Then, having regarded me with lugubrious pessimism, he added that I had doubtless heard of Ronald Bayes’s death in action but that, with my social background, I could form no conception of what this loss meant to Sir Ronald and Lady Bayes. No conception whatever.
A prolonged pause—to enable me to dwindle to dwarf-like dimensions—then he added that Sir Ronald and Lady Bayes had lost their only child, consequently their long and most distinguished line had come to an end. It was understandable, therefore, that Sir Ronald and his wife wished to see no one.
The emphasis on the last two words made it plain that they did not wish to see even the head master.
This being so, he continued, it was most remarkable that they wanted to see me. In fact, inexplicable. However, that was their wish, so, the next day, a car would fetch me at about four o’clock and bring me back at six. He could only hope that I should prove equal to a situation demanding extreme delicacy.
After which, I was dismissed from the presence.
Although the motive for this invitation baffled the head master, it seemed certain to me that the Bayes wanted to know whether I had another drawing of Ronald. I felt so sure of this that I decided to take a sketch of him, in uniform, which I had done soon after we had dined together in London.
The car arrived, but the immaculate young chauffeur had evidently gone to the war, for a much older man was at the wheel. He said very little and sometimes, when I asked a question, his only reply was a despondent shake of the head.
When the car stopped in front of the castle-like edifice, I hoped he would give some advice, but, as he remained silent, I said:
“I shan’t know what to say to them.”
“It don’t matter what you say—or what any one says.”
As I followed the footman up the staircase, it shocked me to discover that nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it had always been and this made it impossible to believe that Ronald was dead.
I heard my name announced, then found myself with a man and a woman who were familiar yet strange. Familiar, because neither had altered superficially; strange, because an immense distance seemed to separate me from them.
They talked about ordinary things and it was only when my nervousness had lessened to some extent that I noticed how slowly Sir Ronald spoke, and how—whenever his wife was not looking at him—he glanced swiftly at her. She seemed as if she were impersonating herself and, more than once, he had to repeat a question before she replied.
After tea, he reminded me that the drawing I had given them of Ronald had been sent to an exhibition, but, possibly, I had another which they had not seen.
I said that I had—and that I had brought it with me and left it downstairs.
Instantly, she was on her feet, but he exclaimed:
“Not now! Later!
“No! Now!”
He made an odd movement with his hand, which I interpreted as a request to fetch the drawing, so, without saying anything, I hurried from the room.
When I returned, their attitudes were unchanged and I was certain they had not spoken. I stopped in the doorway, not knowing what to do.
Then he said to her:
“Later! Not now—later!”
I do not know how long we remained motionless, but at last I went towards them. As I came level with her, she took the drawing. For an instant, she looked at me, as if she had just realised who I was and wondered why I was there, then she glanced at the drawing. The next moment, she hurried from the room.
He stood, staring at the open door, then sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
I went slowly out of the room and silently down the stairs.
I never saw her again.
Years later, I met Sir Ronald in London. He was prematurely old and lived alone in a service flat.
At the end of the 1917 Easter holidays, I had a talk with Hilda which made it very clear that my parents’ backwater existence was about to be roughly disturbed.
Hilda was helping me to pack, when she suddenly asked if I were sorry the holidays were over and I told her I was not, because my parents had become so odd that it was impossible to ask any one to the house and that, one way and another, I dreaded the holidays and was thankful when they were over.
Then she asked if it ever occurred to me that she was with them all the time—and just what kind of a life did I think hers was? Before I could reply, she told me that she had been engaged for three years—had postponed her marriage twice—and that her young man was “properly fed up with the whole business.”
She ended by saying:
“It’s all right for you. You’ll leave school in a year and go to Paris to study. And what happens to me? I’m in a trap. If I say I want to leave, they make me feel like a criminal. They never seem to think that I’ve got a life to live just like any one else. Anyhow, one thing’s certain—things can’t go on as they are.”
I stared at her. It was difficult to reconcile this Hilda with the one who had remained static in my memory. I had never visualised her outside the setting in which I had always known her, consequently it was difficult to realise that she regarded that setting as a trap from which she was determined to escape.
“My mother keeps saying that I’ve got to make up my mind. She knew a girl who went into service with an old lady and got caught, good and proper. Didn’t want to stay—and daren’t leave. Anyway, I can’t go on much longer like this—and I’m not going to.”
I stayed awake most of that night trying to find a solution to this utterly unexpected problem, but the only result was to realise more fully than ever before how dependent my parents were on Hilda and how helpless they would be without her.
A day or two later, however, I had a conversation with Dr. Gandy which placed Hilda, and everything else, on an entirely new background.
The doctor had been visiting the house daily for some time and had often talked to me for a few minutes when he came downstairs but, on this occasion, he suggested that I should walk along the drive with him as there were certain facts which, in his opinion, I ought to know.
He began by asking some questions about my plans and I told him that I should leave school in a year, then go to Paris to study painting under Marcel Bon. I went on to say that the only thing troubling me was Hilda, who wanted to leave to get married, and I could not imagine what my parents would do without her.
“That makes what I have to say somewhat easier, Max. All the same, it will be a shock.”
After a pause, he asked:
“Have you ever thought that your parents might not live long?”
“I’ve thought that my mother might not—as she’s always ill and has been for years. But there’s nothing the matter with father, is there?”
He stopped, then said:
“It’s better to be frank. It’s unlikely that your father will live more than a few months. That has been my opinion for some weeks, but, unfortunately, it was confirmed by Sir Arthur Green, the eminent heart specialist. You remember he came here a week ago. I’m afraid we must face the fact that your father might die at any time and, if he does, I doubt if your mother would long survive him.”
A bird darted across the drive and I knew I should always remember its sudden flight—and the solitary cloud on the horizon—and our shadows which seemed to be whispering. But, above all, I should remember my horror at not being more horrified.
When I left the doctor, and walked back up the drive, I knew that our life here was over. Soon, I should leave this old rambling house and never see it again. Another family would live here. Perhaps another boy would wander in the terraced garden, cross the little bridge over the stream, climb the sloping orchard. Perhaps, on some May morning, he would walk down the twisting lane—till he reached the Empty House. Perhaps he would stand by the rusty gates and gaze at the tentacled creeper hiding the front door. Perhaps he would dream about the people who had once lived there and wonder why they had left.