The Wooden Horse

by Hugh Walpole

But a diligent application to the storehouses of his memory produced testimonials dragged, for the most part, from reluctant adherents which served to prove that Garrett Trojan was a great man and the head of a great family.

He would, however, like some definite act to prove conclusively that he was head. He had, at times, the unhappy suspicion that an outsider, regarding the matter superficially, might be led to conclude that Clare held command. He found that if he interfered at all in family matters this suspicion was immediately strengthened, and so he confined himself to his room and watered diligently the somewhat stinted crop of Illusions.

Nevertheless he felt the necessity of some prominent action that would still for ever his suspicions of incompetence, and would afford him a sure foundation on which to build his palace of self-complacency and personal appreciation. During his latter years he had regarded himself as his father's probable successor. Harry had seemed a very long way off in New Zealand, and became, eventually, an improbable myth, for Garrett had that happy quality bestowed on the ostrich of sticking his head into the sand of imagination and boastfully concluding that facts were not there. Harry was a fact, but by continuously asserting that New Zealand was a long way off and that Harry would never come back, Harry's existence became a very pleasant fairy-story, like nautical tales of the sea-serpent and the Bewitching Mermaid. They might be there, and it was very pleasant to listen to stories about them, but they had no real bearing on life as he knew it.

Harry's return had, of course, shattered this bubble, and Garrett had had to yield all hopes of eventual succession. He had, on the whole, borne it very well, and had come to the conclusion that succeeding his father would have entailed the performance of many wearisome duties; but that future being denied him, it was more than ever necessary to seize some opportunity of personal distinction.

The discussion as to the destruction of the Cove had seemed to offer him every chance of attaining a prominent position. The matter had grown in importance every day. Pendragon had divided into two separate and sharply-distinguished camps, one standing valiantly by its standard of picturesque tradition and its hatred of modern noise and materialism, the other asserting loudly its love of utility and progress, derisively pointing the finger of scorn at old-world Conservatism run mad and an incredible affection for defective drainage. Garrett had flung himself heart and soul (as he said) into the latter of these parties, and, feeling that this was a chance of distinction that fortune was not likely to offer him again in the near future, appeared frequently at discussions and even on one occasion in the Town Hall spoke.

But he was surprised and disappointed; he found that he had nothing to say, the truth being that he was much more interested in Garrett than in the Cove, and that his audience had come to listen to the second of these two subjects rather than the first. He found himself shelved; he was most politely told that he was not wanted, and he retired into his carpet-slippers again after one of those terrible quarters of an hour when he peeped past the curtain and saw a miserable, naked puppet shivering in a grey world, and that puppet was Garrett Trojan.

Then suddenly a second opportunity presented itself. Robin's trouble was unexpectedly reassuring. This, he told himself, was the very thing. If he could only prove to the world that he had dealt successfully with practical matters in a practical way, he need never worry again. Let him deal with this affair promptly and resourcefully, as a man of the world and a true Trojan, and his position was assured. He must obtain the letters and at once. He spent several pleasant hours picturing the scene in which he returned the letters to Robin. He knew precisely the moment, the room, the audience that he would choose—he had decided on the words that he would speak, but he was not sure yet as to how he would obtain the letters.

He thought over it for three days and came to no conclusion. It ought not to be difficult; the girl was probably one of those common adventuresses of whom one heard so often. He had never actually met one—they did not suit carpet-slippers—but one knew how to deal with them. It was merely a matter of tact and savoir-faire.

Yes, it would be fun when he flourished the letters in the face of the family; how amazed Clare would be and how it would please Robin!—and then he suddenly awoke to the fact that time was getting on, and that he had done nothing. And, after all, there were only two possible lines of action—to write or to seek a personal interview. Of these he infinitely preferred the first. He need not leave his room, he could direct operations from his arm-chair, and he could preserve that courtesy and decorum that truly befitted a Trojan. But he had grave fears that the letter would not be accepted; Robin's had been scorned and his own might suffer the same fate—no, he was afraid that it must be a personal interview.

He had come to this conclusion reluctantly, and now he hesitated to act on it; she might be violent, and he felt that he could not deal with melodrama. But the thought of ultimate victory supported him. The delicious surprise of it, the gratitude, the security of his authority from all attack for the rest of his days! Ah yes, it was worth it.