Читать книгу The Blind Man's House. A Quiet Story - Sir Hugh Seymour Walpole - Страница 11

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The Reverend Frank Brennan, Rector of the parish of Garth in Roselands in the county of Glebeshire, was quite possibly the handsomest clergyman in the whole of England, and quite certainly the laziest.

His hair was thick on his head, and snow-white although he was but sixty years of age. He had the face of an aesthetic poet of the Eighteen-Nineties, a figure supple and erect, and a voice, as Phyllis Lock said, filled with 'organ notes.' His charm, too, was beautiful, and although he never did anything for any man, woman, or child in the village, save when nature, by bringing to birth or urging to matrimony or slaying in due time, forced him, he was everywhere popular because he never interfered with anyone or anything, was shocked by nothing and nobody, and laughed so infectiously when he had forgotten the name of a farmer with whom he had had tea only the day before.

He conducted as few of the church services as possible and left a great deal to his red-haired kindly curate, Mr. Townley. Strange it was that he had not even any hobbies. He liked a novel in front of the fire, a drive in the little family Austin, food, drink, and a pretty woman, although his morals were irreproachable. What spirit slumbered inside his slumbering form no one knew. He wore shabby old clothes, but his linen was always shining and his person as clean as a new penny. He was seldom seen without a pipe in his mouth, and he would look at you, his hands deep in his pockets, his brown eyes half closed and a little smile hovering about his handsome lips.

Now, oddly enough, his wife, Daisy Brennan, was also a beauty. Phyllis called her once 'a Juno in the cornfield,' and although this meant really nothing at all, everyone liked and repeated it. She was a tall, big, full-breasted woman with masses of corn-coloured hair which was piled, in old-fashioned style, on the top of her head and braided above her temples. She wore clothes in bright gay colours that fitted her closely so that her bosom, her thighs were handsomely, defined. She walked with her head up gloriously, and only Mrs. Irwin, the post-mistress, who hated her, made the rude comment: 'Pantomime Queen, that's what I call her. You know, one of them big girls in tights walks down a lot of steps at the end and calls herself Canada.'

This magnificent pair had three children: Dorothy, Gilbert, and Simon. Dorothy was aged seventeen, Gilbert fourteen, Simon eight. Gilbert was at school at Polchester but was at present home for the holidays. These children were very unsophisticated and unmodern. They had all been born in the Garth Rectory, and, until Gilbert had gone to boarding-school, none of them had been away from there except to the Glebeshire seaside on expeditions.

They had mingled with the village children quite happily. They had known a number of governesses, and the best of these had been Miss Fritch, who had led them carefully first through Stumps, Rags and Tatters, Alice in Wonderland, then The Cuckoo Clock, Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances, Engel the Fearless, then The Daisy Chain and The Dove in the Eagle's Nest, then Micah Clarke, Lamb's Tales, The Wind in the Willows, and The Talisman, then David Copperfield, Pride and Prejudice, The Oxford Book of English Verse, The Path to Rome, The Cock-House at Fellsgarth, and Don Quixote; after which nothing else mattered.

Unhappily Miss Fritch departed after a quarrel with Mrs. Brennan, a mysterious quarrel because only Mrs. Brennan gave any account of it, and from this it was clear that Miss Fritch had been quite impossible.

No governess succeeded Miss Fritch. Gilbert went to school and Mrs. Brennan taught Dorothy and Dorothy taught Simon. At least, that was the idea.

The three children adored their father, who never denied them anything; they thought their mother wonderful.

They had, however, none of the experiences of good modern children. They had never been given handsome toys, nor been taken to the theatre, nor learned of the troubles and perplexities of the mature from the lips of the mature. Dorothy was tall and slim with a face as honest as a human face can be. Gilbert was slim, pale, and inclined to take things seriously, while Simon was short and thick and led a very intense life of his own.

Two years at school seemed to have made very little difference to Gilbert, for whom Garth was still the centre of his world, his father the most wonderful person in the world, his mother the loveliest, Dorothy the best companion. He led, it seemed, a rather solitary life at school, although he was quite happy there.

Mr. Brennan looked at his children with surprise, whenever he saw them. He was delighted to discover that he had such charming children, and this discovery was fresh every new day. Mrs. Brennan was, as Phyllis again recorded, 'the mother facile princeps.' To see her move with her children along the village street was a sight never to be forgotten.

Three days after the arrival of the Cromwells, the children had just finished tea, and Lucy, the maid of all possible and impossible work, was clearing away the tea, which she did with a great deal of banging and clashing as though she were a Salvation Army girl and the china were timbrels. At the same time she steamed through her nose as though her inside were a kettle. But she was a good girl and a warm-hearted.

When Lucy was gone Gilbert suddenly said:

'I want something frightfully.'

Dorothy, who was gulping down Chicot the Jester as though he were a life-restorer, and turning one ear to Simon who was telling a story both to her and himself, said, rather impatiently, 'What do you want?' She knew that in five minutes' time they must go down to the drawing-room to spend half an hour with their mother, and she wanted to reach the end of her chapter.

Gilbert, standing straight in front of her, his eyes fixed anxiously on her face, told her. He expressed his desires so very seldom and they were intense within him when they did appear. He spoke slowly, choosing his words.

'Well, you see, there's an awfully decent chap called Paynter. I like him better than anyone else at school—in fact I like him awfully. His people have taken a house for the summer just outside Rafiel—on the cliff—and he wants me to go on Tuesday and spend the day with them. And I can take a bus. It's quite all right, but Tuesday's the only day. They go back to Polchester on Thursday. His father's a Canon there. He wants me to go for the whole day.'

'Which day did you say?' asked Dorothy. At the same moment she snatched a line or two of Chicot, and said 'Yes, dear' to Simon, who, seated on the floor like a Buddha, was half chanting: 'Which he couldn't do because there was a river right across, a great big river with rocks and stones and serpents and dozens of croc——'

She cleared her brain.

'Which day did you say, Gillie?'

'Tuesday.'

'But that's the day Mother said she might take us into Polchester.'

'I know—that's the awful part.'

They looked at one another. She had forgotten Chicot and Simon. Here was a real trouble. Gilbert so very seldom said that he wanted anything; when he did it was serious. They were devoted. Gilbert, in spite of his time at school, still thought that Dorothy could settle every difficulty, that she was the wisest, most far-seeing person in the world. At school he would say: 'Oh, but you should see my sister. She's marvellous!' and said it so convincingly that no one ever thought of teasing him about it.

Dorothy on her side was aware that Gilbert was more sensitive than the others, felt things more severely and for a longer time. Her feeling over him was, although she did not know it, partly maternal. She hated that any misfortune should happen to Gilbert. Simon did not seem to need her care in the same way.

'You see,' Gilbert went on, 'it isn't as though Mother could go only on that day. She said she had several days to choose from. And it's the only day for the Paynters.'

'Yes, but——.' Dorothy looked anxious. Why did they both know that as soon as their mother heard that that was the day the Paynters wanted, that would be the day that she wanted too?

'The only thing, Mother may think that the best day for Polchester. Thursday's early closing, I know, and that only leaves Wednesday and Friday.'

'That's two days, isn't it?' Gilbert's voice had in it a new note that she thought she had never heard before. 'You see, I like Paynter better than anyone I've ever known, except the family of course. He plays in the Second Fifteen and will be in the First next year, I shouldn't wonder, and I didn't think he was keen on me at all, although I was awfully keen on him. So when I got the letter this morning I was awfully pleased, as anybody would be, and if I don't go he'll think I'm being snooty or something, and besides I do want to go most awfully.'

He ended with a deep breath. His eyes were pleading into Dorothy's face.

Simon suddenly said from the floor:

'Dorothy and me saw the blind man this morning.'

Dorothy raised her head and looked at the schoolroom window that a thin weeping rain was misting. It had been clear but not sunny this morning when, coming out of the stationer's with Simon, she had seen Mr. Cromwell and his wife walking across the green. He had his arm in hers. He walked, his head very erect, staring straight in front of him and talking all the time. He had a most pleasant smile. She had told Simon that he couldn't see.

'Why can't he see?' Simon asked her.

'He was hit with a bullet in the War.'

'He can't see the teeniest, teeniest thing?'

'Nothing at all.'

'Not the teeniest?'

'No. Nothing.'

At the same moment she had seen the postman going to the Rectory gate. He must have had the letter for Gilbert.

It seemed to her now as though that had been a dramatic moment—the blind man and the letter for Gilbert.

'I'm going to ask Mother.'

'Yes, of course.'

'If I tell her it's the only day——'

'Don't make her feel we don't want to go with her to Polchester.'

'No. Of course not.'

They looked at one another. He was changed. His mouth was set and his eyes angry.

'I'm going to ask at once, now, as soon as we go down.'

'Yes. We'd better go down. It's time.'

Simon got up from the floor. He enjoyed going down to the drawing-room. He enjoyed practically everything except cold fat, barking dogs, and women who kissed him.

'Here. Let me brush your hair.'

He had a lot of light brown hair that would, unless he was careful, fall over his forehead into his eyes. One of his most characteristic gestures was tossing his hair back from his eyes. Then he was like a little pony stamping.

He slept in a room with Gilbert, and into that they now went. He stood grinning while Dorothy brushed his hair. He looked so pleasant, so independent and sturdy in his blue smock, that Dorothy would have kissed him had she not known how greatly he disliked it.

He rushed down the stairs crying out: 'Mum—Mum—Mum.'

However, when they reached the drawing-room only their father was there. He stood in front of the fireplace, which was defended by a very hideous screen of green elephants walking up to pink pagodas. As usual, Simon rushed up to him and hugged him round the thighs, and as usual Mr. Brennan looked at his offspring as though he had never seen them before.

'Well, well, how are you all?'

'Quite well, thank you,' Gilbert answered gravely, and then went straight on without waiting a moment: 'Father, there's a boy called Paynter at school and his people have asked me to spend next Tuesday at Rafiel with them. Do you think I can?'

'Why, of course, certainly, do you good.'

'The only thing is, Father,' Dorothy said, 'Mother said she'd take us into Polchester next Tuesday to see about Gillie's new suit.'

'Your mother can take you another day.'

'Oh, Father, do you think she can?'

It was as though little fires had suddenly been lit in Gilbert's eyes.

'Certainly. Of course.'

He was so handsome and knew this so well that he had a trick, picked up long ago and now quite unconscious, of turning his head first to one side and then to the other as though to test which profile were the finer. He did this now.

'Where's Mother?' Dorothy asked.

'She's been out to tea with Mrs. Lamplough. Should be back any moment.'

He stretched himself and yawned.

'I must be off to work. Work, work, work—nothing but work!' He grinned at Simon. 'Your old father is a slave—a slave to duty. Aren't you sorry for him?'

But Simon was considering something else.

'I saw a man who was blind this morning. He couldn't see anything, not the teeniest thing.' Then he tried to do what he was always trying to do, turn a somersault. But, as usual, he failed. When, rather confused by the upside-downness of the drawing-room, he looked about him, his father was gone.

Gilbert was greatly excited.

'Did you hear what Father said? He said that of course she would.'

Dorothy shook her head.

'Father often says things without thinking. And then he forgets that he's said them.'

'All the same, he's quite right. It can't matter to Mother which day it is.'

Daisy Brennan came in. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a white rose pinned at her waist. She looked lovely and was a little cross. However, she took them all with her to the sofa, threw her hat on the floor, stretched her length, gathering them all about her.

'Oh, you darlings! You darlings! I ought to have told you I'd be out. You've had your tea? Yes. That's right. Oh dear, how tired I am and what a day! We were to have had tea in the garden and of course it rained, so there we were all crowded into the drawing-room and such a noise—my head's simply splitting. What do you say, Simon, pet? You saw a blind man with Dorothy? Oh, you mean you were with Dorothy when you saw a blind man. Oh, of course, poor Mr. Cromwell. And now tell me what you've all been doing, because I've such a headache I shall go straight up to my room and lie down. Yes, Gillie, tell me everything. What do you say? You had a letter? When? This morning? Who are they? Paynter? Never heard of them.'

Gilbert stood in front of her as though he were reciting a lesson.

'Paynter's father's a Canon at the Cathedral. He's awfully decent, so's Mrs. Paynter. They've taken a house at Rafiel for the summer—on the cliff. You know, over the harbour. Above the Warren. Well, they want me to go on Tuesday for the whole day. There's the nine o'clock bus and one comes back at six. Can I, Mother? Can I?'

'Rafiel? All day? I know you'll get into some awful trouble—fall into the sea and be drowned.'

'Of course I won't, Mother. I've been going to Rafiel all my life.'

'Heavens, child! You say that as though you were a hundred. What's the name of these people?'

'Paynter.'

Dorothy knew from his breathing that he was growing more desperate with every moment.

'But I don't know them. They could easily have called if they're only at Rafiel.'

'They will call. I'll ask Mrs. Paynter.'

'But she ought to have called without being asked. What day do you say it is?'

'Tuesday.'

'On Tuesday! That settles it. We're going into Polchester that day. You've got to have your suit fitted.'

There was a short pause. Gilbert was heaving up his determination.

'But, Mother, there's Wednesday and Friday——'

'Wednesday won't do. I forget why. Friday's too late in the week. No, it's got to be Tuesday. You can go to those people some other time—only I would prefer that she should call on me first.'

'Father says I can go.'

('Oh,' thought Dorothy, 'that's a mistake!')

'Your father! What's he got to do with it?'

'He said you might go another day.'

'Oh, he did, did he? Well, I've explained to you why I can't.'

'No, Mother, you haven't. I want to go. I want to go most awfully.'

At this his mother sat up, patting at her golden braids with her large strong hand.

'My dear Gillie! You want to go, do you? More than you want to come with your mother. That isn't very kind.'

'No. It's not that. Of course I want to come with you.'

'It always used to be the greatest treat coming into Polchester with me. You'd look forward to it for weeks. But now going to Rafiel to have a day with some strange people is more important to you than being with your mother. Well, I suppose every mother must expect that. That's what school does.'

'No. It isn't. But——'

'Every mother must expect to lose her son. She is everything to him while he needs her, but the moment he can fend for himself the mother's set aside——'

Dorothy could not endure this.

'Gillie isn't saying he doesn't want to go to Polchester, Mother. He does want to go—as much as ever he did. Only he thought we might go to Polchester another day——'

'Thank you, Dorothy. I don't want you to explain Gillie to me. I understand him perfectly well.'

Gilbert, white of face, holding his small thin body rigidly together, moistening his lower lip with his tongue, began again.

'Paynter is a form higher than me. I didn't know he'd ever ask me in the holidays. If I refuse now he'll think me snooty.'

'Snooty! What a disgusting word!'

'Well, he will. And it will make all the difference next term, because I like him most awfully.'

'So I perceive,' said Mrs. Brennan coldly. 'You like him much better than your mother.'

'I don't,' said Gilbert between his gritted teeth. Then he burst out: 'Oh, Mother, let me go! It isn't I don't want to go to Polchester. Of course I do, just as I always did. But we can go on Friday. If you let me go to Rafiel on Tuesday I'll be ever so good. You see, it means everything, because if Paynter's my friend next term I can get on ever so fast with maths and geography, and next term's Rugger, and I'm not much good, that's quite certain, but Paynter's most awfully good and he'll show me a lot of things.'

He paused, breathless, his eyes shining with hope. His mother looked at him with tenderness.

'My dear Gillie, you've hurt me not a little. When you're older you'll understand. You are all I have, you and Dorothy and Simon. It's quite natural that you should want to leave me for perfect strangers. Quite natural. But it hurts me all the same. You shall go into Rafiel on Tuesday and you shall have the suit fitted later. I'm sorry. It isn't kind....'

Her lower lip quivered.

Gilbert looked at her.

'I didn't want to hurt you.'

'No, I'm sure you didn't.' She waited. Everyone, even Simon, expected that he would say that he did not wish to go to Rafiel.

'It's just the same as it always was about Polchester,' he said.

'I'm glad to hear it.'

Mother and son looked at one another. Then Gilbert turned and, with his head down, like an animal butting, ran from the room.

Mrs. Brennan sighed and lay back against the cushions.

'Do you know these people, Dorothy?'

'No, Mother, I don't.'

'How very odd of Gilbert! He's never been like that before!'

'I don't think he's ever wanted anything so much before.'

'No. That's what I said. It's the beginning of the end. My headache's frightful. Go up to my room, darling, and get those cachets. Two with a glass of water.'

Dorothy went and found Gilbert sitting on his bed, stony-eyed and speechless.

Downstairs Mrs. Brennan and her youngest-born enjoyed one another's company. For they had a good deal in common. It was quite impossible to hurt Simon's feelings. He went his own way and always got what he wanted.

'Thank you, darling,' Mrs. Brennan said, took her cachets and leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes. But her repose was not for long.

The door most unexpectedly opened and in came Mr. Brennan. With him a lady. The lady was short but not stout, grey hair under her hat, brown eyes, very quietly dressed. All this Daisy Brennan, who was no fool, at once took in. She rose from the sofa. Simon rose from the floor. Dorothy stayed where she was.

'My dear,' Frank Brennan said, 'I have brought someone in for a moment whom I want you to know. This is Mrs. Mark.'

Mrs. Brennan, entirely bewildered, stepped forward. The little lady smiled and they shook hands.

Brennan went on: 'That will mean nothing to you, but it will mean something when I tell you that Mrs. Mark's maiden name was Trenchard and that she was born in Garth House and lived there most of her time until she was married. She knows every turn and twist of this house, by the way.'

They had sat down by now, Mrs. Brennan and Mrs. Mark side by side on the sofa.

'I really ought to apologize——' Mrs. Mark began. She had a soft gentle voice.

'Oh, but I'm delighted.'

'The fact is I've never come back to Garth all these years! More than thirty years. I haven't dared. I was so happy here, but my husband didn't like it. So, until his death, I stayed away. He died three years ago and since then I've been trying to pluck up my courage and face my memories. And now I've taken Copley's Cottage at the end of the village for a month or two.'

'How very charming!' Mrs. Brennan murmured. 'We shall be neighbours. You must find a lot of changes.'

'I don't know yet. I've only been here three days. But I don't think I shall—not externally, at any rate.' She smiled and looked across at Dorothy, for the first time, with a friendly glance.

'I was born in the House. We all were. And now I'm the only one left. My father and mother died long ago. I'm sixty, you know! My sister Millie died five years ago, and my brother Henry was killed in a motor accident. You probably read about it at the time. He was quite famous as a dramatist.'

'Why, of course. Henry Trenchard. How sad that was!'

'Yes. Very. He ought never to have driven himself. He was so very absent-minded. Dear Henry!'

She paused for a moment, her eyes misted a little.

'And so you see why I've dreaded coming back. I'm not quite alone in the world. I have a son who's an astronomer. Isn't that an odd thing to be? But he's married now and so—well, here I am!'

Her confidences were so quiet and so simple that no one felt it at all strange that she should tell them these things.

'And so you knew this house quite well?'

'Oh, very well—as well as our own. The clergyman at that time—just before I married—was called Smart. He used to race through the services, especially in the summer when he wanted to be gardening.' She laughed. 'I remember him so very well. And Mrs. Smart was a big, stout woman who wore the most outrageous hats. But before that, when we were children, there was a clergyman called Penny and he had ever so many children. That was when we were here so often. We used to play Hide-and-Seek all over this house, and Henry would be lost and we'd find him at last somewhere in a corner reading a book.'

'What a nice lady,' Dorothy thought. 'I never knew anyone more natural.' Simon, after he had taken one look at her and summed her up to his satisfaction, continued his own life on the carpet, now and then making a little hissing noise, and Mrs. Brennan said: 'Hush, Simon!'

'It will be interesting for you, noticing all the changes,' Frank Brennan said. 'You know that some new people have taken the House.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Mark. 'They arrived, I believe, the same day as I did.'

'He was blinded, poor man, in the War,' Mrs. Brennan said. 'This is his second wife and she's years younger. He's got plenty of money, I believe.'

'I hope I shall meet them. I do want to see the House again.'

'Of course you will. Won't you have some tea?'

'No, thank you. I must be going.' She rose. 'Your husband found me in the church and insisted on bringing me in.'

'I'm so glad.'

But there was to be yet one more interruption.

The window that led to the lawn opened. They all turned.

A young man stood there. He was dressed in rather dirty flannels, he was as brown as a chestnut, his hair stood up above his ears, he was very good-looking. He looked at them with an amused and rather cheeky greeting. 'Hullo!' he said, and was gone the moment after, leaving the window open behind him.

'Good heavens!' Brennan cried. 'That was Jim Burke!'

'He's back again!' Daisy Brennan said.

'How like him!' said Brennan. He went to the window and called: 'Jim! Jim!'

But there was not a sign of him in the warm misty rain.

Brennan said to Mrs. Mark: 'Now isn't that like him? He's a young man called Burke. He used to help Fred Ironing—Oh, but you don't know, of course. A wild young fellow. We all liked him. He's been away two years. I wonder what he's back for.'

He closed the window. Mrs. Mark made her farewells.