by Hugh Walpole
There were voices and steps on the stairs.
“Ah, they are back from their party,” Henry Galleon said, trotting happily to the door. “Come up and have a chat with my wife, Westcott, before going to bed.”
CHAPTER III
THE ENCOUNTER
I
Peter was now the young man of the moment. He took this elevation with frank delight, was encouraged by it, gave it all rather more, perhaps, than its actual value, began a new novel, “The Stone House,” started weekly reviewing on The Interpreter and yielded himself up entirely to Clare Rossiter.
He had been in love with her ever since that first day at Norah Monogue’s, but the way that she gradually now absorbed him was like nothing so much as the slow covering of the rocks and the sand by the incoming tide. At first, in those days at Brockett’s, she had seemed to him something mysterious, intangible, holy. But after that meeting in Cheyne Walk he knew her for a prize that some fortunate man might, one day, win. He did not, for an instant, suppose that he could ever be that one, but the mere imagined picture of what some other would one day have, sent the blood rushing through him. Her holiness for him was still intact but for another there would be human, earthly wonders.
Then, curiously, as he met her more often and knew her better there came a certain easy, almost casual, intercourse. One Clare Rossiter still reigned amongst the clouds, but there was now too another easy, fascinating, humorous creature who treated him almost like Alice Galleon herself — laughed at him, teased him, provoked him ... suddenly, like a shadow across a screen, would slip away; and he be on his knees again before something that was only to be worshipped.
These two shapes of her crossed and were confused and again were parted. His thoughts were first worshipping in heaven, then dwelling with delight on witty, charming things that she had said.
For that man, when he came, there would be a most wonderful treasure.
Peter now lost his appetite. He could not sleep at night. He would slip out of his room, cross the silent Chelsea streets and watch her dark window. He cultivated Mrs. Rossiter and that massive and complacent lady took it entirely to herself. Indeed, nothing, at this time was more remarkable than the little stir that Peter’s devotion caused. It was perhaps that Clare had always had a cloud of young men about her, perhaps that Peter was thought to be having too wonderful a time, just now, to be falling in love as well — that would be piling Life on to Life! ... no one could live under it.
Besides Mrs. Rossiter liked him ... he was amazing, you see ... people said....
And the next stage arrived.
One May evening, at the Galleons’ house, when some one was playing the piano and all the world seemed to be sitting in corners Clare’s hand lay suddenly against his. The smooth outer curve of his hand lay against her palm. Their little fingers touched. Sheets of fire rose, inflamed him and fell ... rose again and fell. His hand began to shake, her hand began to shake. He heard, a thousand miles away, some one singing about “the morn.”
Their hands parted. She rose and slowly, her white dress and red-gold hair flung against a background that seemed to him black and infinite, crossed the room.
That trembling of her hand had maddened him. It suddenly showed him that he — as well as another — might run the race for her. Everything that he had ever done or been — his sentiments, his grossnesses, his restraints and his rebellions — were now concerned in this pursuit. No other human being — Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice — now had any interest for him. His reviews were written he knew not how, the editions of “Reuben Hallard” might run into the gross for all he cared, “The Stone House” lay neglected.
And he avoided seeing her. He was afraid to spoil that moment when her hand had shaken at the touch of his, and yet he was tormented by the longing for a new meeting that might provide some new amazement. Perhaps he would hold her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his own! And his heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a splendid terror.
Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy.
For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the room — the black bulk of Scaw House — the trees, the windows, his father....
And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in the town. He could get up and dress now — a cab would soon take him there ... in the early morning he could slink back.
Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared.
He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house....
And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey, shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him — Stephen, walking the road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and the scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew.
He would write to Stephen in the morning — he lay down and went to sleep.
By this time, meanwhile, Alice and Bobby had noticed. Alice, indeed, had a number of young men over whose emotions she kept guard and Peter had become, during these weeks, very valuable to her....
She did not want him to marry anybody — especially she did not want him to marry Clare. At breakfast, past Peter’s ears, as though he were not concerned at all, she talked to Bobby —
“Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare beyond all bounds—”
“Um?”
“He’s taking her with him up to Glasgow to that Congress thing. He knows perfectly well that she ought to stay with Mrs. Rossiter — and so does she.”
“Well, it’s no business of ours—” Bobby’s usual tolerant complacency.
“It is. Clare might be a fine creature if she didn’t let herself be spoiled in this way. She’s perpetually selfish and she ought to be told so.”
“We’re all perpetually selfish,” said Bobby who began to be sorry for Peter.
“Oh! no, we’re not. I’m very fond of Clare but I don’t envy the man who marries her. There’s no one in the world more delightful when she has her own way and things go smoothly, but they’ve wrapped her up in cotton wool to such an extent that she simply doesn’t know how to live out of it. She’s positively terrified of Life.”
This, as Alice had intended, was too much for Peter. He burst out —
“I think Miss Rossiter’s the pluckiest girl I’ve ever met. She’s afraid of nothing.”
“Except of being uncomfortable,” Alice retorted. “That frightens her into fits. Make her uncomfortable, Peter, and you’ll see—”
And, red in the face, Peter answered— “I don’t think you ought to talk of any one who’s so fond of you behind her back in that way—”
“Oh! I say just the same to her face. I’m always telling her these things and she always agrees and then’s just as selfish as ever. That absurd little father of hers has spoilt her!”
Spoilt! Clare spoilt! Peter smiled darkly. Alice Galleon — delightful woman though she was, of course couldn’t endure that another woman should receive such praise — Jealousy! Ah!...
And the aged and weighty author of “Reuben Hallard,” to whom the world was naturally an open book, and life known to its foundations, nodded to himself. How people, intelligent enough in other ways, could be so short-sighted!
Afterwards, when they were alone, Bobby took him in hand —
“You’re in love with Clare Rossiter, Peter,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” Peter answered defiantly.
“But you’ve known her so short a time!”
“What’s that to do with it?”
“Oh, nothing, of course. But do you think you’re the sort of people likely to get on?”
“Really, Bobby, I don’t—”
“I kno
w — none of my business — quite true. But you see I’ve known Clare pretty well all my life and you’re the best friend I’ve got, so you might allow me to take an interest.”
“Well, say what you like.”
“Nothing to say except that Clare isn’t altogether an easy problem. You’re like all the other fellows I know — think because Clare’s got red hair and laughs easily she’s a goddess — she isn’t, not a bit! She’s got magnificent qualities and one day perhaps, when she’s had a thoroughly bad time, she’ll show one the kind of things she’s made of. But she’s an only child, she’s been spoilt all her life and the moment she begins to be unhappy she’s impossible.”
“She shan’t ever be unhappy if I can help it!” muttered Peter fiercely.
Bobby laughed. “You’ll do your best of course, but are you the sort of man for her? She wants some one who’ll give her every kind of comfort, moral, physical and intellectual. She wants somebody who’ll accept her enthusiasms as genuine intelligence. You’ll find her out intellectually in a week. Then she wants some one who’ll give her his whole attention. You think now that you will but you won’t — you can’t — you’re not made that way. By temperament and trade you’re an artist. She thinks, at the moment, that an artist would suit her very well; but, in reality, my boy, he’s the very last sort of person she ought to marry.”
Peter caught at Bobby’s words. “Do you really think she cares about me?”
“She’s interested. Clare spends her days in successive enthusiasms. She’s always being enthusiastic — dreadful disillusions in between the heights. Mind you, there’s another side of Clare — a splendid side, but it wants very careful management and I don’t know, Peter, that you’re exactly the sort of person—”
“Thanks very much,” said Peter grimly.
“No, but you’re not — you don’t, in the least, see her as she is, and she doesn’t see you as you are — hence these misguided attempts on my part to show you one another.”
But Peter had not been listening.
“Do you really think,” he muttered, “that she cares about me?”
Bobby looked at him, laughed and shrugged his shoulders in despair.
“Ah! I see — it’s no use,” he said, “poor dear Peter — well, I wish you luck!”
And that was the end as far as Alice and Bobby were concerned. They never alluded to it again and indeed now seemed to favour meetings between Clare and Peter.
And now, through these wonderful Spring weeks, these two were continually together. The Galleons had, at first, been inclined to consider Clare’s obvious preference for Peter as the simplest desire to be part of a general rather heady enthusiasm. “Clare loves little movements....” And Peter, throughout this Spring was a little movement. The weeks went on, and Clare was not herself — silent, absorbed, almost morose. One day she asked Alice Galleon a number of questions about Peter, and, after that, resolutely avoided speaking of him. “Of course,” Alice said to Bobby— “Dr. Rossiter will let her marry any one she likes. She’ll have plenty of money and Peter’s going to have a great career. After all it may be the best thing.”
Bobby shook his head. “They’re both egoists,” he said. “Peter because he’s never had anything he wanted and Clare because she’s always had everything ... it won’t do.”
But, after all, when May gave place to burning June, Bobby and Alice were inevitably drawn into that romance. They yielded to an atmosphere that both, by temperament, were too sentimental to resist.
Nearer and nearer was coming that intoxicating moment of Peter’s final plunge, and Clare — beautiful, these weeks, with all the excitement of the wonderful episode — saw him as a young god who had leapt upon a submissive London and conquered it.
Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon played waiting chorus. Mrs. Launce from her little house in Westminster, was, as usual, glowing with a piece of other people’s happiness. Bobby and Alice had surrendered to the atmosphere. All were, of course, silent — until the word is spoken no movement must be made — the little god is so easily alarmed.
At last towards the close of this hot June, Mrs. Launce proposed to Clare a week-end at her Sussex cottage by the sea. She also told Peter that she could put him up if he chose to come down at the same time. What could be more delightful in this weather?
“Dear Clare, only the tiniest cottage as you know — no one else unless Peter Westcott happens to come down — I suggested it, and you can see the sea from your window and there’s a common and a donkey, and you can roll in the sand—” Mrs. Launce, when she was very happy betrayed her French descent by the delightful way that she rolled her r’s.
“Not a soul anywhere near — we can bathe all day.”
Clare would love to come so strangely enough would Peter— “The 5.30 train then — Saturday....” Dear Mrs. Launce in her bonnet and blue silk! Clare had never thought her so entirely delightful!
Peter, of course, plainly understood the things that dear Mrs. Launce intended. His confidence in her had been, in no way, misplaced — she loved a wedding and was the only person in the world who could bring to its making so fine a compound of sentiment and common sense. She frankly loved it all and though, at the moment, occupied with the work of at least a dozen women, and with a family that needed her most earnest care, she hastened to assist the Idyll.
Peter’s own feelings were curiously confused. He was going to propose to Clare; and now he seemed to face, suddenly, the change that this must mean to him. Those earlier months, when it had been pursuit with no certainty of capture had only shown him one thing desirable — Clare. But now that he was face to face with it he was frightened — what did he know of women?...
On the morning they were to go down, he sat in his room, this terrible question confronting him. No, he knew nothing about women! He had left his heroine very much alone in “Reuben Hallard” and those occasions when he had been obliged to bring her on the stage had not been too successful. He knew nothing about women!
There would be things — a great many — as a married man, he would have to change. Sometimes he was moody for days together and wanted to see no one. Sometimes he was so completely absorbed by his work that the real people around him were shadows and wraiths. These moods must vanish. Clare must always find him ready and cheerful and happy.
A dreadful sense of inadequacy weighed upon Peter. And then at the concrete fact of her actual presence, at the thought of her standing there, waiting for him, wanting him, his doubts left him and he was wildly, madly happy.
And yet, before he left the room, his glance fell on his writing-table. White against its shining surface lay a paper and on the top sheet, written: “The Stone House”; a Novel; Chapter II. Months ago — he had not touched it all these last weeks, and, at this moment he felt he would never write anything again. He turned away with a little movement of irritation....
That morning he went formally to Dr. Rossiter. The little man received him, smiling.
“I want to marry your daughter, sir,” said Peter.
“You’re very young,” said the Doctor.
“Twenty-six,” said Peter.
“Well, if she’ll have you I won’t stand in your way—”
Peter took the 5.30 train....
II
Mrs. Launce, on Sunday afternoon, from the door of her cottage, watched them both strike across the common towards the sea — Peter, “stocky,” walking as though no force on earth could upset his self-possession and sturdy balance, Clare with her little body and easy movement meant for this air and sea and springing turf. Mrs. Launce having three magnificent children of her own believed in the science of Eugenics heart and soul. Here, before her eyes, was the right and proper Union — talk about souls and spirit and temperament — important enough for the immediate Two — but give Nature flesh and bones, with cleanliness and a good straight stock to work on, and see what She will do!
Mrs. Launce went into the cottage again and prepared herself for an an
nouncement at tea-time. She wiped her eyes before she settled down to her work. Loving both of them the thought of their happiness hung about her all the afternoon and made her very tender and forgiving when the little parlourmaid arrived with a piece of the blue and white china smashed to atoms. “I can’t think ‘ow it ‘appened, Mum. I was just standing....”
Peter and Clare, crossing the common, beheld the sea at their feet. It was a hot misty afternoon and only the thin white line of tiny curling waves crept out of the haze on to the gleaming yellow sand. Behind them, on every side was common and the only habitation, a small cottage nearly hidden by a black belt of trees, on their right. These black, painted trees lay like a blot of ink against the blue sky.
Sitting down on the edge of the common they looked on to the yellow sand. The air was remorselessly still as though the world were cased in iron; somewhere deep within its silence, its heart might yet be beating, but the depths hid its reverberation.
Peter lay flat on his back and instantly his world was full of clamour. All about him insects were stirring, the thin stiff blades of grass were very faintly rustling, a tiny blue butterfly flew up from the soil into the bright air — some creature sang a little song that sounded like the faint melody of a spinet.
“All praising the Lord, I suppose—” Peter listened. “Hymn and glory songs and all the rest—” Then, clashing, out of the heart of the sky, the thought followed. “There must be a God” — the tinkling insect told him so.
He gazed into the great sheet of blue above him, so remote, so cruel ... and yet the tiny blue butterfly flew, without fear, into its very heart.
Peter’s soul was drawn up. He swung, he flew, he fled.... Down below, there on the hard, brown soil his body lay — dust to the dust — there, dead amongst the singing insects.... He looked down, from his great heights and saw his body, with its red face and its suit of blue and its up-turned boots, and here, in freedom his Soul exulted!
“Of course there is a God!”
They are praising him down there — the ground is covered with creatures that are praising Him. Peter buried his eyes and instantly his soul came swinging down to him, found his body again, filled once more his veins with life and sound. After a vast silence he could hear, once more, the life amongst the grass, the faint rustle of the thin line of foam beneath him, and could smell the earth and the scent of the seaweed borne up to them from the sand.