The Wooden Horse Part 16

Harry's face was very white. He spoke rapidly and his hand gripped the marble of the mantelpiece; he did not want them to see that his legs were trembling.

"Yes. I am glad to know exactly where we stand. It is better for all of us. I might have taken it submissively, Clare, had you left out your last count against me. That was unworthy of you. But haven't you, perhaps, seen just a little too completely your own point of view and omitted mine? I came back a stranger. I was ready to do anything to win your regard. I was perhaps a little foolishly sentimental about it, but I am a very easy person to understand--it could not have been very difficult. I imagined, foolishly, that things would be quite easy--that there would be no complications. I soon found that I had made a mistake; you have taught me more during the last fortnight than I had ever learnt in all my twenty years abroad. I have learnt that to expect affection from your own relations, even from your son, is absurd--affection is bad form; that, of course, was rather a shock.

"You have had, all of you, your innings during the last fortnight. You have decided, with your friends, that I am impossible, and from that moment you have deliberately cut me. You have driven me to find friends of my own and then you have complained of the friends that I have chosen. That is completed--in a fortnight you have shown me, quite plainly, your position. Now I will show you mine. You have refused to have anything to do with me--for the future the position shall be reversed. I shall alter in no respect whatever, either my friendships or my habits. I shall go where I please, do what I please, see whom I please. We shall, of course, disguise our position from the world. I have learnt that disguise is a very important part of one's education. Our former relations from this moment cease entirely."

He was speaking apparently calmly, but his anger was at white-heat.

All the veiled insults and disappointments of the last fortnight rose before him, but, above all, he saw Mary as though he were defending her, there, in the room. He would never forgive them.

Clare was surprised, but she did not show it. She got up from the table and walked to the door. "Very well, Harry," she said, "I think you will regret it."

Garrett rose too, his hand trembling a little as he folded his newspaper.

"That is, I suppose, an ultimatum," he said. "It is a piece of insolence that I shall not forget."

Robin was turning to leave the room. Harry suddenly saw him. He had forgotten him; he had thought only of Mary.

"Robin," he whispered, stepping towards him. "Robin--you don't think as they do?"

"I agree with my aunt," he said, and he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Harry's defiance had left him. For a moment the only thing that he saw clearly in a world that had suddenly grown dark and cold was his son.

He had forgotten the rest--his sister, Mary, Pendragon--it all seemed to matter nothing.

He had come from New Zealand to love his son--for nothing else.

He had an impulse to run after him, to seize him, and hold him, and force him to come back.

Then he remembered--his pride stung him. He would fight it out to the end; he would, as his father said, "show them a stiff back."

He was very white, and for a moment he had to steady himself by the table. The silver teapot, the ham, the racks of toast were all there--how strange, when the rest of the world had changed; he was quite alone now--he must remember that--he had no son. And he, too, went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

CHAPTER VIII

Some letters during this week:--

23 SOUTHWICK CRESCENT, W., _October_ 10, 1906.

My dear Robin--I should have written before, I am ashamed of my omission, but my approaching departure abroad has thrown a great many things on my hands; I have a paper to finish for Clarkson and an essay for the _New Review_, and letter-writing has been at a standstill. It was delightful--that little peep of you that I got--and it only made me regret the more that it is impossible to see much of you nowadays. I cannot help feeling that there is a danger of vegetation if one limits oneself too completely to a provincial life, and, charming though Cornwall is, its very fascination causes one to forget the importance of the outer world. I fancied that I discerned signs that you yourself felt this confinement and wished for something broader. Well, why not have it? I confess that I see no reason. Come up to London for a time--go abroad--your beloved Germany is waiting for you, and a year at one of the Universities would be both amusing and instructive. These are only suggestions; I should hesitate to offer them at all were it not that there has always been such sympathy between us that I know you will not resent them. Of course, the arrival of your father has made considerable difference. I must say, honestly, that I regretted to see that you had not more in common. The fault, I expect, has been on both sides; as I said to you before, it has been hard for him to realise exactly what it is that we consider important. We--quite mistakenly possibly--have come to feel that certain things, art, literature, music, are absolutely essential to us, morally and physically.

They are nothing at all to him, and I can quite understand that you have found it difficult--almost impossible--to grasp his standpoint. I must confess that he did not seem to me to attempt to consider yours; but it is easy, and indeed impertinent, to criticise, and I hope that, on the next occasion of your writing, I shall hear that things are going smoothly and that the first inevitable awkwardnesses have worn off.

I must stop. I have let my pen wander away with me. But do consider what I said about coming up to town; I am sure that it is bad for you in every way--this burial. Think of your friends, old chap, and let them see something of you.--Yours ever,

LANCELOT RANDAL.

"THE FLUTES," PENDRAGON, _October_ 12, 1906.

My dear Lance--Thanks very much for your letter. This mustn't pretend to be anything of a letter. I have a thousand things to do, and no time to do them. It was very delightful seeing you, and I, too, was extremely sorry we could not see more of you. My aunt enjoyed your visit enormously, and told me to remind you that you are expected here, for a long stay, on your return from Germany.

Yes, I was worried and am still. There are various things--"it never rains but it pours"--but I cannot feel that they are in the least due to my vegetating. I haven't the least intention of sticking here, but my grandfather is, as you know, very ill, and it is impossible for me to get away at present.

Resent what you said! Why, no, of course not. We are too good friends for resentment, and I am only too grateful for your advice. The situation here at this moment is peculiarly Meredithian--and, although one ought perhaps to be silent concerning it, I know that I can trust you absolutely and I need your advice badly. Besides, I must speak to some one about it; I have been thinking it over all day and am quite at a loss. There was battle royal this morning after breakfast, and my father was extremely rude to my aunt, acting apparently from quite selfish motives. I want to look at it fairly, but I can, honestly, see it in no other light. My aunt accused him of indifference with regard to the family good name. She, quite rightly, I think, pointed out that his behaviour from first to last had been the reverse of courteous to herself and her friends, and she suggested that he had, perhaps, scarcely realised the importance of maintaining the family dignity in the eyes of Pendragon. You remember his continual absences and the queer friendships that he formed. She suggested that he should modify these, and take a little more interest in the circle to which we, ourselves, belong. Surely there is nothing objectionable in all this; indeed, I should have thought that he would have been grateful for her advice. But no--he fired up in the most absurd manner, accused us of unfairness and prejudice, declared his intention of going his own way, and gave us all his conge. In fact, he was extremely rude to my aunt, and I cannot forgive him for some of the things that he said. His att.i.tude has been absurd from the first, and I cannot see that we could have acted otherwise, but the situation is now peculiar, and what will come of it I don't know. I must dress for dinner--I am curious to see whether he will appear--he was out for lunch. Let me have a line if you have a spare moment. I scarcely know how to act.--Yours,

ROBERT TROJAN.

23 SOUTHWICK CRESCENT, W., _October_ 14, 1906.

Dear Robin--In furious haste, am just off and have really no time for anything. I am more sorry than I can say to hear your news. I must confess that I had feared something of the kind; matters seemed working to a climax when I was with you. As to advice, it is almost impossible; I really don't know what to say, it is so hard for me to judge of all the circ.u.mstances. But it seems to me that your father can have had no warrant for the course that he took. One is naturally chary of delivering judgment in such a case, but it was, obviously, his duty to adapt himself to his environment. He cannot blame you for reminding him of that fact. Out of loyalty to your aunt, I do not see that you can do anything until he has apologised. But I will think of the matter further, and will write to you from abroad.--In great haste, your friend, LANCELOT RANDAL.

"THE FLUTES," PENDRAGON, CORNWALL, _October_ 13, 1906.

Dear Miss Feverel--I must apologise for forcing you to realise once more my existence. Any reminder must necessarily be painful after our last meeting, but I am writing this to request the return of all other reminders of our acquaintance that you may happen to possess; I enclose the locket, the ring, your letters, and the tie that you worked. We discussed this matter the other day, but I cannot believe that you will still hold to a determination that can serve no purpose, except perhaps to embitter feelings on both sides. From what I have known of you I cannot believe that you are indulging motives of revenge--but, otherwise, I must confess that I am at a loss.--Expecting to receive the letters by return, I am, yours truly,

ROBERT TROJAN.

9 SEA VIEW TERRACE, PENDRAGON, CORNWALL, _October_ 14, 1906.

Dear Mr. Trojan--Thank you for the locket, the ring, and the letters which I have received. I regret that I must decline to part with the letters; surely it is not strange that I should wish to keep them.--Yours truly, DAHLIA FEVEREL.

"THE FLUTES,"

_October_ 15, 1906.

What do you mean? You have no right to them. They are mine. I wrote them. You serve no purpose by keeping them. Please return them at once--by return. I have done nothing to deserve this. Unless you return them, I shall know that you are merely an intriguing--; no, I don't mean that. Please send them back. Suppose they should be seen?--In haste, R. T.

9 SEA VIEW TERRACE, PENDRAGON, CORNWALL, _October_ 15, 1906.

My decision is unalterable.

D. F.