Chapter V

(i)

44T'VE got to send into East Grinstead," announced Lady Beatrice at breakfast on the following Wednesday morning. " Does anybody want anything? The dog-cart's going at eleven." There seemed no demand.

Everybody had gone away yesterday. Even Austin had gone. Gertie had been loudly reproached by May, but had declared an uncancellable engagement to be photographed, and she had travelled up to town, under Austin's escort. The Professor had gone. He had sought out Val once more before he had left, and had endeavoured to impress a more genial and human philosophy upon him than that which had been propagated in the summer-house on Sunday; and had been surprised, and a little aggrieved, by the boy's apparent lack of interest. And the Merediths were gone — all three of them; Tom and his father still preserving their air of imperturbability throughout, treating Val with exactly the same friendly but detached air as that which they had shown before the Professor's disclosures. There were left then at Medhurst, once again, the General, Lady Beatrice, May, and Val. (I forgot to add Miss Deverell.)

At about half -past eleven Lady Beatrice thought to put into effect a decision she had arrived at two days before — namely, to have a good talk with Val herself. She had perceived, unmistakably, the aloofness in which he had walked during this weekend; and, as Gertie had seen, had rather increased the boy's embarrassment by trying to draw him into public conversation. He had been polite, but impenetrable. So that, now that the guests were gone, it seemed to her a good chance to find him and to say a word or two.... The sense of burden was increasing on her with every day that went by.

About half-past eleven, then, she took up her stick, and limped through the hall and up the staircase that led to his rooms. The fine weather had broken, and since breakfast a steady rain had been falling. She was almost certain, then, of finding him upstairs in the room that he and Austin still called their own.

She came down the passage, tapped (as her custom was), and then, hearing no answer, went in. Val was not there. But she stood, looking about her for a minute, before ringing to make enquiries. The room was as she had always known it, rather untidy, very boyish, and with an appearance of trying to be a caricature of a real smoking-room. A couple of small books lay in the seat of a chair; and she glanced at them. They seemed to her very dull. One was by a man called Haeckel; and another by a man called Laing. Then she rang the bell and sat down.

It was a fairish long wait before anyone came, and she was just going to ring again when Charles, the footman, came in.

" Do you know where Master Val is? " she said. " Please find him, and say I'm up here."

" Yes, m'lady."

Charles disappeared, walking a good deal quicker than he had come, and while she waited she again looked at the books by Messrs. Haeckel and Laing, and found them duller than ever. There were disagreeable diagrams of man-like monkeys, or monkey-like men — she was not sure which, as long Latin names were printed beneath them — on several of the pages. Then Charles came back.

" Please m'lady, Master Val's gone in with the dog-cart."

" Where? To East Grinstead? "

" Yes, m'lady. He came down to the stables just before it started."

She lifted herself out of the chair. (Charles, the footman, handed her her stick deferentially / lit was no good waiting then.

" Let me know when the dog-cart comes back," she said. " You needn't say anything to Master Val. I'll speak to him myself."

" Very good, m'lady."

But she was quite unconscious of the depth of her own uneasiness until she ran into Val in the hall just before lunch, and was aware of a perfectly clear sense of relief at the sight of him. He was just hanging up his cap on the stag-horns near the door.

" Why — - where have you been, my boy? I was looking for you."

" Been to East Grinstead," said Val steadily.

" But you didn't tell me — "

" No. I only thought of it after breakfast. There were one or two things I wanted to get."

" And you got them all right? "

" Yes, thanks," said Val.

" Well, come along in to lunch."

And she took his arm in friendly and maternal fashion to help her along.

About seven o'clock the same evening she sought him again, once more painfully picking her way up the slippery stairs. She would have half an hour or so before the dressing-bell rang; and she preferred to find him, as it were informally, rather than make an appointment.

And the last stimulus she had received, causing her to come up this evening rather than to wait for to-morrow, was a short conversation between herself and Miss Deverell.

" Jane," she had suddenly said after tea when May and the men had gone, " Jane, I'm not satisfied about Val. There's something the matter with him."

" I think so myself," said Miss Deverell drily (who of course had been told of the disaster, and had made no comment on it).

The other jumped. (One never got accustomed to Miss Deverell's characteristics. The suddenly startling little sentences that she fired off half a dozen times a week were always unexpected.)

"Oh! you think so too?" said Lady Beatrice rather feebly.

" The boy is unhappy," pursued Jane energetically. " But I am not his mother."

" I'll go and see him."

" I think you had better."

Here then she came.

This time she was more fortunate. Val's voice answered her tap, and he sprang up from the deep chair as she appeared.

" Doing anything important, my son? "

" No, mother."

" Just sitting by yourself? "

" Just sitting by myself," repeated the boy in a perfectly even tone.

She took care not to look at him particularly as she slowly sat down; but she was none the less conscious that something was seriously the matter. It was not exactly depression that she perceived; rather it was a tense kind of excitement. His face was quite resolute; his voice quite steady; and there ran through both a sense that something was tight-stretched somewhere. There was no longer that miserable sort of laxity that she had noticed before, nor that subtle tone of self-defence that had been apparent a good many times in public. Rather there was a ring of confidence in his voice... and yet that same barrier of secretiveness hid its meaning from her. It seemed to her rather unwholesome.

" Tell me about Cambridge," she said. " Have you had a nice term? "

Val paused a moment. Then, with complete self-possession, he proceeded to give her the kind of account of the term which a nephew would give to a maiden aunt, without the humour. It was quite intelligible; it was full of information; and it was perfectly superficial. He allowed no emotion to appear; he did not permit the smallest chink of light to penetrate his own feelings. He spoke of his lectures and the Lent vaes....

" Oh, yes," said Lady Beatrice inattentively. " And what do you want to do during the vacation? Wouldn't you like to go away somewhere — with Austin, or one of your friends?"

Again came that deliberate little pause.

" I hadn't thought of it," said Val. " I rather thought of stopping here — altogether."

And then she couldn't bear it any longer. It was intolerable to her to sit here and be excluded from him so completely. A wall was between them, and she could see neither over it nor through it. Only she was aware that he was suffering behind it; and a rush of tenderness surged up in her.

" My boy, what's the matter with you? "

Again there was a moment's silence. She had stretched out one jewelled hand towards him in an unconscious gesture, as if to invite his own to be laid in it; but he did not move. Indeed, she thought for an instant that he was going to give way; the sense of strain grew tighter than ever. But it did not break.

" Nothing's the matter," he said.

" Listen, my boy," she began hurriedly. " I understand perfectly that you're unhappy. And of course I know why. But I did just want to tell you this — that nothing you've ever done or not done can make any difference to me. You mustn't think hardly of your father; he's a man, you know, and thinks slowly. But he's very fond of you.... That's why he feels as he does. We're all fond of you, Val."

Val swallowed in his throat. And then the bitterness burst out: he clasped one hand tightly with the other, and began to speak. An appalling venom was in every phrase, and his face worked.

" Fond of me, is he? Really! And he called me a coward before the whole village. That's what he thinks of me! Really! I don't see how he can be fond of me if he thinks that.... And he hasn't withdrawn it, or said he was sorry...."

" Val! " ( She was sitting upright now, terrified and amazed.)

" He treats me like a dog... a cur. And I dare say I am one. I know I am one.... Have I ever denied it? Well, I didn't ask to be born. It's not my fault.... But don't let's pretend he's fond of me.... How could he be?"

"Val! Val!..." (Her voice was imploring, not shocked.)

:< Then why can't I be let alone, to... to return to my own vomit, as the Bible says? I only ask to be let alone, to go my own way. I'm not doing any harm to anyone, am I?...

except by being alive. And that " (He broke off.) " Well, why can't I be let alone? I've been keeping away as much as I can.... I don't think I've bothered anyone much.... And you will try to drag me into things, and make me talk... and try to pump me. I won't be pumped. I'm a beast and a cur, am I? Very well; then let me behave like one... and. and keep to myself. Father and you have got Austin, haven't you? and May? What more do you want? Why can't I be left alone? "

''' Val, you oughtn't to speak to me like that."

" Who began it? I didn't. I haven't come whining to you, even if I am a cur! But even rats turn, you know, in a corner."

"Oh! my boy, I didn't come up here to bother you " wailed the mother.

He drew a sharp breath; and his passion seemed to pass.

'' Very well, mother; I'm sorry. There, will that do?"

" I didn't come up to bother you. I had no idea you were feeling like this. I thought you were just unhappy, and hurt perhaps... perhaps..."

Her beautiful eyes suddenly ran over and her voice choked.

" I'm sorry, mother," said Val, steadily refusing to look at her. " I'm a beast... I know that well enough." She was relieved by her tears, and she looked up at him, with her eyes still swimming. He was sitting hunched up in his chair, his hands clasped round his knees; his face was colourless and fallen. But there was not the faintest sign of softness there. He had pulled in his horns; but his shell was still impenetrable, and she perceived that he meant to keep it so.

" Val, I won't trouble you any more now. You're feeling it all too bitterly. But, my boy, do remember that I care, dreadfully. I've been miserable about you."

He remained expressionless.

" I wonder whether you wouldn't like to talk to someone else. There's Father Maple... if you don't care to talk to the Vicar. He's a good man. I'm sure he is. And he'd understand."

' Thanks very much," said Val, resembling a pool in a dead calm, after storm.

" Well, will you? I could send a note down. Or you could go yourself, to-morrow morning?"

" I won't forget," said Val dully.

She stood up. He gave her her stick, as he would give it to a stranger. Again that wall was between them; but she was thankful for it now. She must try to forget, she told herself, the glimpse she had had of what lay beyond. He would quiet down presently....

" Give me a kiss," she said, trying to smile.

He kissed her, and his lips and eyes were like stone.

(m)'

She had reached the top of the stairs, that night at bedtime, with Miss Deverell beside her, when she paused.

" Go on, Jane," she said. " I want to go and speak to Val a moment."

Dinner had passed off quietly enough. She had said a word to her husband about the boy when they were alone together in the hall before going in, but he had shaken his head, with grim lips, without speaking. But she had understood from his silence that she might speak to the boy as she liked. At dinner she and May had done most of the talking. Val had sat at the lower end of the table, next Miss Deverell, and had answered shortly but quite adequately, when he was spoken to. Before the candles and glasses were brought in he had slipped off, and had gone in the direction of his rooms, without wishing anyone good night. And now she too was going to bed, and thought she would like to say a word to him first, to reassure herself rather than him. She intended to speak about Father Maple again in the morning — not to-night, for fear the boy should think himself persecuted.

Her heart beat a little apprehensively as she tapped at his sitting-room door. There was an instant's delay before he answered. Then she went in; and he was just rising from the writing-table in the window, and closing the big leather blotting-book.

" I came to wish you good night, my son."

She went up to him slowly, leaning on her stick, as he stood with his back to the writing-table, as if guarding it. She noticed that he kept one hand upon the blotting-book as he leaned towards her.

" Good night, mother," he said, and kissed her.

But somehow she did not feel as much reassured by the sight of him as she had hoped. He was quite quiet; but the excitement she had seen blaze out three hours ago was still there, somewhere far down beneath the surface. It glowed there, like life in a sleeper.

She looked round the room, as easily as she could, with an air of interest.

" It's rather shabby, Val," she said. " I wonder whether you'd like new curtains. Aren't these your Eton ones? "

" Yes."

" Wouldn't you like some new ones? And perhaps a carpet? "

"Oh! these'll do very well," he said.

" That's the list of the Boats, isn't it? " she asked, going up to the framed paper on the wall by the fireplace.

" Yes."

She looked down the list. There was his name. Medd mi. — the third in the list of the St. George; as he had pointed it out to her proudly six or seven years ago. It had meant a lot to him then.

" How pleased you were," she said, turning to him and smiling, " when you first got into the Boats."

" Yes."

" What's this? " she said suddenly, looking curiously at another object under a glass dome.

"Which?"

" This, under the glass."

"Oh! that's a bit of stone off the top of the Matterhorn."

She smiled.

" I remember," she said. " Austin brought it back with him, and showed it us in the dining-room. Do you remember? May's got another, in her room."

" Yes," said Val.

" How sorry you were not to be able to climb it too.... Val, wouldn't you like to go out again some day, and do it?"

" I'm afraid I haven't the head for it," said Val grimly. " Besides "

"Yes?"

" Nothing."

" Think about it," she said. " Perhaps your father would let you go this September. You and Austin might go, if he can get away. You'd like that, I expect. Or perhaps Tom Meredith would go. He generally goes about then."

She was doing her utmost to lift the level to a less tragic point; for it was nothing short of tragedy that was in the air of this room — a boy's heroics, no doubt, yet as overwhelming, subjectively, to the boy as calf-love itself. She was trying, then, to be natural and ordinary and friendly; perhaps that would keep him better than explanations; those before dinner, at any rate, had not been very successful.

"Well, good night again, my son," she said, -as she went at last across the floor. " Sleep well."

" Good night, mother," he said. " I'll try..."

Outside the door she paused and listened. But there was dead silence, except for a sudden gust of rain below against the passage window. It had been raining off and on all day, and now that night was come the wind seemed getting up too.

She went noiselessly down the passage, scarcely using her stick. She did not want him to think she had been listening outside the door. As she reached the end she turned again in the dark shadow, and as she did so the door of the sitting-room she had left opened suddenly and swiftly; a head was thrust out, then withdrawn; and she heard the key turn in the lock.... At any rate he had not seen her.

She found it hard to sleep that night.

Soon after the stable clock struck twelve she heard her husband come up to the dressing-room next to hers, where he slept, and softly push open the door between them, as his custom was, in case she called to him in the night. But she did not speak; he was apt to be upset if he found her awake so late.

She had said her prayers as usual, with Dr. Ken's evening hymn at the end: —

" Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die...." And so on.

She remembered how she had felt the irony of this in the first days after her accident, when she had feared her bed at night considerably more than she hoped to fear the grave, when the time came. And now as she lay in bed to-night, looking out at the tall old walls about her, just visible in the glow of the night-light, at the rows of photographs over the mantelpiece, the gleaming points on the dressing-table, the tilted, ghostly-looking, full-length mirror by the window, she hoped that her son was long ago in bed and sleeping off his pain. " I shall be better in the morning," she had said to herself over and over again during these same weeks of pain.

And so her thoughts turned and twisted, formed into little vignettes of illusion and dissolved again, uttered themselves in little audible sentences and were silent again; and through them all moved Val - Val looking at her; Val asleep, as a little child, in the old night nursery, twenty years ago; as she had seen him when she had stolen up after dinner in her jewels; Val's voice speaking words she forgot again as soon as she heard them; and lastly, once Val's face, very close to her own, enigmatic and terrible and grey, with burning eyes and colourless lips....

This woke her in earnest.... And she heard three o'clock strike.

But by half-past three she was asleep and happy.

(v)

Benty, too, had had rather an uncomfortable evening.

First, there had been a remark or two at supper from Masterman to the effect that Mr. Val looked melancholy-like. But Benty's severity of aspect, and of a single sentence that she uttered, had been such that Val had been discussed no more.

Immediately after supper she had gone straight upstairs to her own room, and after two or three minutes' listening at the baize door, had stolen through and into the boy's bedroom. She had no idea what it was that made her uneasy, yet the fact was undeniable that all day there had rested on her a certain weight which, very prudently, up to now she had attributed to a touch of indigestion. By now, however, indigestion or not, the mood had deepened to positive apprehensiveness, and yet she had not an idea as to what it was that she feared.

The bedroom looked all right. Certainly Charles and the housemaid had done their duty with admirable promptness. The day clothes and the boots were gone, and the bed was ready, with the sheet turned down and a light quilt laid over the foot. She lifted her old bedroom candlestick this way and that — for, as a true Conservative, she never used any other light unless she was obliged — and peered about. Then she went out, and into the sitting-room.

Now, of course, as a sensible old lady, she did not for an instant give any countenance to superstition, and yet, if she had only formed the psychological habit of reflecting upon her own consciousness, she would have known that her own uneasiness took the absurd form of feeling that there was something sinister in the atmosphere of these two rooms, and, indeed, to some extent, in the whole house. She went so far practically as to lift her candlestick again in every direction and to peer into the dusky corners. Then she went to the writing-table, but all that lay there that was in the least unusual was a little pile of paper laid on one side ready to the hand. But there was nothing written on it.

She felt guilty, somehow, with all this poking and peering.... Then she heard a step somewhere in the house, and fled out briskly, down the passage, and was standing, holding her breath, on the other side of the baize door, to hear her boy go down into his room, and shut the door.

Ten minutes later she came out again.

In the meantime she had gone to her room and had busied herself with ordinary familiar affairs, putting away her mending and her work-box, and seeing that the windows were properly secured against the rain and wind. Then suddenly she had taken up her candle once more and stolen out.

It took her a full minute to make up her mind to the very ordinary act that she proposed to perform: it was only to look in on her boy to see if he had everything he wanted and to wish him good night. She did this almost two nights out of three if he came up early enough, yet it seemed to her to-night to be an unusual effort.... Then she compressed her lips resolutely, went up to the door, and tapped.

There was a pause before he answered, and it seemed to her old ears as if there were a rustle of paper. Then he called out, and she tried the door. It was locked; she waited. Then he opened it and confronted her, and as he saw who it was, the rigidity of his face softened.

"Why! Benty...."

" I came to wish you good night," she said.

" Come in a minute, but it must only be a minute."

Benty was no detective beyond the point to which unreasoning love could bring her, but it was obvious that Master Val had been writing. The chair was half wheeled round, and a pen laid on the blotting-paper began to roll down the slope as she looked.

" Now don't sit up late at your writing, Master Val. Go to bed like a good boy."

He said nothing. He stood regarding her, with his shoulders against the mantelpiece. She peered about, uncomfortable under his long look.

" Go to bed, Master Val, won't you? " she said.

He put his hands suddenly on her shoulders.

" Old Benty! " he said. " Give me a kiss, my dear, and then go to bed like a good little girl."

His voice trembled a little. Then he kissed her slowly and deliberately on either cheek.

" My dearest boy! " she murmured.

" Say ' God bless you/ as you used to, Benty."

" God bless you," she said, frightened at his burning eyes and pale face.

At the door she turned and nodded again.

" There," she said. " Now have a good sleep."

And she went to her room, still uneasy, telling herself he would be better in the morning. Ten minutes later he heard her ladyship's stick on the boards.