still. Then suddenly there was a bark of a dog and a man appeared on the lower rocks, sharply outlined against the sky.

“What luck!” cried Tony. “It’s Punch. I wanted you to meet him, and he may have a message for me.”

The man saw them and stepped down from the rocks on to the beach and came towards them, the dog after him. A little crooked path brought them to him, and Maradick was introduced. It was hard not to smile. The man was small and square; his legs were very short, but his chest was enormous, and his arms and shoulders looked as though they ought to have belonged to a much bigger man. His mouth and ears were very large, his nose and eyes small; he was wearing a peaked velvet cap, a velveteen jacket and velveteen knickerbockers. Maradick, thinking of him afterwards, said of him that he “twinkled;” that was the first impression of him. His legs, his eyes, his nose, his mouth stretched in an enormous smile, had that “dancing” effect; they said, “We are here now and we are jolly pleased to see you, but oh! my word! we may be off at any minute, you know!”

The dog, a white-haired mongrel, somewhat of the pug order, was a little like its master; its face was curiously similar, with a little nose and tiny eyes and an enormous mouth.

“Let me introduce you,” said Tony. “Punch, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Maradick. Maradick, this is my friend and counsellor, Punch; and, oh, yes, there’s Toby. Let me introduce you, Toby. Mr. Maradick—Toby. Toby—Mr. Maradick!”

The little man held out an enormous hand, the dog gravely extended a paw. Maradick shook both.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said. “Tony has told me about you.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” the man answered; “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”

There was a pause, and they sat down on the sand with their backs against the rocks.

“Well, Punch,” said Tony, “how’s the show? I haven’t seen you since Thursday.”

“Oh, the show’s all right,” he answered. “There’s never no fear about that. My public’s safe enough as long as there’s children and babies, which, nature being what it is, there’ll always be. It’s a mighty pleasant thing having a public that’s always going on, and it ain’t as if there was any chance of their tastes changing either. Puppies and babies and kittens like the same things year in and year out, bless their little hearts.”

“You have a Punch and Judy show, haven’t you?” said Maradick a little stiffly. He was disgusted at his stiffness, but he felt awkward and shy. This wasn’t the kind of fellow that he’d ever had anything to do with before; he could have put his hand into his pocket and given him a shilling and been pleasant enough about it, but this equality was embarrassing. Tony obviously didn’t feel it like that, but then Tony was young.

“Yes, sir; Punch and Judy shows are getting scarce, what with yer cinematographs and pierrots and things. But there’s always customers for ’em and always will be. And it’s more than babies like ’em really. Many’s the time I’ve seen old gentlemen and fine ladies stop and watch when they think no one’s lookin’ at ’em, and the light comes into their eyes and the colour into their cheeks, and then they think that some one sees ’em and they creep away. It’s natural to like Punch; it’s the banging, knock-me-down kind of humour that’s the only genuine sort. And then the moral’s tip-top. He’s always up again, Punch is, never knows when he’s beat, and always smiling.”

“Yes,” said Maradick, but he knew that he would have been one of those people who would have crept away.

“And there’s another thing,” said the man; “the babies know right away that it’s the thing they want. It’s my belief that they’re told before they come here that there’s Punch waiting for them, otherwise they’d never come at all. If you gave ’em Punch right away there wouldn’t be any howling at all; a Punch in every nursery, I say. You’d be surprised, sir, to see the knowin’ looks the first time they see Punch, you’d think they’d seen it all their lives. There’s nothing new about it; some babies are quite blasé over it.”

“And then there are the nursemaids,” said Tony.

“Yes,” said Punch, “they’re an easy-goin’ class, nursemaids. Give them a Punch and Judy or the military and there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you. I’ve a pretty complete knowledge of nursemaids.”

“I suppose you travel about?” said Maradick; “or do you stay more or less in one part of the country?”

“Stay! Lord bless you, sir! I never stay anywhere; I’m up and down all the time. It’s easy enough to travel. The show packs up small, and then there’s just me and Toby. Winter time I’m in London a good bit. Christmas and a bit after. London loves Punch and always will. You’d think that these music-halls and pantomimes would knock it out, but not a bit of it. They’ve a real warm feeling for it in London. And they aren’t the sort of crowd who stand and watch it and laugh and smack their thighs, and then when the cap comes round start slipping off and pretendin’ they’ve business to get to, not a bit of it. They’d be ashamed not to pay their little bit.”

“And then in the summer?” said Maradick.

“Oh! Cumberland for a bit and then Yorkshire, and then down here in Cornwall. All round, you know. There are babies everywhere, and some are better than others. Now the Cumberland babies beat all the rest. Give me a Cumberland baby for a real laugh. They’re right enough down here, but they’re a bit on their dignity and afraid of doing the wrong thing. But I’ve got good and bad babies all over the place. I reckon I know more about babies than anyone in the land. And you see I always see them at their best—smiling and crowing—which is good for a man’s ’ealth.”

The sun was sinking towards the sea, and there was perfect silence save for the very gentle ripple of the waves. It was so still that a small and slightly ruffled sparrow hopped down to the edge of the water and looked about it. Toby saw him, but only lazily flapped an ear. The sparrow watched the dog for a moment apprehensively, then decided that there was no possible danger and resumed its contemplation of the sea.

The waves were so lazy that they could barely drag their way up the sand. They clung to the tiny yellow grains as though they would like to stay and never go back again; then they fell back reluctantly with a little song about their sorrow at having to go.

A great peace was in Maradick’s heart. This was the world at its most absolute best. When things were like this there were no problems nor questions at all; Epsom was an impossible myth and money-making game for fools.

Tony broke the silence:

“I say, Punch, have you any message for me?”

“Well, sir, not exactly a message, but I’ve found out something. Not from the young lady herself, you understand. She hasn’t been down again—not when I’ve been there. But I’ve found out about her father.”

“Her father?” said Tony excitedly; and Toby also sat up at attention as though he were interested.

“Yes; he’s the little man in brown you spoke of. Well known about here, it seems. They say he’s been here as long as anyone can remember, and always the same. No one knows him—keeps ’imself to ’imself; a bit lonely for the girl.”

“That man!” cried Tony. “And he’s asked me to call! Why, it’s fate!”

He grasped Maradick’s arm excitedly.

“He’s her father! her father!” he cried. “And he’s asked us to call! Her father, and we’re to call!”

“You’re to call!” corrected Maradick. “He never said anything about me; he doesn’t want me.”

“Oh, of course you’re to come. ’Pon my word, Punch, you’re a brick. Is there anything else?”

“Well, yes,” said Punch slowly. “He came and spoke to me yesterday after the show. Said he liked it and was very pleasant. But I don’t like ’im all the same. I agree with that gentleman; there’s something queer there, and everyone says so.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Tony. “Never mind about the man. He’s her father, that’s the point. My word, what luck!”

But Punch shook his head dubiously.

“What do they say against him, then?” said Tony. “What reasons have they?”

“Ah! that’s just it,” said Punch; “they haven’t got no reasons. The man ’asn’t a ’istory at all, which is always an un’ealthy sign. Nobody knows where ’e comes from nor what ’e’s doing ’ere. ’E isn’t Cornish, that’s certain. ’E’s got sharp lips and pointed ears. I don’t like ’im and Toby doesn’t either, and ’e’s a knowing dog if ever there was one.”

“Well, I’m not to be daunted,” said Tony; “the thing’s plainly arranged by Providence.”

But Maradick, looking at Punch, thought that he knew more than he confessed to. There was silence again, and they watched a gossamer mist, pearl-grey with the blue of the sea and sky shining through, come stealing towards them. The sky-line was red with the light of the sinking sun, and a very faint rose colour touched with gold skimmed the crests of tiny waves that a little breeze had wakened.

The ripples that ran up the beach broke into white foam as they rose.

“Well, I must be getting on, Mr. Tony,” said Punch, rising. “I am at Mother Shipton’s to-night. Good-bye, sir,” he shook hands with Maradick, “I am pleased to ’ave met you.”

Tony walked a little way down the beach with him, arm in arm. They stopped, and Punch put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said something that Maradick did not catch; but he was speaking very seriously. Then, with the dog at his heels, he disappeared over the bend of the rocks.

“We’d better be getting along too,” said Tony. “Let’s go back to the beach. There’ll be a glorious view!”

“He seems a nice fellow,” said Maradick.

“Oh, Punch! He’s simply ripping! He’s one of the people whose simplicity seems so easy until you try it, and then it’s the hardest thing in the world. I met him in town last winter giving a show somewhere round Leicester Square way, and he was pretty upset because Toby the dog was ill. I don’t know what he’d do if that dog were to die. He hasn’t got anyone else properly attached to him. Of course, there are lots of people all over the country who are very fond of him, and babies, simply any amount, and children and dogs—anything young—but they don’t really belong to him.”

But Maradick felt that, honestly, he wasn’t very attracted. The man was a vagabond, after all, and would be much better earning his living at some decent trade; a strong, healthy man like that ought to be keeping a wife and family and doing his country some service instead of wandering about the land with a dog; it was picturesque, but improper. But he didn’t say anything to Tony about his opinions—also he knew that the man didn’t annoy him as he would have done a week ago.

As they turned the bend of the cliffs the tower suddenly rose in front of them like a dark cloud. It stood out sharply, rising to a peak biting into the pale blue sky, and vaguely hinting at buildings and gabled roofs; before it the sand stretched, pale gold.

Tony put his arm through Maradick’s.

At first they were not sure; it might be imagination. In the misty and uncertain light figures seemed to rise out of the pale yellow sands and to vanish into the dusky blue of the sea. But at the same moment they realised that there was some one there and that he was waiting for them; they recognised the brown jacket, the cloth cap, the square, prosperous figure. The really curious thing was that Maradick had had his eyes fixed on the sand in front of him, but he had seen no one coming. The figure had suddenly materialised, as it were, out of the yellow evening dusk. It was beyond doubt Mr. Andreas Morelli.

He was the same as he had been a week ago. There was no reason why he should have changed, but Maradick felt as though he had been always, from the beginning, the same. It was not strange that he had not changed since last week, but it was strange that he had not changed, as Maradick felt to be the case, since the very beginning of time; he had always been like that.

He greeted Tony now with that beautiful smile that Maradick had noticed before; it had in it something curiously intimate, as though he were referring to things that they both had known and perhaps done. Tony’s greeting was eager and, as usual with him, enthusiastic.

Morelli turned to Maradick and gravely shook hands. “I am very pleased to see you again, sir,” he said. “It is a most wonderful evening to be taking a stroll. It has been a wonderful day.”

“It has been too good to be true,” said Tony; “I don’t think one ought ever to go indoors when the weather is like this. Are you coming back to the town, Mr. Morelli, or were you going farther along the beach?”

“I should be very glad to turn back with you, if I may,” he said. “I promised to be back by half-past seven and it is nearly that now. You have never fulfilled your promise of coming to see me,” he said reproachfully.

“Well,” said Tony, “to tell you the truth I was a little shy; so many people are so kind and invite one to come, but it is rather another thing, taking them at their word and invading their houses, you know.”

“I can assure you I meant it,” said Morelli gravely. “There are various things that would interest you. I have quite a good collection of old armour and a good many odds and ends picked up at different times.” Then he added, “There’s no time like the present; why not come back and have supper with us now? That is if you don’t mind taking pot-luck.”

Tony flushed with pleasure. “I think we should be delighted, shouldn’t we, Maradick? They’re quite used to our not coming back at the hotel.”

“Thank you very much,” said Maradick. “It’s certainly good of you.”

He noticed that what Punch had said was true; the ears were pointed and the lips sharp and thin.

The dusk had swept down on them. The lights of the town rose in glittering lines one above the other in front of them; it was early dusk for an August evening, but the dark came quickly at Treliss.

The sea was a trembling shadow lit now and again with the white gleam of a crested wave. On the horizon there still lingered the last pale rose of the setting sun and across the sky trembling bars of faint gold were swiftly vanishing before the oncoming stars.

Morelli talked delightfully. He had been everywhere, it appeared, and spoke intimately of little obscure places in Germany and Italy that Tony had discovered in earlier years. Maradick was silent; they seemed to have forgotten him.

They entered the town and passed through the market-place. Maradick looked for a moment at the old tower, standing out black and desolate and very lonely.

In the hotel the dusk would be creeping into the little room of the minstrels. There would be no lights there, only the dust and the old chairs and the green table; from the open window you would see the last light of the setting sun, and there would be a scent of flowers, roses and pinks, from the garden below.

They had stopped outside the old dark house with the curious carving. Morelli felt for the key.

“I don’t know what my daughter will have prepared,” he said apologetically, “I gave her no warning.”