CHAPTER VI
THE SHOCK

George Trenchard’s study expressed, very pleasantly, his personality. The room’s walls were of a deep warm red, and covering three sides ran high book-cases with glass fronts; within these book-cases were beautiful new editions, ugly old ones, books, for the greater part, relating to his favourite period, all ranged and ordered with the most delicate care. The windows of the room were tall and bright even on dull and foggy days, the carpet soft and thick, the leather chairs large and yielding, the fireplace wide and shining. Most significant of all was his writing-table; upon this lay everything that any writer could possibly desire, from the handsomest of gold inkstands to the minutest of elastic bands. There was also here a little bust of Sir Walter Scott. Within this room George Trenchard knew, always, perfect happiness—a very exceptional man, indeed, that he could know it so easily. He knew it by the simple expedient of shutting off entirely from his consciousness the rest of mankind; his study door once closed, he forgot his family absolutely. No one was allowed to disturb or interrupt him; it was understood that he was at work upon a volume that would ultimately make another of that series that contained already such well-known books as “William Wordsworth and his Circle,” “Hazlitt—The Man in his Letters” and “The Life of Thomas de Quincey.” These had appeared a number of years ago; he had been indeed a young man when he had written them. It was supposed that a work entitled “The Lake Poets, a Critical Survey” would appear ‘Next Autumn’.

For some time now the literary schemes of the weekly journals had announced this. George Trenchard only laughed at enquiries: “It takes a damned long time, you know,” he said, “ ’tisn’t any use rushing the thing.” He enjoyed, however, immensely, making notes. From half-past nine in the morning until half-past one, behind his closed doors, he considered the early Nineteenth Century, found it admirable (Scott seemed to him the perfect type) took first one book, then another from his book-shelves, wrote a few lines, and before his fire imagined the Trenchards of that period, considered their food and their drink, their morals, their humour and their literature. Hazlitt’s essays seemed to him the perfection, not of English prose, but of a temporal and spiritual attitude. “Hang it all,” he would conclude, “we’re a rotten lot now-a-days.” He did not worry over this conclusion, but it gave him the opportunity of a superior attitude during the rest of the day when he joined the world. “If you knew as much about the early Nineteenth Century as I do,” he seemed to say, “you wouldn’t be so pleased with yourselves.” He did not, however, express his superiority in any unpleasant manner. There was never anyone more amiable. All that he wanted was that everyone should be happy, and to be that, he had long ago discovered, one must not go too deep. “Keep out of close relationships and you’re safe” might be considered his advice to young people. He had certainly avoided them all his life, and avoided them by laughing at them. He couldn’t abide “gloomy fellows” and on no account would he allow a ‘scene’. He had never lost his temper.

During the months that he spent at his place in Glebeshire he pursued a plan identically similar. He possessed an invaluable ‘factotum’, a certain James Ritchie, who took everything in a way of management off his hands. Ritchie in Glebeshire, Mrs. Trenchard and Rocket in London. Life was made very simple for him.

As has been said elsewhere, Katherine, alone of his family, had in some degree penetrated his indifferent jollity; that was because she really did seem to him to have some of the Early Nineteenth Century characteristics. She seemed to him (he did not know her very well) tranquil, humorous, unadventurous, but determined. She reminded him of Elizabeth Bennet, and he always fancied (he regarded her, of course, from a distance,) that she would make a very jolly companion. She seemed to him wiser than the others, with a little strain of satirical humour in her comment on things that pleased him greatly. “She should have been the boy, and Henry the girl,” he would say. He thought Henry a terrible ass. He was really anxious that Katherine should be happy. She deserved it, he thought, because she was a little wiser than the others. He considered sometimes her future, and thought that it would be agreeable to have her always about the place, but she must not be an old maid. She was too good for that. “She’d breed a good stock,” he would say. “She must marry a decent fellow—one day.” He delighted in the gentle postponement of possibly charming climaxes. His size, geniality and good appetite may be attributed very largely to his happy gifts of procrastination. “Always leave until to-morrow what ought to be done to-day” had made him the best-tempered of men.

After luncheon on the day that followed Philip’s tea with Aunt Aggie, George Trenchard retired to his study “to finish a chapter”. He intended to finish it in his head rather than upon paper, and it was even possible that a nap would postpone the conclusion; he lit his pipe and preferred to be comfortable—it was then that Rocket informed him that Mr. Mark had called, wished to see him alone, would not keep him long, apologised, but it was important.

“Why the devil couldn’t he come to lunch? What a time to appear!” But Trenchard liked Philip, Philip amused him—he was so alive and talked such ridiculous nonsense. “Of course he would see him!”

Then when Trenchard saw Philip Mark standing inside the room, waiting, with a smile half-nervous, half-friendly, the sight of that square, sturdy young man gave him to his own uneasy surprise a moment of vague and unreasonable alarm. George Trenchard was not accustomed to feelings of alarm; it was his principle in life that he should deny himself such things.