Ransom

Contents

FACE

I. Illusion. 3

“ I am become a fool in glorying . .

Chapter I

He entered the town from the north. It had been characteristic of him to step from the car four miles out, where the road crested the Barbary Ridge, and to choose to walk the rest of the way, sending Sophie on alone. He was not quite sure how this return would affect him. That was strange, because there were few things of which James Brockenholt was not certain. He had left the Four Mile Clump on his left, and on his right the downs fell away to a distant haze of trees embroidering the gaunt hunch of Martinsell. The wide lands were curiously still, varnished with the late sun, the air cupped golden in the little valleys expectant for night’s release. The old road! The ring of his footsteps over the flint was a half-forgotten rhythm swaying through his brain. Twenty years ago! Well, it was a long time, when you came to think about it. Yet it seemed only yesterday that he’d made way over the downs on an evening just as this, running against the wind, knees bared, head down, panting in desperation because he must get back in time for Call. “ Sweating ” they’d call it. Running over this forsaken country-side for the good of your soul, so you could stomach forty minutes each way in 3

House Matches. How vivid his memory seemed all of a sudden. He was glad Sophie wasn’t with him. They hadn’t taught him much in the school. He could see now the red buildings and the chapel’s tender spire lifting into the golden air. No, they hadn’t taught him much, except — hardness. That was something. Almost everything. Now, he was coming back for the first time in twenty years. They knew he was coming too. His was the re¬ turn he desired. Sophie had always said his soul was made of red carpet. “ In that event,” he’d told her, “yours is generally post-dated.” That reminded him, Sophie would have to throttle Carlo down a bit if she was still hankering after Paris in the spring. Nevertheless, he hadn’t come down to the old school for her edification and he was going to enjoy himself. She’d have to behave.

The street was practically deserted. The grey houses slept either side of the tilted road. He stopped by the town hall to indulge his memory. He hadn’t meant to feel like this, but now, amid the half-forgotten surroundings, it seemed inevi¬ table. Yes, there was Tucker’s — same old name, same old shop: probably the same old buns, the ones with cream wedged in, that oozed out when you bit them, the sort you’d eaten on those days just before lunch — generally with two bars of chocolate. That made him laugh. Buns and chocolate! Half a crown a week was a fortune then. At the far end of the street he could see the twisted lane that ran up to the College. Turner’s Lane! Every day for those three years when he’d been at the school he’d swaggered down that cob¬ bled road, hands deep in his pockets, coat behind his arms. Even then he’d been a “ blood.” The smudge of grey hair over his temples and the lines cutting into his cheeks, running from eye-corner to mouth-corner, were the only additions to James Brockenholt at thirty-eight to the Black Brockenholt of eighteen with the towering height of him and sombre eyes. A grim kind of boy, dark and wilful and very proud, now, a monstrous sort of man. It made him smile to think how they’d hated him at the school: feared him. Now they were going to welcome him back, bend the knee to him, salute him with smooth sweet phrases. Twenty years ago! I can see myself, he thought, coming down this road. I can smell that old indescribable smell of the town. Even the air has scent of vivid recol¬ lection. It’s ridiculous of course, but somehow, I know chapel bell will go in a minute and I’ll have to run like hell to get through Gates. The empty street was full of memories. A black-coated, capped crowd of them tramped the pavements. They swayed past him, boys. The place was alive with them. Hundreds and hundreds, till the sound of their imagined steps and laughter and earnest chatter tugged at his memory. Against his will, he saw himself amongst them, walked that ghostly walk with them, slipped back down the years till he was eighteen again, quick as flame, on the threshold. He wasn’t accustomed to think like this. It was the sort of thing he’d disciplined him¬ self to avoid. There was nothing satisfactory in probing beneath the surface of things: he’d realized that long ago. Only now, for once indulging him¬ self, he felt again that dull ache deep inside, as if some creature of pain gnawed at his entrails.

It wasn’t all my fault, he thought; I didn’t want it that way. They made me hate them, because they hated me. He’d discovered at the school that element of his personality that had nearly always engendered fear in his companions, had developed it, learnt the use of it. It had been an asset. It had brought the thousands to him.

But, standing at the corner, the ghosts of his unhappy boyhood appeared more real than himself, than Sophie. He fought against the seething armies of them that thronged about him. He tried to thrust them away from him, knowing only too well what past bitterness they would bring for his torment. The years fell from him like leaves; he was here again, living through the intolerable ache of that time. Brockenholt of thirty-eight was for three minutes Brockenholt of eighteen. He saw himself, as it were, acting again that dismal part, and in the moment that joy and anguish filled him, even as it had done twenty years before. ... He was walking down the street, proud and very bold, the recipient of admiring glances from the smaller boys, of envy from his equals. He walked by himself, conscious of his splendid isolation, of his position, because every one knew what a devil of a chap he was. He was the only one of them who had the guts! Moreover, there was a warm glow all through him. He was a Cesare Borgia, a Romeo, a buck. . . . How they hated his fine bravado, his bold appearance. “ That’s ‘ Black Brocken¬ holt,’ ” this from tremulous new boys passing by. How envious they were! And then, and then . . . that other morning after he’d been caught! God, but it had been hard to look as if he didn’t care, didn’t want their sympathy. They’d delivered his luggage at the station. It was midterm. Nobody else was going away, only he was leaving. He’d told them all he didn’t care. He’d laughed their shy sympathy away. That had been the only thing to do — to laugh! But he had cared, he was caring now. No one had seen him off: that would have brought dishonour to some one. He was branded. Those sneering masters had scorched that name of ignominy on him. Every one knew. Every one felt ashamed of him in a sneaking way, when they would have done the same thing themselves — if they’d had the guts! He was striding out of the town with his head very high and his eyes very fierce to keep the shameful tears back. He wasn’t taking any notice of the cruel inquisitive glances, of the frightened smiles of pity. He was going up the Station Road, taking his ticket, getting into the empty carriage, watching the buildings sweep across the window, and seeing far off the fist of Four Mile Clump thrusting from the downs, receding, receding ... he was leaving, never coming back ... he was crying in a hard rasping way, sitting upright, his hands cold and loose by his sides, cry¬ ing bitterly for them to take him back, to give him another chance.

The sight of his car across the road brought him back to himself. Well, it was his innings now. What a fool he was making of himself, what a sentimental fool. It was funny! He shrugged his shoulders, and at the laughter against himself the memories died. He crossed the road to the Marlton Arms. His chauffeur met him on the steps, and touching his cap:

“ Everything’s in order, sir.”

“ Mr. Maude arrived?”

“ Not that I know of, sir.”

“ Miss Wontner inside?”

“ Yessir.”

He went in. The hotel had a queer fusty smell, repellent at first, but curiously suggestive of age. There were rusty velvet curtains across the hall. The wall-paper was yellow-grey, and above his head a gas flare spurted a ragged flame. He noticed the brasswork was bright and well kept. A door to his right bore the faded token “ Coffee Room.” Ahead he could see a regiment of shining bottles topping the bar-counter. There was a subdued murmur of voices in the house, overhead a bump¬ ing of luggage, orders being given, running foot¬ steps. From behind the curtain the landlord emerged, a short pumpkin of a man, his face very red, his eyes brightly greedy.

“ Good evening, Mr. Brockenholt, I hope you’ll find everything as you wish.”

So they were beginning to kiss his hands already! A servant girl thrust her head round the door of the coffee room, drank deep of the visitor’s hand¬ some figure, disappeared. He turned to see the clerk in the office gazing at him with wonderment on his face.

“ Everything as you wish — sir,” repeated the landlord.

“ It’s sixpence,” said Brockenholt deliberately, “ to watch the animals feed.”

“ Of course, sir.”

“ Can I get a drink?”

They pushed past the curtains and entered the bar. The girl in attendance was hustled aside. She regarded herself in the glass and patted her hair. She smiled at Brockenholt with a certain haughty disdain. She came from Swindon. She knew what was what, and how to carry yourself.

“ Good evening,” she said.

“ Martini,” said Brockenholt, and watched the colour stain her neck and cheeks. She turned to the glass for consolation. From that position she watched the wicked face of the visitor as he smiled at the landlord’s agitation in deliberating between the French and Italian vermouths.

“ We’ve no ice, I’m afraid, sir. I’m very sorry,” he apologized.

“ All right,” and then, “ you will join me?”

“ Thank you, Mr. Brockenholt, it would be a great pleasure. A small whisky, thank you.”

“ No. A large one! And the lady?”

The girl from Swindon primed her lips.

“ No, thank you. Not on duty.”

Brockenholt regarded her steadily. Little sparks of fire flickered at the back of his eyes. One corner of his mouth twitched, and he lifted an eyebrow. A little wrinkle of mockery curved across his cheek.

“ Of course you will,” he said.

She chose a cherry brandy.

“ If I may make so bold, sir,” said the landlord at the second gulp, “ I might say we’ve been await¬ ing your arrival with much interest, Mr. Brocken¬ holt. That’s so, isn’t it, Miss Serjeant?”

“ Of course,” replied Miss Serjeant of Swindon, and fingered the black bow around her pink and powdered neck.

“ We’ve heard naturally, Mr. Brockenholt, of your — your great generosity to the College. And as you know, sir, yourself, anything good for the College is good for the town. I may add, sir, that we’re very proud of the College, sir, as doubtless you know. The town prospers with the College, sir. We pride ourselves, Mr. Brockenholt, in being able to supply from time to time any little thing to gentlemen like yourself who was educated at the College.”

“ Naturally,” said Brockenholt. “ Matter of business. I’ll have a gin and orange, please, and of course-” he waved his hands towards them.

He regarded his glass, twisting the stem in his fingers.

“ I used to get breakfast here the last day of term.” He sipped his drink. “ It used to cost me five shillings,” he added dreamily. “ But you weren’t here then, of course.”

“ No, Mr. Brockenholt, I came here seven years ago. During the war.”

“ I see. I remember the town was the head¬ quarters of the Southern Command. I should imagine you did well?”

“ Very well, sir. As a man of business, you would appreciate that, Mr. Brockenholt.”

“ Yes,” said Brockenholt, “ I should appreciate that. I was in France at the time.”

Miss Serjeant picked up a cloth and polished the counter.

“ It must be most gratifying,” she remarked, “ for you to come back, Mr. Brockenholt, and to give the College such a beautiful gift.”

“ A man obviously wishes to show gratitude to those who taught ’im,” cut in the landlord.

Brockenholt replaced his glass on the counter and buttoned his coat.

“ I owe,” he said coldly, “ much to the institution that expelled me.”

There was a moment’s agonized silence.

“ Go on!” exclaimed Miss Serjeant at last.

“ She was rather like you,” said Brockenholt, and smiling brilliantly left the bar.

Sophie was in the coffee room, kneeling on a chair by the window, looking out onto the dusky road out¬ side. She thought the room was chilly. She’d never wanted to come down here. She’d told Jimmy so, three weeks ago.

“ I can’t see why you want to go down to that frowsy old place, anyway. It isn’t as if you’d cared about it. You’ve not been near it for twenty years, and as for your giving the school fifteen thousand towards the new sanatorium or whatever it is — it’s just a gesture, Jimmy. An extravagant way of getting your own back, because they chucked you out years back. Take me to Capri — we’ll have a party! Do you remember, Jimmy, the first time, at Capri, that long dusty summer? ...”

“ I know,” he’d interrupted. “ But I’m going down — and you’d better come too.”

“ Well, Carlo must come.”

“ All right.”

She was down here now, and didn’t like it. Carlo hadn’t come as yet, and it was just like Jimmy to get out of the car four miles out of the town and make her arrive alone. She’d pay him out. He was keeping her waiting now. A free wind swept the street, snatching at paper in the gutter, tossing it high; a cart rumbled over the hill into the sun¬ set; through the open window the sound of innumerable sheep-bells, tinkling on the distant downlands, twittered into the room. There was something so bare and desolate, even in late summer, about this big country, that made her feel empty and cold. All around the town, clustering in the elbow of the valley, the open spaces spread out to the cloudy horizons. They frightened her. She liked warmth and cat-cosiness, nooks and hot fires. The wind dropped as suddenly as it had arisen, and over the crooked chimney-pots opposite a necklace of clouds turned from purple to rose and gold. Carlo would never have dragged her down here. She wouldn’t have come for Carlo. Funny how she was always doing what Jimmy wanted; almost against her will, as it were.

Brockenholt, entering the room quietly, standing behind her, surveying her with half-shut eyes. She’s angry, he thought. He moved to her side, and as she turned her head slowly, her eyes hard behind their long dark lashes:

“ Well?” he asked.

“ It’s a rotten place!”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“ There’s some dinner for us in the room down the passage. Or do we wait for Carlo?”

“ Oh! damn Carlo!” she said; “ let’s go and feed. I’m famished.”

But at the end of the meal, a cigarette wedged between her tight little red lips, her red short hair in a shock about her head, and her hands clasped under her chin, she asked suddenly:

“ Jimmy, what’s the matter with you?”

He shook the mood off him.

“ Nothing, Sophie.”

She dabbed the lighted end of her cigarette into the ash-tray.

“ Jimmy,” she said, “ let’s go back. We’ll leave a message for Carlo.”

He shook his head.

“ No. We’ll see this through, Sophie. They expect me up at the school tomorrow to make a formal presentation.”

She reached out and laid a cool hand on his.

“ You’re getting reminiscent, Jimmy. Maudlin. ‘ How innocent I was when I was young.’ The place is getting on your nerves. I know you.”

He took her forefinger in his hand and flicked at the nail.

“ Yes, you know me, Sophie. Nobody else does. I’d like to explain to you, but I don’t think I can. Things come back.”

“ Good Lord, man. That’s not you.”

“ Oh, I know that. But you’d not understand. It’s not quite that. Only — I was very happy here, then, sometimes. One’s quit of the place now, really, but I stood this evening and looked down this street. I was there, Sophie, walking about, watching myself. It was a girl, you know. I can’t even remember her name, but she kept a tobacco shop just opposite here. I never cared — much for the creature, and I’m quite sure she never cared — much for me. I used to go into her shop, because it was out of bounds. I used to take her out on to the downs, because it was forbidden. You know the sort of thing. Very silly. Very futile. Really, to all intents and purposes, perfectly harmless. One did it because one had the guts to do it, and it made you feel a man. Con¬ ceit. They caught me kissing her. That being a heinous crime, they expelled me. It was the best thing they ever did. It made me hard.”

She took her hand off his and folded her arms, leaning on the table. She’d seen him once or twice before like this. There was a lot of the beast in him. That side she understood. She held him by that knowledge. She knew men, did Sophie. Her wisdom was her means of livelihood. But when Jimmie got “ soft ” she felt herself losing touch with him. You’d got to be hard. You’d got to choke those sentimental, almost unbusinesslike, emotions. You’d got to live. So she said:

“If I, Jimmy, let myself go back along the past it would be like walking down a red-hot cindertrack with bare feet.”

He smiled at last.

“ You’re wonderful, Sophie.”

“ I’m not wonderful,” she replied. “ I’m just in control of myself. I hate sloppiness. You wouldn’t like me, if I wasn’t what I am.”

“ You’re a monkey, Sophie. You never had a heart, you little beast.”

“ It’s a hindrance,” said she. “ But go on, Jimmy, work it off.”

Night filled the valleys miles out, flooded along the little town’s wide street; the windows of the room were indistinct blurred squares. The half-light encircled them, and out of that between-time glow, Brockenholt told her:

“ That’s why I got out of the car at Barbary. There were two reasons: I didn’t want you to see me — coming into the town; and the idea of the great man entering on foot appealed to me. Oh, yes, I’m being frank. But honest to God, Sophie, I didn’t know it would be quite so bad. I was here again, leaving the place. Men love their schools, Sophie. I loved mine. I was back on that morning, when I was leaving. I didn’t know then that years after I’d laugh at my expulsion and other men ’ud laugh too. They told me then that I was a beast. God knows what for. When there’s a girl ... I thought then I was done for. I was so damn proud, and it hurt. I came down this very road outside red-hot with anger and shame. I’d got to go back to my people and tell ’em. That can be pretty hard. I stood on the station waiting for the train, and I swore then that I’d come tack one day and they’d shake me by the hand. They made me hard, Sophie, those learned canting masters; it was their only gift to me, and the only one of their giving worth acceptance. But — they took something away.”

He rose to his feet and stood by the window.

“ They took something away. God knows what it was. God knows if it matters. But I’m hungry, Sophie, hungry for something.”

She lit another cigarette, and blew out the flame of the match.

“ I’m not laughing at you, Jimmy, but you’re too damn funny for words.”

“ I know I am,” he said; “ what’s the matter with me, Sophie?” He stepped beside her, and laid two immense hands on her shoulders, and shook her gently. “ Tell me, Sophie,” he said, “ tell me, you witch.”

“ Poor old sinner,” she murmured and, bending back her head, turned her mouth upwards to his.

But he left her then.

“ You don’t mind, girl? I want to walk this off. Carlo will arrive soon. I’ll be back by ten.”

“ I don’t want to be left, Jimmy.”

Something of his customary brusqueness returned to him. He scowled down at her from his great height.

“ You’ll be all right,” he said, and went.

It was dark outside. Half a dozen lamps were alight in the street. Windows were yellow. A public-house opposite suddenly filled with noise. A man rode past with a clatter of hoofs and rattled out of sight. The sparks of their cigarettes dotting the darkness, a group of young loiterers were stand¬ ing at a corner, chipping the servant-girls swinging past, whistling, cat-calling softly. Only the old buildings above watched with rheumy shuttered eyes, nodding through the night, waiting for the moon to swim over them, for dawn’s grey pencilling on the sky, for sunlight again. Day after day, night after night, standing patiently by strength of their old timbers.

He took the road to the Common, till at the top of the hill he could see the clustering lights of the town, and the glow of it eating into the dark. He stood there, watching, with a feeling of great desolation. The road that ran beneath him slipped away into the dim recesses of the downs. The leaves of a group of trees, near by, shivered dismally. The night flowed about him. He was in a semi-luminous world of his own. Dis¬ tantly, the College bell clanged for chapel. He fled from the mockery of it along the road, walking quickly, till his footsteps suddenly became silent on turf. Now the sound of the town was gone. Now only the wind upon the grass rustled quietly like the sea heard from a cliff. A silver radiance spread from a wall of cloud ahead of him, widening, painting the downs with high lights, cutting out the shapes of trees and bushes on either side, till he could see the Hackpen Hill, seven miles away, flung like an Ethiopian’s arm across the horizon. But his eyes were blinded by his thoughts and he walked on till the lifting slope of Hackpen Hill lessened his pace. He stopped, sat down on a sarcen stone and lit a pipe. Tomorrow he must go in all his glory and be thanked formally for his gift to the school. He wondered what form the ceremony would take. At least it would be amus¬ ing to patronize the Head and his learned colleagues: to hear their thanks, to receive it casually, to — to shock them a little. He hoped Sophie wouldn’t behave too outrageously. You never could tell what she’d say or do next and there was a week to put in down here. Besides, there was Carlo to account for. Certainly Carlo had had to come. Unattached females were not looked upon too favourably, he imagined, by the upholders of the monastic code that ruled the place. He didn’t want to do anything that might be just beyond the limit of decorum. That wasn’t done. Neverthe¬ less, the idea of Carlo acting the part of chaperon was funny. Carlo, who just hadn’t the money or the way with him to steal Sophie, who had held on to hope of that for years. Well, he wasn’t afraid of Carlo. As for Sophie ... he could manage herl

He’d never forgotten what Sophie had once told him.

“ A woman’ll love a man, Jimmy, for all the kicks he gives her, and go on loving him and then some. But if ever the breaking point is reached, then as she’s loved him she’ll hate him. She’ll cut him out of her heart. That’s true, Jimmy, but it doesn’t affect us. We’re not in love.”

No, he didn’t love Sophie and he supposed she didn’t love him in the accepted sense of the word. But she carried her clothes well. She suited him. She was a good companion. “ I’m a splendid clothes-horse,” she’d informed him, “ but the rate for hanging clouts on my line is very high.” Well, he could afford it — easily. But as for love . . . that was life’s three-card trick: you never spotted the queen. Wise men didn’t waste time on tricks. That chaotic absurd embroiling of emotions that he and the tobacco-girl had had! You saw what that did for you, easily enough. A fit reward for fools. Women, as a class, were different. They were . . . women. Either they had children, and grew hag¬ gard producing, or else they remained charming — and amusing. An expensive amusement, per¬ haps. Of that crowd, the only crowd, Sophie was the pick of the bunch. She was straight. She’d never let you down. She knew the rules and kept them. She was as hard as nails and she wasn’t cheap. Yet — yet down here, in this queer country, one realized — it was well to be honest though it made you laugh at yourself — that somehow, some¬ where, there was a vacuum. One wanted something terribly badly. You’d give much for it, you’d fight to get it. You wanted it like the devil. But that didn’t help you to find out what it was. If I knew, he thought, I’d get it. And that was no vanity on his part. He spoke truth. When he saw, he took.

So far he had taken everything he wanted. That was why at thirty-eight he was, practically speaking, Lingfields Limited. He’d gone into the motor trade at nineteen: learning his work in the shops, greedy for knowledge, for power, sacrificing him¬ self. He was like a thousand other men of his stamp: hard in work; soft in pleasure. He knew the business of both pursuits from top to bottom. Caught in the war, he’d turned his abilities to the new task in hand, and within six months of joining up had gained his majority. Nineteenseventeen had seen him as Colonel Brockenholt, in charge of the transport at Abbeville. From that experience had come Lingfields. “ Carter Paterson on the grand scale ” he’d called it. The network of commercial motor-transport was already estab¬ lished in the Midlands. “ We don’t strike ” was his token. It didn’t worry him that Carlo Maude had started Motor-Transport in opposition. Carlo was too polished, too immaculate, like his syndicate. The public followed Brockenholt.

He made his way back to the town rapidly. As he reached the Common, a light sprang up in a top window of an isolated cottage. The sudden flash caught his eye and he looked up. A girl stood in the window, her fair hair, loose over her shoulders, was luminous before the candlelight. He could see her hands on the sill. He stopped in the shadow of the hedge and watched her. He had an eye for pretty women. But this girl wasn’t only pretty, her mouth was too wide for that, and her forehead too high. Her eyes he couldn’t see, but he knew they were fixed on the far dark ridge of Barbary. He was. not a romanticist, his imagination with women generally ran in a typical groove; nevertheless, there was something indefi¬ nitely beautiful about the girl; something fey, tantalizing. He knew she was lovely. It wasn’t his custom to watch women under such circum¬ stances. That was crude. But he watched this girl, who had suddenly come into being in the night. It was charming, an experience worth remembrance. He never forgot that first glimpse of Isabel. The light flickered, she moved, was gone — darkness.

When he reached the hotel Carlo had arrived. He was drinking whisky in the coffee room, and making inadequate love to Sophie.

“ Hallo, Brock,” he said. “ Been getting senti¬ mental, I hear. Sophie says the roses round the door have hit you badly.” He lowered his eyes before Brockenholt’s sudden thunderous glance, and examined the tips of his beautifully manicured nails.

“ I’m off to bed,” said Sophie, and left the room.

Maude stretched himself and twisted his wrist round to see the time.

“ Night-night, Brock. We’ll wake up this giddy town tomorrow.”

Brockenholt lit his candle.

“ Night-night, Brock.”

“ Look here,” said that large friend of his, “ you’re going to behave yourself down here, Carlo.”

Maude yawned.

“ I’ll do as I’m told, Brock. But we ought to sample the country wenches.”