Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  The hours passed, the white sheets were covered and flung aside. Dimly through a haze, he saw Clare standing in the doorway.

  “Bad old boy!”

  He scarcely glanced up. “I’m not coming yet — caught by work.”

  “Don’t be at it too late.”

  He made no reply.

  She closed the door softly behind her.

  CHAPTER V

  THE IN-BETWEENS

  I

  Then, out of the wind and rain, came Mr. Zanti.

  II

  Three days after Peter’s visit to Brockett’s he was finishing a letter before dressing for dinner. He and Clare were going on to a party later in the evening but were dining quietly alone together first. The storms that had fallen upon London three days before were still pommelling and buffeting the city, the trees outside the window groaned and creaked with a mysterious importance as though they were trying to tell one another secrets, and little branches tapped at the dripping panes. He was writing in the little drawing-room — warm and comfortable — and the Maria Theresa, so small a person in so much glory, looked down on him from her silver frame and gave him company.

  Then Sarah — a minute servant, who always entered a room as though swept into it by a cyclone — breathlessly announced that there was a gentleman to see Mr. Westcott.

  “‘E’s drippin’ in the ‘all,” she gasped and handed Peter a very dirty bit of paper.

  Peter read:— “Dear Boy, Being about to leave this country on an expedition of the utmost importance I feel that I must shake you by the hand before I go. Emilio Zanti.”

  Mr. Zanti, enormous, smiling from ear to ear, engulfed in a great coat from which his huge head, buffeted by wind and rain — his red cheeks, his rosy nose, his sparkling eyes — stood out like some strange and cheerful flower — filled the doorway.

  He enfolded Peter in his arms, pressed him against very wet garments, kissed him on both cheeks and burst into a torrent of explanation. He was only in London for a very few days — he must see his dearest Peter — so often before he had wanted to see his Peter but he had thought that it would be better to leave him — and then he had heard that his Peter was married — well, he must see his lady — it was entirely necessary that he should kiss her hand and wish her well and congratulate her on having secured his “own, own Peter,” for a life partner. Yes, he had found his address from that Pension where Peter used to live; they had told him and he had come at once because at once, this very night, he was away to Spain where there was a secret expedition — ah, very secret — and soon — in a month, two months — he would return, a rich, rich man. This was the adventure of Mr. Zanti’s life and when he was in England again he, Mr. Zanti, would see much of Peter and of his beautiful wife — of course she was beautiful — and of the dear children that were to come —

  Here Peter interrupted him. He had listened to the torrent of words in an odd confusion. The last time that he had seen Mr. Zanti he had left him, sitting with his head in his hands sobbing in the little bookshop. Since then everything had happened. He, Peter, had had success, love, position, comfort — the Gods had poured everything into his hands — and now, to his amazement as he sat there, in the little room opposite his huge fantastic friend he was almost regretting all those glorious things that had come to him and was wishing himself back in the dark little bookshop — dark, but lighted with the fire of Mr. Zanti’s amazing adventures.

  But there was more than this in his thoughts. As he looked at Mr. Zanti, at his wild black locks, his flaming cheeks, his rolling eyes, his large red hands, he was aware suddenly that Clare would not appreciate him. It was the first time since his marriage that there had been any question of Clare’s criticism, but now he knew, with absolute certainty, that Mr. Zanti was entirely outside Clare’s range of possible persons. For the first time, almost with a secret start of apprehension, he knew that there were things that she did not understand.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “that my wife is dressing. But when you come back you shall meet of course — that will be delightful.” And then he went on— “But I simply can’t tell you how splendid it is to look at you again. Lots of things have happened to me since I saw you, of course, but I’m just the same—”

  Whilst he was speaking his voice had become eager, his eyes bright — he began to pace the room excitedly —

  “Oh, Zanti! ... the days we used to have. I suppose the times I’ve been having lately had put it all out of my head, but now, with you here, it’s all as though it happened yesterday. The day we left Cornwall, you and I — the fog when we got to London ... everything.” He drew a great breath and stood in the middle of the room listening to the rain racing down the pipes beyond the dark windows.

  Mr. Zanti, getting up ponderously, placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders.

  “Still the same Peter,” he said. “Now I know zat I go ‘appy. Zat is all I came for — I said I must zee my Peter because Stephen—”

  “Stephen—” broke in Peter sharply.

  “Yes, our Stephen. He goes with me now to Spain. He is now, until to-night, in London but he will not come to you because ‘e’s afraid—”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes ’e says you are married now and ‘ave a lovely ‘ouse and ’e says you ‘ave not written for a ver’ long time, and ’e just asked me to give you ’is love and say that when ’e comes back from Spain, per’aps—”

  “Stephen!” Peter’s voice was sharp with distress. “Zanti, where is he now? I must go and see him at once.”

  “No, ’e ‘as gone already to the boat. I follow ’im.” Then Mr. Zanti added in a softer voice— “So when he tell me that you ‘ave not written I say ‘Ah! Mr. Peter forgets his old friends,’ and I was zorry but I say that I will go and make sure. And now I am glad, ver’ glad, and Stephen will be glad too. All is well—”

  “Oh! I am ashamed. I don’t know what has come over me all this time. But wait — I will write a note that you shall take to him and then — when he comes back from Spain—”

  He went to his table and began to write eagerly. Mr. Zanti, meanwhile, went round the room on tip-toe, examining everything, sometimes shaking his huge head in disapproval, sometimes nodding his appreciation.

  Peter wrote:

  Dear, Dear Stephen, — I am furious, I hate myself. What can I have been doing all this time? I have thought of you often, but my marriage and all the new life have made me selfish, and always I put off writing to you because I thought the quiet hour would come to me — and it has never come. But I have no excuse — except that in the real part of myself I love you, just the same as ever — and it will be always the same. I have been bewildered, I think, by all the things that have happened to me during this last year — but I will never be bewildered again. Write to me from Spain and then as soon as you come back I will make amends for my wickedness. I am now and always, Your loving Peter.

  Mr. Zanti took the letter.

  “How is he?” asked Peter.

  “I found ’im — down in Treliss. He wasn’t ‘appy. ’E was thinking of that woman. And then ’e was all alone. ’E got some work at a farm out at Pendragon and ’e was just goin’ there when I came along and made ’im come to Spain. ’E was thinkin’ of you a lot, Peter.”

  Mr. Zanti cast one more look round the room. “Pretty,” he said. “Pretty. But not my sort of place. Too many walls — all too close in.”

  In the hall he said once more — a little plaintively: —

  “I should like to see your lady, Peter,” and then he went on hurriedly, “But don’t you go and disturb her — not for anything — I understand....”

  And, with his finger on his lip, wrapt in the deepest mystery, he departed into the rain.

  As the door closed behind him, Peter felt a wave of chill, unhappy loneliness. He turned back into the cheerful little hall and heard Clare singing upstairs. He knew that they were going to have a delightful little dinner, that, afterwards, they would be at
a party where every one would be pleased to see them — he knew that the evening in front of him should be wholly charming ... and yet he was uneasy. He felt now as though he ought to resign his evening, climb to his little room and work at “The Stone House.” And yet what connection could that possibly have with Mr. Zanti?

  His uneasiness had begun, he thought, after his visit to Brockett’s. It seemed to him as he went upstairs to dress that the world was too full of too many things and that his outlook on it all was confused.

  Throughout dinner this uneasiness remained with him. Had he been less occupied with his own thoughts he would have noticed that Clare was not herself; at first she talked excitedly without waiting for his answers — there were her usual enthusiasms and excitements. Everything in the day’s history had been “enchanting” or “horrible,” as a rule she waited for him to act up to her ecstasies and abhorrencies; to-night she talked as though she had no audience but were determined to fill up time. Then suddenly she was silent; her eyes looked tired and into them there crept a strange secret little shudder as though she were afraid of some thought or mysterious knowledge. She looked now like a little girl who knew, that to-morrow — the inevitable to-morrow — she must go to the dentist’s to be tortured.

  The last part of the meal was passed in silence. Afterwards she came into his study and sat curled upon the floor at his feet watching him smoke.

  She thought as she looked up at him, that something had happened to make him younger. She had never seen him as young as he was to-night — and then because his thoughts were far away and because her own troubled her she made a diversion. She said: —

  “Who was that extraordinary man you were talking to this evening?”

  He came back, with a jerk, from Stephen.

  “What man?”

  “Why the man with all the black hair and a funny squash hat. I saw Sarah let him in.”

  “Ah, that,” said Peter, looking down at her tenderly, “that was a great friend of mine.”

  She moved her head away.

  “Don’t touch my hair, Peter — it’s all been arranged for the party. A friend of yours? What! That horrible looking man? Oh! I suppose he was one of those dreadful people you knew in the slums or in Cornwall.”

  Peter saw Mr. Zanti’s dear friendly face, like a moon, staring at him, and heard his warm husky voice: “Peter, my boy....”

  He moved a little impatiently.

  “Look here, old girl, you mustn’t call him that. He’s one of the very best friends I’ve ever had — and I’ve been rather pulled up lately — ever since that night you sent me to Brockett’s. I’ve felt ashamed of myself. All my happiness and — you — and everything have made me forget my old friends and that won’t do.”

  She laughed. “And now I suppose you’re going to neglect me for them — for horrid people like that man who came to-night.”

  Her voice was shaking a little — he saw that her hands were clenched on her lap. He looked down at her in astonishment.

  “My dear Clare, what do you mean? How could you say a thing like that even in jest? You know—”

  She broke in upon him almost fiercely— “It wasn’t jest. I meant what I said. I hate all these earlier people you used to know — and now, after our being so happy all this time, you’re going to take them up again and make the place impossible—”

  “Look here, Clare, you mustn’t speak of them like that — they’re my friends and they’ve got to be treated as such.” His voice was suddenly stern. “And by the way as we are talking about it I don’t think it was very kind of you to tell me nothing at all about poor Norah’s being so ill. She asked you to tell me and you never said a word. That wasn’t very kind of you.”

  “I did speak to you about it but you forgot—”

  “I don’t think you did — I am quite sure that I should not have forgotten—”

  “Oh, of course you contradict me. Anyhow there’s no reason to drag Norah Monogue into this. The matter is perfectly clear. I will not have dirty old men like that coming into the house.”

  “Clare, you shall not speak of my friends—”

  “Oh, shan’t I? When I married you I didn’t marry all your old horrid friends—”

  “Drop it, Clare — or I shall be angry—”

  She sprang to her feet, faced him. He had never in his life seen such fury. She stood with her little body drawn to its full height, her hands clenched, her breast heaving under her white evening dress, her eyes glaring —

  “You shan’t! You shan’t! I won’t have any of them here. I hate Cornwall and all its nasty people and I hate Brockett’s and all those people you knew there. When you married me you gave them all up — all of them. And if you have them here I won’t stay in the house — I’ll leave you. All that part of your life is nothing to do with me. Nothing — and I simply won’t have it. You can do what you like but you choose between them and me — you can go back to your old life if you like but you go without me!”

  She burst from the room, banging the door behind her. She had behaved exactly like a small child in the nursery. As he looked at the door he was bewildered — whence suddenly had this figure sprung? It was some one whom he did not know. He could not reconcile it with the dignified Clare, proud as a queen, crossing a ball-room or the dear beloved Clare nestling into a corner of his arm-chair, her face against his, or the gentle friendly Clare listening to some story of distress.

  The fury, the tempest of it! It was as though everything in the room had been broken. And he, with his glorious, tragical youth felt that the end of the world had come. This was the conclusion of life — no more cause for living, no more friendship or comfort or help anywhere. Clare had said those things to him. He stood, for ten minutes there, in the middle of the room, without moving — his face white, his eyes full of pain.

  Sarah came to tell him that the hansom was there. He moved into the hall with the intention of sending it away; no party for him to-night — when, to his amazement he saw Clare coming slowly down the stairs, her cloak on, buttoning her gloves.

  She passed him without a word and got into the hansom. He took his hat and coat, gave the driver the address, and climbed in beside her.

  Once as they drove he put out his hand, touched her dress and said— “Clare dear—”

  She made no reply, but sat looking, with her eyes large and black in her little white face, steadfastly in front of her.

  III

  Lady Luncon was a rich, good-natured woman who had recently published a novel and was anxious to hear it praised, therefore she gave a party. Originally a manufacturer’s daughter, she had conquered a penniless baronet — spent twenty years in the besieging of certain drawing-rooms and now, tired of more mundane worlds, fixed her attention upon the Arts. She was a completely stupid woman, her novel had been exceedingly vulgar, but her good heart and a habit of speaking vaguely in capital letters secured her attention.

  When Clare and Peter arrived people were filling her drawing-rooms, overflowing on to the stairs and pouring into the supper room. Some one, very far away, was singing “Mon coeur s’ouvre a ta voix,” a babel of voices rose about Clare and Peter on every side, every one was flung against every one; heat and scent, the crackle and rustle of clothes, the soft voices of the men and sharp strident voices of the women gave one the sensation of imminent suffocation; people with hot red faces, unable to move at all, flung agonised glances at the door as though the entrance of one more person must mean death and disaster.

  There were, Peter soon discovered, three topics of conversation: one was their hostess’ novel and this was only discussed when Lady Luncon was herself somewhere at hand — the second topic concerned the books of somebody who had, most unjustly it appeared, been banned by the libraries for impropriety, and here opinions were divided as to whether the author would gain by the advertisement or lose by loss of library circulation. Thirdly, there was a new young man who had written a novel about the love affairs of a crocus and a
violet — it was amazingly improper, full of poetry— “right back,” as somebody said “to Nature.” Moreover there was much talk about Form. “Here is the new thing in fiction that we are looking for ...” also “Quite a young man — oh yes, only about eighteen and so modest. You would never think....”

  His name was Rondel and Peter saw him, for a moment, as the crowds parted, standing, with a tall, grim, elderly woman, apparently his mother, beside him. He was looking frightened and embarrassed and stood up straight against the wall as though afraid lest some one should come and snatch him away.

  But Peter saw the world in a dream. He walked about, with Clare beside him, and talked to many people; then she was stopped by some one whom she knew and he went on alone. Now there had come back to him the old terror. If he went back, after this was over, and Clare was still angry with him, he did not know what he would do. He was afraid....

  He smiled, talked, laughed and, in his chest, there was a sharp acute pain like a knife. He had still with him that feeling that nothing in life now was worth while and there followed on that a wild impulse to let go, to fling off the restraints that he had retained now for so long and with such bitter determination.

  He wanted to cast aside this absurd party, to hurry home alone with Clare, to sit alone with her in the little house and to reach the divine moment when reconciliation came and they were closer to one another than ever before — and then there was the horrible suggestion that there would be no reconciliation, that Clare would make of this absurd quarrel an eternal breach, that things would never be right again.

  He looked back and saw Clare smiling gaily, happily, at some friend. He saw her as she had faced him, furiously, an hour earlier ... oh God! If she should never care for him again!

  He recognised many friends. There were the two young Galleons, Millicent and Percival, looking as important and mysterious as possible, taxing their brains for something clever to say....

  “Ah, that’s Life!” Peter heard Percival say to some one. Young fools, he thought to himself, let them have my trouble and then they may talk. But they were nice to him when he came up to them. The author of “Reuben Hallard,” even though he did look like a sailor on leave, was worth respecting — moreover, father liked him and believed in him — nevertheless he was just a tiny bit “last year’s sensation.” “Have you read,” said Percival eagerly, “‘The Violet’s Redemption’? It really is the most tremendous thing — all about a violet. There’s the fellow who wrote it over there — young chap standing with his back to the wall....”