Sherwell's Holiday

ALBERT KINROSS



HERE is an etching by Max Klinger which depicts a savage woman fallen to her knees and worshipping the ocean, come upon her suddenly. Wandering from inland, a break in the forest had surprised her with the miracle of an unsuspected immensity, a new infinitude; overpowered and overborne, she had sunk to earth. It is a simple piece: the break in the forest, V-shaped and wide, the spread of sea beyond, and a single figure mutely worshipful. Imagine a clearing before the V-shaped break, say a couple of large meadows, in the farther one a red-brick cottage, and you have the house and place of Sherwell's holiday.

Sherwell came here every August—he chose August so as not to waste the Bank Holiday. For three weeks every year Sherwell left his warehouse in Bread Street and came to the red-brick cottage that faced the two meadows, the V-shaped break in Croy Wood, and the spread of the English Channel. Never had he sunk to his knees before the wonder of that spectacle, however; never had he done anything worshipful or strange. Always on the first Friday in August or the last Friday in July he would send his office- boy for a cab, hand Beverley, the traveller, a cheque for salaries and petty cash, and drive away from Bread Street to the station; and always there went with him a large brown Gladstone-bag, a bicycle, and a bottle of rare old port. The bag always contained a new flannel suit, the bicycle represented “exercise,” and the rare old port was a present for Uncle John.

At Cannon Street Sherwell always bought a second-class  return ticket, an evening paper, and three ham-sandwiches to eat in the train. He was thirty-one years old, wore a moustache and glasses, and had ten pounds in his pockets: five in gold to spend, and a banknote in case of accident. Uncle John did the rest, and no man had a cheaper, a cosier, or more bracing holiday. It was August now; it was a Friday evening; and Sherwell and his paper and the three ham-sandwiches were duly settled in their corner of the second-class carriage.

As usual, the train was late, and, as usual, Uncle John stood on the platform at Sandling Junction; but, what was most unusual, to-day he had a girl with him, and then Sherwell remembered that Uncle John had said something about a niece. He wondered whether the old man had put her in the best bedroom, or whether his prior claim had been recognised and respected. The girl looked harmless enough, he thought, when Uncle John said, “This is little Jessie,” and explained, “my sister-in-law's gel. Jessie—Jessie Tolputt,” he repeated; and, “Here's my nephew Paul—Paul Sherwell, a great man in the city o' London, though no sort o' shakes down here,” laughed the old man, making the two acquainted. Sherwell was high and dignified; little Jessie's eyes were lowered to earth.

Uncle John, the Gladstone-bag, Jessie Tolputt, and the bottle of rare old port drove back together; Sherwell rode or pushed his bicycle. It was only a short half-mile, and, after the “stuffy railway carriage,” Sherwell said the “exercise” would “do him good.” He spoke like that, in phrases clipped from newspapers, from crisp advertisements, as a good Londoner should. So, in a procession, and sometimes side by side, they went up-hill.

The red-brick cottage was in its usual place; woods at the back of it, the two meadows and vastness of the sky in front; and where the land dropped suddenly to meet the sea, Croy Wood with its V-shaped break; and beyond this sparkled or slumbered or stormed the English Channel. Ships went by as in a panorama. There were two going by just now. The air was good up here. Sherwell sniffed it, and felt very, very happy.

When, as usual, Uncle John saw him to the best bedroom, he felt happier still. He would buy a shilling's-worth of chocolates for the niece; her modesty deserved some recognition. When, as usual, Uncle John announced that supper was waiting for them in the parlour, Sherwell produced his bottle of rare old port.

It was an impressive moment, and no one felt its passing with more gravity and awe than Jessie Tolputt. She was a slim little soul, with large black eyes, a pointed chin, and lots of dark, dark hair. It was so dark because her face was almost pale—olive-pale rather than white-pale. She was slender and round in one, strong and yet fragile; she might have been a nymph escaped from Croy Wood or from Sandling Wood inland. She did not speak unless directly questioned. Sherwell she regarded with manifest wonder and respect; of Uncle John, who had adopted her, who fed and clothed and housed her, she was not at all afraid.

Awe-filled and amazed, she listened to Sherwell, who gave away bottles of rare old port, who was a great man in the city of London, who had a warehouse of his own in Bread Street, and a traveller to do his will. In her small world he was the most marvellous creature that had ever entered it. She was like the savage woman in Klinger's etching, and Sherwell was her first sight of the sea. And like the sea he paid no heed to any mortal, not even to Uncle John; and to her and the small servant-maid he was as cold and far removed as wave and wind and weather all in one.

Sherwell told them all about himself.

Uncle John was used to it, and did not care. The three weeks made a break in his quiet life, and he supposed London and business turned young men like that.

Uncle John was a good listener, and so was Jessie Tolputt. To the girl it was all new. Uncle John had heard it many times before, but to the girl it was all new and marvellous, and unsoiled by the world.

There was an irresistible, inevitable, elemental something about Sherwell that quenched her. Though they rode bicycles together in pursuit of what Sherwell called “exercise,” though they ate and drank at the same table, and the shilling's-worth of chocolates fell far short of the best, she could never even think of him as of the same stuff as herself—never even think of him as of the same stuff as Uncle John. The good old man was hearty and kind, and kissed her good-night and good-morning, and gave her heaps of pocket-money, and spoilt her; but Sherwell was Olympian, a god who came out of a warehouse, who owned a traveller, an office-boy, and typist, who dwelt in London, and to whom all things befel precisely as he desired, commanded, or ordained. Susan, the maid, did not count, nor does she figure in this story.

Sherwell told them all about himself.

In a week Jessie had heard many things: as, for instance, how Sherwell had determined to start in business when he was twenty-five, and how he had done so gloriously. He had estimated a profit of two hundred and fifty pounds the first year, and actually he had made two hundred and seventy-six. He had begun with two good agencies, and now he had five: braids, buttons, dress-trimmings, and Calais and Nottingham laces. He had given each a year to get going, and they had got going. He would touch no article that did not help its fellow articles: thus the braids helped the buttons, the buttons helped the dress-trimmings, and laces, buttons, braids and trimmings all helped each other. He was going to add a few good haberdashery articles to his other agencies, and then he would move to a larger show-room on the floor below.... Jessie did not know what haberdashery was, nor, if truth be told, did Uncle John. Jessie did not ask for an explanation of the mysterious word; she had no voice for such irreverence, and it was only one of the many mysteries that engarlanded and played about this all-mysterious man.... He had begun with one room and a boy, now he had a two-room warehouse, a traveller, a typist, and another boy. In the autumn he would move into two larger rooms—the same address, but the first floor. He paid ninety-five pounds rent for his present quarters; the new warehouse would cost one hundred and twenty.

But all this was as nothing, compared with his other confidences. In four years he would get married—when he was neither too young nor too old. Thirty-five was the right age. He had decided on this six years ago, on the evening of the very day on which he had set up in business for himself. It was best to make up your mind about important matters; the little things always arranged themselves. But important matters—“It was best to make up your mind and then stick to it,” said Paul Sherwell.... At fifty-five he would retire. He wasn't all for work. Forty working years were enough for any man, and he had begun life at fifteen. At thirty-five he would marry, and at fifty-five he would retire. He believed in four per cent. investments. You might be able to get five, but four per cent. was good enough for him. He had more than £2,000 invested now. At fifty he would take a partner, at fifty-five he would sell out to him, and then, what with the money obtained that way and what with his savings well invested, he would have a sure income of £800 a year; and then he would retire and move away from London and live in a red-brick villa, very much like Uncle John.

He had it all pat; and, so far, not one mistake had he made in his calculations, he insisted proudly. Rather had he underestimated than overestimated. Exactly as he had foreseen, so had everything happened. At twenty-five he had set up in business for himself; his first year's earnings had more than equalled his forecast; the next year it had been the same, and so for six years. The two agencies he had started with had grown to five, and presently he would add a few good haberdashery houses to his list. The single room on the second floor had grown to a two-room warehouse; in the autumn he would move down to the first floor and two larger rooms. He had begun with an office-boy and himself; now he had a traveller and a typist as well. At thirty-five he would marry, at fifty he would take a partner, at fifty-five he would retire and move away from London and live in a red-brick villa, something like Uncle John.

He was as sure and as inevitable as ebb and flow, as almanacks and changes of the moon. Never had Jessie Tolputt listened to a human being so convincing, so irresistible, so merciless in all he set about, so filled with knowledge and prophetic ways. Not even the curates she had heard were so convincing, not even the parsons who had a rectory to themselves. They dwelt in abstractions, in vague things of the spirit and the mind; here was a man who grappled with the real, who did things and spoke of things that could be done. What he wished became law, what he set out to do happened; and not only happened, but happened in the very moment which he had preordained. Not an instant sooner, not an instant later. At fifteen he had left school and gone to work; at twenty-five he had started in business for himself; four years from now he would marry; and twenty years after that he would retire and come to live in a villa which would be rather larger and more important than the red-brick cottage of Uncle John.

Symmetrical, perfect, Jessie Tolputt grasped it all. It was flawless as a cloudless night in June, the moon above Croy Wood silvering the sea and throwing her shadow on the meadow as she stood filled with night-magic. Symmetrical, perfect, Jessie Tolputt grasped it all, and recognised the face of the ideal.

The good air, the “exercise,” his daily dip in the sea, roused Sherwell to buoyancy. In a fortnight he was bronzed and the cheap flannel suit showed signs of usage. He had finished the story of himself, retold it and retold it, and now he condescended to take notice of such things as the landscape, of such things as Uncle John and the small servant-maid, even of such things as Jessie Tolputt with the pointed chin, the large black eyes, and lots of dark, dark hair. One day he mentioned to her that he thought the view was “lovely.” They were looking out across the two meadows and through the V-shaped break in Croy Wood, beyond which met the blue of water and the blue of sky. Sandling Wood rose at the back of them, always a little dim, always a little frightening to Jessie, with its impenetrable screens of foliage, with the surprises of its narrow paths, and the whispered music that came after its sudden stillness. At night, under the full moon, it seemed haunted; and sometimes, her heart between her lips, she had stolen in, expecting—she did not know what she expected there in Sandling Wood.

Croy Wood was just the same; only there you always had glimpses of the sea and the lights that flashed out on the two opposing coasts—the French lights, white and red, and the English lights at Dungeness. In November a chill wind came and swept the trees all bare, and, till the spring, the secret of the woods was over: all but over, for even then, amid the black branches and above the brown and rain-sodden leaves on which she stepped, there lingered a memory, a rumour of something that had set her heart between her lips while she had walked, expecting—she did not know exactly what she had expected to come upon her suddenly in one of those narrow paths that twist and turn in Sandling Wood.

One evening after supper, when the moon was at the full, she and Paul came out of the cottage and strolled down to the edge of Croy Wood. He smoked his pipe; she looked out upon the English Channel, and the lights that flashed out from the far-away foreign shore.

“That's France,” she said, as the white light burst and disappeared, dazzling, immense, splendid as lightning on that clear night. The red light opened like an angry eye, grew big, enormous, then shrank to nothingness. Foreign, incomprehensible men were watching the two lights—men whom, could she have crossed the sea and listened to them, she would never have understood; and as for her— they couldn't have understood her either. So near they were to each other, the men and she, and yet as though a thousand miles apart! She had often thought about it; and now, behind the lights, she always imagined men and women and children, swarthy, quick, attentive, addressing each other in words whose meaning she would never know. Often she thought about them, and wondered how they looked.

“Have you ever been to France?” she asked.

“I've never been out of England,” said Sherwell: “not that I couldn't go; but this”—and he waved his pipe at the landscape—“this is good enough for me.”

“I've never been to France either,” said Jessie. “On clear days you can see it. I've often seen it: white cliffs like ours, and a town ina hollow. That's all I've ever seen.”

Neither of them had ever been to France.

An unexpected wave of generosity rose up in Sherwell. Why shouldn't they go? He had only spent a couple of his five sovereigns. Three of them were left—more than enough to take him and Jessie to France and back on the same day. He had seen the bills and posters advertising the trip: Folkestone and Boulogne—seven-and-six for the double journey. That was fifteen shillings, and they wouldn't have to spend much except for food and drink.

“Let's go there on Sunday,” he said, and his voice had in it a touch of exaltation.

Uncle John offered no objection; indeed, the outing had his very warm approval. “I'm a dull dog—you won't want me; two's company!” he cried, when Sherwell, as a matter of form, suggested that the three should make a day of it. So, on the Sunday, off they started, with a large packet of sandwiches to eat upon the way.

From Sandling Junction they took a train to Folkestone Central, then down the cliff to the harbour, where the mail-boat lay in readiness; and, actually, by noon they were steaming out to sea. It was the first time either of them had ventured on a ship, a big ship that sailed to foreign parts. The day was perfect, and the water hardly stirred; England grew smaller and smaller; the far shore rose out of the south—white cliffs, a city, Boulogne.

They were in France. For an hour they wandered in the strange French streets, and then, at an hotel, they ate a solid meal, and were astonished that the waiters all spoke English, quickly, without stopping for words. Jessie looked at them anxiously. Perhaps the men and women in the lighthouse could speak English too. But what surprised them most of all was that, though in England it was Sunday, everybody here was behaving as though it were the middle of the week, as though a Sunday never existed and never could exist. They went down to the sands and watched the people bathing—there were crowds of people bathing all through the afternoon. And close upon the sands were lots of outdoor cafés all packed with men and women who sat round little tables, They sat there openly and drank all kinds of drinks.

There were bright red drinks and bright green drinks, such as one sees in monster bottles with the gas behind in chemists' windows—only these were real drinks. They ordered two; Jessie a bright green one, and Sherwell a bright red. “Like these,” he said, pointing with his finger to drinks at neighbouring tables. The waiter understood him.

The drinks had come.

“Syrup,” said Sherwell, “What's yours like?”

“Peppermint,” said Jessie; and they exchanged.

He had a sip of hers, and she had a sip of his.

“It's like raspberry vinegar,” she said, handing the goblet back to him.

They went into the Casino, and were horribly bored. Sherwell bought picture-postcards, and anything that was offered him; they took a ride on a tram and came back by another; they spent all their French money, then wanted some to keep; they said little, but did no end of things. At seven o'clock they were on the boat again, and glad to be at rest.

The same moon that had drawn them out a couple of nights ago was on the waters as they crossed. They had decided that from Folkestone they would take the motor-bus to Hythe and walk the last two miles. The Channel was as calm as any lake, the air warm and still as the tranquil waters. It was a perfect evening, with mysterious lights disappearing behind them and appearing in front. The trailing moonlight turned from gold to silver, the pale stars showed faint upon a silken sky, spacious, phosphorescent, a mantle of lucent green shouldering shore and shore. Again Sherwell raised his voice and told of the warehouse in Bread Street, of his traveller, typist, and office-boy, and how he had resolved that certain things should happen and how those that were due had happened. He told her how he had put by money every year, investing it in four-per-cent. securities, till by now he was substantial and could even buy odd parcels on his own account.

“And in four years you'll marry,” said Jessie Tolputt, looking out across the sea.

He made no answer. It seemed almost as though he might reduce his terms and come down to three, or even two. A great loneliness seized upon him, and for the moment he felt cold.

“Let's walk a bit,” he said, and they strolled up and down the deck, his arm through hers. Very small he seemed of a sudden under the immense sky, its stars paled and effaced by an immense moon, with far-off lights twinkling whichever way he turned.

“I wonder what Uncle John's been doing all day,” he said, brightening.

Jessie had an idea, though even she was not so sure. Uncle John's Sundays varied so. There were some when he went to church, and read his weekly paper, and others when he stayed at home and cleaned all his pipes, passing feathers through them. “He often does that on Sundays,” she said—“sometimes feathers and sometimes string.”

“We're almost cousins—cousins-in-law,” was his next remark.

Again her eyes sought sky and water.

“How would you like to leave uncle John and come to live in London?” he pursued.

“I'd be quite lost in London.”

“Not if you had me to take care of you,” and he pressed the rounded arm within his own.

That too might happen, she thought. All seemed possible as she stood there in the moonlight, water all around, on the deck of the first ship that she had ever known. Perhaps in four years he might come for her; and at the thought a strangeness seized on Jessie, an expectancy like the expectancy that had come over her in Sandling Wood—something she could neither shape nor realise, something secret and obscure, that would only be revealed at its appointed hour. Four years hence, perhaps; four years from now, when he was thirty-five, as he had ordained in his proud mastery. And with that instant she felt herself as one who is sought out and consecrate, one set apart to serve a high novitiate before she could become the mate of such a man.

They were silent now; he with his arm through hers, she far away amid the beauty of the night, projecting herself through time, through space. Perhaps in four years she might be worthy of him. At least, she would try. They sat down again in a quiet part of the ship, and now his arm slid round her waist. She looked up at him once; her head fell on his shoulder, and she was content with the sea, the night, the air, and the mastery of his presence... So this was the shape and touch that might have come to her on a sudden on one of the narrow paths that twist and turn in Sandling Wood.

They came ashore at Folkestone Harbour, made for the Town Hall, and took the motor-bus to Hythe. It was full of lovers, young men and maidens sitting close and happy. A two-mile walk lay before them, and they faced it cheerfully, going by the road that leads from Hythe through Saltwood and then to Sandling Junction. They were a silent pair, but a blissful: and Sherwell's silence might be understood. Out of the night, the sea, and the stillness, a voice had come to him bidding him cast away his dream of the ideal, bidding him turn away from cold perfection and face reality and face nature, human, imperfect, as all real things must be. Why wait till he was thirty-five? Yes, that was the ideal; but was it life? Life was compromise, a splitting of differences, a meeting half-way. It was fine to ask two-and-eightpence a gross for his buttons and get two-and-eightpence; but most times he had gladly taken two-and- six or even two-and-five. Life was like that, imperfect, unideal. A truer perfection, a truer ideal, if seen aright! If accepted and understood ... to wait four more years, that would be magnificent; but was it Sherwell—was it himself?

They came to the last ascent, and then to the two meadows that faced the V-shaped break in Croy Wood and the silvered Channel. The French light blazed out and faded, and blazed and faded again. His arm stole round her as they looked upon it. The beauty of that place came home to them as they stood there. It was the sum of all they had seen that day, a total of serried loveliness and magic. As with the woman in Klinger's etching, its wizardry beat down their last reserve; and it had been with them for nigh upon three weeks.

His arm was close on her as they looked out upon it.

“You won't come back with me to London?” he said in a thin voice, not at all like the old confident voice wherewith he had impressed her.

Oh, I will!” she cried.

“Next year,” he said; “come back as my wife, Jessie.” And, at the words “my wife,” all his old pride and confidence returned upon him.

“But next year, Paul,” she answered gravely—“not next year?”

“Why not?” he asked. “There is nothing to prevent us.”

She stood away from him now. “But you said—you said” she began. A suspicion had crept in on her.

“What did I say?”

“That when you were thirty-five”

He understood her now.

“All that was nonsense,” said he. “I meant thirty-two. I didn't know that you'd be here, Jessie—that love was like this” He floundered; he was weak; he was explanatory.

“All that was nonsense!” she repeated after him—and at the words suspicion moved more close to certainty—“all that you've been saying?” and she looked at him. Had he then lied to her, played upon her inexperience, postured and pretended? Was he a sham, whose words were only air? He had filled hours with his doings, with his boastings, with his firmness and his strength; and, at the first test, he fell and was like other people. Less than other people. Weaker and more infirm than she!

There was a strangeness in her voice now. “You're not going to wait till you are thirty-five?” she asked abruptly.

“Not a day longer than I need. Next year, or even at Christmas,” he said hopefully.

“Was all you have said nonsense?” She was cold and far from him now, like one who sits in judgment.

“All,” he answered cheerfully.

She moved farther away.

“Oh, Paul!” she cried, and then began to sob.

He couldn't understand it; but with his answer he had swept away an ideal, a wizardry, a perfection. He who had been the compeller, the hero, the man who ordered and ordained—he who was like the sea, so cold, so merciless, so sure and irresistible—it was all nonsense! nonsense! He himself had said so.

Like a broken god he had fallen from his pedestal, was splintered, was ruined. She turned her back on him, on Croy Wood, on all that lay out there. She rose from her knees, so to speak. Nothing more impressed her: the splendour of the night—it was only wood and water and a little moonshine; sea-water and trees and the reflections from the sky! She turned her face inland, where the lights shone in the windows of Uncle John's cottage.... They at least were real—Uncle John, the cottage, the cosy rooms indoors.

It was all nonsense, she thought sadly—the four years, that high novitiate wherein she, chosen and set apart, had hoped

“You won't marry me?” said Paul Sherwell, at her elbow.

She moved towards the cottage.

He followed her, abashed and wondering what strange offence was his.

“You won't marry me?” he asked again.

“You! Oh no, Paul; I shall never marry you!”