Part 8

A very insignificant man, for all his height and his big forehead. Altogether of The Beeches, Arlington Road. Had he turned grey, he might have looked less shabby, but dark thin locks still clustered above his high crown and behind his long-lobed ears. His eyes were dark, his moustache drooped, and he had a small, straight nose. Marmaduke saw that he was the sort of man who, in youth, might have been considered very handsome. He looked like a seedy poet and some sort of minor civil servant mingled, the civil servant having got the better of the poet. Marmaduke also imagined that he would have a large family and a harassed but ambitious wife, with a genteel accent--a wife a little below himself. His tie was of a dull red silk. Marmaduke did not like him.

Mr. Thorpe glanced round, as if cautiously, to see if the nurse had closed the door, and then, it was really as if more cautiously still, looked at Marmaduke, slightly moving back his chair.

“I’m very grateful to you, very grateful indeed,” he said in a low voice, “for seeing me.”

“You’ve come a long way,” said Marmaduke.

“Yes. A long way. I had heard of your being here. I hoped to get here. I felt that I must see you. We are all proud of you; more proud than I can say.”

He looked down now at the motoring-cap he held, and Marmaduke became aware that the reddened eyes were still more suffused and that the mouth under the drooping moustache twitched and trembled. He could think of nothing to say, except to murmur something about being very glad--though he didn’t want to say that; and he supposed, to account for Mr. Thorpe’s emotion, that he must be a moving sight, lying there, wasted, bandaged, and dying.

“You don’t remember my name, I suppose,” said Mr. Thorpe after a moment, in which he frankly got out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” said Marmaduke very politely. He was glad to say this. It was the sort of thing he did want to say.

“Yet I know yours very, very well,” said Mr. Thorpe, with a curious watery smile. “I lived at Channerley once. I was tutor there for some time--to Robert, your brother, and Griselda. Yes,” Mr. Thorpe nodded, “I know the Folletts well; and Channerley, the dear old place.”

Now the dim something in memory pressed forward, almost with a physical advance, and revealed itself as sundry words scratched on the schoolroom window-panes and sundry succinct drawings in battered old Greek and Latin grammars. Robert had always been very clever at drawing, catching with equal facility and accuracy the swiftness of a galloping horse and the absurdities of a human profile. What returned to Marmaduke now, and as clearly as if he had the fly-leaf before him, was a tiny thumb-nail sketch of such a galloping horse unseating a lank, crouching figure, of whom the main indications were the angles of acute uncertainty taken by the knees and elbows; and a more elaborate portrait, dashed and dotted as if with a ruthless boyish grin--such an erect and melancholy head it was, so dark the tossed-back locks, so classical the nose and unclassical the moustache, and a brooding eye indicated in a triangular sweep of shadow. Beneath was written in Robert’s clear, boyish hand, “Mr. Guy Thorpe, Poet, Philosopher, and Friend. Vale.” Even the date flashed before him, 1880; and with it--strange, inappropriate association--the daffodils running out upon the lawn, as no doubt he had seen them as he leaned from the schoolroom window, with the Greek grammar under his elbow on the sill.

So that was it. Mr. Guy Thorpe, placed, explained, disposed of--poor dear! He felt suddenly quite kindly towards him, quite touched by his act of loyalty to the old allegiance in coming; and flattered, too,--yes, even by Mr. Thorpe,--that he should be recognized as a Follett who had done something for the name; and smiling very benevolently upon him, he said:--

“Oh, of course; I remember perfectly now--your name, and drawings of you in old schoolbooks, you know. All tutors and governesses get those tributes from their pupils, don’t they? But I myself couldn’t remember, could I? for it was before I was born that you were at Channerley.”

There was a moment of silence after this, and in it Marmaduke felt that Mr. Thorpe did not like being so placed. He had no doubt imagined that there would be less ambiguous tributes, and that his old pupils would have talked of him to the younger generation.

And something of this chagrin certainly came out in his next words as, nodding and looking round at the daffodils, he said:--

"Yes, yes. Quite true. No, of course you couldn’t yourself remember. I was more though, I think I may fairly say, than the usual tutor or governess. I came, rather, at Sir Robert’s instance."--Sir Robert was Marmaduke’s father.--“We had met, made friends, at Oxford; his former tutor there was an uncle of mine, and Sir Robert, in my undergraduate days, used to visit him sometimes. He was very keen on getting me to come. Young Robert wanted something of a firm hand. I was the friend rather than the mere man of books in the family.”

"Poet, Philosopher and Friend"--Marmaduke had it almost on his lips, and almost with a laugh, his benevolence deepened for poor Mr. Thorpe, so self-revealed, so entirely Robert’s portrait of him. Amusing to think that even the quite immature first-rate can so relegate the third. But perhaps it was a little unfair to call poor Mr. Thorpe third. The Folletts would not be likely to choose a third-rate man for a tutor; second was kinder, and truer. He had, obviously, come down in the world.

“I see. It’s natural I never heard, though: there’s such a chasm between the elders and the youngers in a big family, isn’t there?” he said. “Griselda is twelve years older than I am, and Robert ten, you remember. She was married by the time I began my Greek. You never came back to Channerley, did you? I hope things have gone well with you since those days?”

He questioned, wanting to be very kind; wanting to give something of the genial impression of his father smiling, with his “And how goes the world with you to-day?” But he saw that, while Mr. Thorpe’s evident emotion deepened, it was with a sense of present grief as well as of retrospective pathos.

“No; I never came,--that is--. No; I passed by: I never came to stay. I went abroad; I travelled, with a pupil, for some years before my marriage.” Grief and confusion were oddly mingled in his drooping face. “And after that--life had changed too much. My dear old friend Sir Robert had died. I could not have faced it all. No, no; when some chapters are read, it is better to close the book; better to close the book. But I have never forgotten Channerley, nor the Folletts of Channerley; that will always remain for me the golden page; the page,” said Mr. Thorpe, glancing round again at the daffodils, “of friendship, of youth, of daffodils in springtime. I saw you there,” he added suddenly, “once, when you were a very little lad. I saw you. I was passing by; bicycling; no time to stop. You remember the high road skirts the woods to the north. I came and looked over the wall; and there you were--in your holland pinafore and white socks--digging up the daffodils and putting them into your little red-and-yellow cart. A beautiful spring morning. The woods full of sunshine. You wouldn’t remember.”

But he did remember--perfectly. Not having been seen; but the day; the woods; the daffodils. He had dug them up to plant in his own little garden, down below. He had always been stupid with his garden; had always failed where the other succeeded. And he had wanted to be sure of daffodils. And they had all laughed at him for wanting the wild daffodils like that for himself, and for going to get them in the wood. And why had Mr. Thorpe looked over the wall and not come in? He hated to think that he had been watched on that spring morning--hated it. And, curiously, that sense of fear with which he had heard the approaching footsteps returned to him. It frightened him that Mr. Thorpe had watched him over the wall.

His distaste and shrinking were perhaps apparent in his face, for it was with a change of tone and hastiness of utterance, as though hurrying away from something, that Mr. Thorpe went on:--

“You see,--it’s been my romance, always, Channerley--and all of you. I’ve always followed your lives--always--from a distance--known what you were up to. I’ve made excuses to myself--in the days when I used to go a good deal about the country--to pass by Channerley and just have a glimpse of you. And when I heard that you had done this noble deed,--when I heard what you had done for England, for Channerley, for us all,--I felt I had to come and see you. You must forgive me if I seem a mere intruder. I can’t seem that to myself. I’ve cared too much. And what I came for, really, was to thank you,--to thank you, my dear boy,--and to tell you that because of you, life must be nobler, always, for all of us.”

His words had effaced the silly, groping fear. It was indeed, since his colonel’s visit, the first congratulation he had had from the outer world. The nurses, of course, had congratulated him, and the surgeons; but no one who knew him outside; the kindly telegrams from Robert and Sylvia did not count as congratulations. And in a way poor Mr. Thorpe did know him, and though it was only from him, it had its sweetness. He felt himself flush as he answered, “That’s very kind of you.”

“Oh, no!” said Mr. Thorpe, shaking his head and swinging his foot--Marmaduke knew that from the queer movement of his body as he sat with very tightly folded arms. “Not kind! That’s not the word--from us to you! Not the word at all!”

“I’m very happy, as you may imagine,” said Marmaduke. And he was happy again, and glad to share his happiness with poor Mr. Thorpe. “It makes everything worth while, doesn’t it, to have brought it off at all?”

“Everything, everything--it would; it would, to you. So heroes feel,” said Mr. Thorpe. “To give your life for England. I know it all--in every detail. Yes, you are happy in dying that England may live. Brave boy! Splendid boy!”

Now he was weeping. He had out his handkerchief and his shoulders shook. It made Marmaduke want to cry, too, and he wondered confusedly if the nurse would soon come back. Had not the half hour passed?

“Really--it’s too good of you. You mustn’t, you know; you mustn’t,” he murmured, while the word, “boy--boy,” repeated, made tangled images in his mind, and he saw himself in the white socks and with the little red-and-yellow cart, and then as he had been the other day, leading his men, his revolver in his hand and the bullets flying about him. “And I’m not a boy,” he said; "I’m thirty-four; absurdly old to be only a second lieutenant. And there are so many of us. Why,"--the thought came fantastically, but he seized it, because Mr. Thorpe was crying so and he must seize something,--“we’re as common as daffodils!”

“Ah! not for me! not for me!” Mr. Thorpe gulped quickly. Something had given way in him--as if the word “daffodils” had pressed a spring. He was sobbing aloud, and he had fallen on his knees by the bed and put up his hand for Marmaduke’s. “I cannot keep it from you! Not at this last hour! Not when you are leaving me forever!--My son! My brave son! I am your father, Marmaduke! I am your father, my dear, dear boy!”

III

It was the stillest room. The two calm bands of blue crossed the window. In the sunlight the gulls came flying back. Marmaduke looked out at them. Were they the same sea-gulls or another flock? Then quietly he closed his eyes. Stillness--calm. But something else was rising to him from them. Darkness; darkness; a darkness worse than death. Oh! death was sweet compared to this. Compared to this all his life had been sweet; and something far dearer than life was being taken from him. He only knew the terrible confusion of his whole nature.

He opened his eyes again with an instinct of escape. There were the bands of blue, and, still passing in their multitudes, leaving him forever, the proud, exultant sea-gulls. The man still knelt beside him. He heard his own voice come:--

“What do you mean?”

“I never meant to tell you! I never meant to tell you!” a moan answered him. “But--seeing you lying there!--dying!--my son!--who has given his life for England!--And how I have longed for you all these years!--My romance, Marmaduke--How could I be silent? Forgive me! Forgive me, my boy. Yes, mine. My known children are dear to me, but how far dearer the unknown son, seen only by stealth, in snatched glimpses! It is true, Marmaduke, true. We were lovers. She loved me. Do not ask. Do not question. We were young. She was very beautiful. It was springtime; daffodils were in the woods. She said that she had never known any one like me. She said that her life was hollow, meaningless. I opened doors to her, I read to her. Browning--I read Browning,” he muttered on, “in the woods; among the daffodils. It was a new life to her--and to me. And we were swept away. Don’t blame us, Marmaduke. If there was wrong, there was great beauty--then. Only then; for after, she was cruel--very cruel. She turned from me; she crushed and tore my heart. Oh!--I have suffered! But no one knew. No one ever dreamed of it. Only she and I. My God!--I see her in your hair and eyes!”

It was true. It was absolutely true. Through his whole being he felt its inevitability. Everything was clear, with a strange, black, infernal clearness. His life lay open before him, open from beginning to end: that beginning of tawdry sentiment and shame--with daffodils; and this end, with daffodils again, and again with tawdry sentiment and shame.

He was not a Follett. He had no part in the Folletts. He had no part in Channerley. He was an interloper, a thief. He was the son of this wretched man, in whose very grief he could detect the satisfaction--oh, who more fitted to detect such satisfaction!--of his claim upon a status above his own. He was all that he had always most despised, a second-rate, a third-rate little creature; the anxious, civil, shrinking Marmalade of Cauldwell’s office. Why (as the hideous moments led him on, point by point, his old lucidity, sharpened to a needle fineness, seemed to etch the truth in lines of fire upon the blackness), hadn’t he always been a pitiful little snob? Wasn’t it of the essence of a snob to over-value the things one hadn’t and to fear the things one was? It hadn’t been other people, it had been himself, what he really was, of whom he had always been afraid. He saw himself reduced to the heretofore unrecognized, yet always operative, element in his own nature--a timid, watchful humility.

Oh, Channerley! Channerley! The wail rose in his heart and it filled the world. Oh, his woods, his daffodils, his father’s smile--gone--lost forever! Worse than that--smirched, withered, desecrated!

A hideous gibbering of laughter seemed to rise around him, and pointing fingers. Amy’s eyes passed with another malice in their mockery; and Robert would never turn to him now, and Griselda would never look at him. He saw it all, as they would never see it. He was not one of them, and they had always felt it; and oh,--above all,--he had always felt it. And now, quite close it seemed, softly rustling, falsely smiling, moved his loathsome mother: not only as he remembered her in youth, but in her elegant middle years, as he had last seen her, with hard eyes and alien lips and air of brittle, untouched exquisiteness.

Suddenly fury so mounted in him that he saw himself rising in bed, rending his dressings, to seize the kneeling man by the throat and throttle him. He could see his fingers sinking in on either side among the clustered hair, and hear himself say, “How dare you! How dare you! You hound! You snivelling, sneaking hound! You look for pity from me, do you!--and tenderness! Well, take this, this! Everything, everything I am and have that’s worth being and having, I owe to them. I’ve hated you and all you mean, always--yes, your fear and your caution and your admiration and your great high forehead. Oh, I see it! I see it!--it’s my own! And though I am only that in myself, then take it from me that I hate myself along with you and curse myself with you!”

It came to him that he was slowly panting, and that after the fever-fury an icy chill crept over him. And a slow, cold smile came with it, and he saw Jephson, the wit of the office, wagging his head and saying, “Little Marmalade take a man by the throat! Ask me another!”

No; little Marmalade might win the V.C.; but only when he thought he was a Follett. Was that what it all came to, really? Something broke and stopped in his mind.

He heard his father’s voice. How long ago it had all happened. He had known for years, hadn’t he, that this was his father?

“Marmaduke! Mr. Follett! What have I done? Shall I call somebody? Oh, forgive me!”

His father was standing now beside him and bending over him. He looked up at him and shook his head. He did not want any one to come.

“Oh, what have I done?” the man repeated.

“I was dying anyway, you know,” he heard himself say.

What a pitiful face it was, this weary, loosened, futureless old face above him! What a frightened face! What long years of slow disgarnishing lay behind it: youth, romance, high hopes, all dropped away. He had come to-day with their last vestiges, still the sentimental, romancing fool, self-centred and craving; but nothing of that was left. He was beaten, at last, down into the very ground. It was a haggard, humiliated, frightened face, and miserable. As he himself had been. But not even death lay before this face. For how many years must it go on sinking down until the earth covered it? Marmaduke seemed to understand all about him, as well as if he had been himself.

“Sit down,” he said. He heard that his voice was gentle, though he was not aware of feeling anything, only of understanding. “I was rather upset. No; I don’t want any one. Of course I forgive you. Don’t bother about it, I beg.”

His father sat down, keeping his swollen eyes on the motoring-cap which, unseeingly, he turned and turned in his hands.

“Tell me about yourself a little,” said Marmaduke, with slow, spaced breaths. “Where do you live? How? Are you fairly happy?”

He knew that he was not happy; but he might, like most people with whom life had not succeeded, often imagine himself so, and Marmaduke wanted to help him, if possible, to imagine it.

“I live near London. I used to do a good deal of University Extension lecturing. I’ve a clerkship in the Education Office now.” Mr. Thorpe spoke in a dead obedient voice. “A small salary, not much hope of advance; and I’ve a large family. It’s rather up-hill, of course. But I’ve good children; clever children. My eldest boy’s at Oxford; he took a scholarship at Westminster; and my eldest girl’s at Girton. The second girl, Winnie, has a very marked gift for painting; she is our artist; we’re going to send her to the Slade next year when she leaves the High School. Good children. I’ve nothing to complain of.”

“So you’re fairly happy?” Marmaduke repeated. Oddly, he felt himself comforted in hearing about the good and happy children, in hearing about Winnie, her father’s favourite.

“Happy? Well, just now, with this terrible war, one can’t be that, can one? It is a great adventure for me, however, this work of mine, motoring about France. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything I cared so much about since--for years,” said Mr. Thorpe. “It’s a beautiful country, isn’t it? and the soldiers are such splendid fellows! One gets a lot out of it. But happy? No, I don’t suppose I am. I’m pretty much of a failure, and I started life with great imaginings about myself. One doesn’t get over that sort of disappointment; one never really gets over it in a way.” Mr. Thorpe was looking at him now, and it was as if there were a kindliness between them. “Things have been rather grey and disagreeable on the whole,” he said.

“They can be very grey and disagreeable, can’t they?” said Marmaduke, closing his eyes.

He was very tired, and as he lay there quietly, having nothing further to know or to suffer, having reached the very limits of conscious dissolution, something else began to come to him. It seemed born of the abolition of self and of the acceptance of the fact that he was dead to all that had given life worth or beauty. It would have been very good to be a Follett; though, he saw it now, he had over-prized that special sort of goodness--with so much else from which he had been, as really, shut out; but he was not a Follett; nor was he merely this poor, insignificant father. He did not quite make out in what the difference lay and he did not rejoice in it, for there was no rejoicing left in him. But, even if the difference were only an acquired instinct (dimly, the terms of his complacent readings in biology and sociology returned to him), even if it were only that, not anything inherent and transmissible, it was, all the same, his own possession; something that he and the Folletts had made together; so that it was as true to say that he had won the V.C. as to say that they had. The lessened self that was left to him had still its worth. To see the truth, even if it undid you, was worthy; to see so unwaveringly that it was good to be a Follett even when you weren’t one, had the elements of magnanimity; and to accept the fact of being second-rate proved, did it not?--if you still cared to prove it; he felt himself smile as gently at the relinquished self as he had smiled at his father,--that you were not merely second-rate.

There was now a sound of stumbling movement; doors opening and shutting; nurses, surgeons in the room; and his father’s face, far away, against the blue bands, looking at him, still so frightened and so miserable that he tried again to smile at him and to say, “It’s all right. Quite all right.”

At all events he had been decent to the poor old fellow. His thoughts came brokenly, but he was still seeing something, finding something; it was like a soft light growing. At all events, he had behaved as a Follett would wish to behave even when brought to such a pass. No--but it wasn’t quite that, either; it was something new. He had behaved as any one decent should wish to behave. And the daffodils glimmering to his vision seemed to light him further still. “We are as common as daffodils,” came back to him. Daffodils were for everybody. Foolish little boy who, on the distant spring morning in the woods of Channerley, dug them up to take them to his own garden!

He was there among them with his little red-and-yellow cart, and the thrush was singing high above him, in the rosy topmost branches of an elm.

Beautiful woods. Beautiful flowers of light and chivalry. How the sunshine streamed among them!

“Dear Channerley,” he thought. For again he seemed to belong there.

Gentle hands were tending him and, as he turned his cheek on the pillow, it was with the comfort--almost that of the little boy at Channerley being tucked up in the warm nursery to go to sleep--of knowing that he was dying, and that, in spite of everything, he had given something to the name.

PANSIES

I

“OF course it is a horrid little garden, but one gets so fond of one’s own things, even when they are horrid,” said Miss Edith Glover, with her gentle deprecatory laugh.

She stood with her friend at the door of the conservatory that led from the sitting-room to the oblong plot of garden--a small, middle-aged woman, with soft brown eyes, and hair the colour of a faded leaf; her wasted throat and transparent temples and faint yet feverish flush marking her already with menacing symptoms.