by Hugh Walpole
There was also with them young Tony Gale who was a friend of Alice Galleon. He was nice-looking, eager and enthusiastic. Rather too enthusiastic, Peter, who did not like him, considered. Full of the joy of life; everything was “topping” and “ripping.” “I can’t understand,” he would say, “why people find life dull. I never find it dull. It’s the most wonderful glorious thing—”
“Ah, but then you’re so young,” he always expected his companions to say; and the thing that pleased him most of all was to hear some one declare— “Tony Gale’s such a puzzle — sometimes he seems only eighteen and then suddenly he’s fifty.”
It was rumoured that he had once been in love with Alice Galleon when she had been Alice du Cane — and that they had nearly made a match of it; but he was certainly now married to a charming girl whom he had seen in Cornwall and the two young things were considered delightful by the whole of Chelsea.
Tony Gale had with him a man called James Maradick whom Peter had met before and liked. Maradick was forty-two or three, large, rather heavy in build and expression and very taciturn. He was in business in the city, but had been drawn, Peter knew not how, into the literary world of London. He was often to be found at dinner parties and evening “squashes” silent, observant and generally alone. Many people thought him dull, but Peter liked him partly because of his reserve and partly because of his enthusiasm for Cornwall. Cornwall seemed to be the only subject that could stir Maradick into excitement, and when Cornwall was under discussion the whole man woke into sudden stir and emotion.
To-night, with his almost cynical observance of the emotions and excitement that surged about him, he seemed to Peter the one man possible in the whole gathering.
“Look here, Maradick, let’s get somewhere out of this crush and have a cigarette.”
People were all pouring into supper now and Peter saw his wife in the distance, on Bobby Galleon’s arm. They found a little conservatory deserted now and strangely quiet after the din of the other rooms: here they sat down.
Maradick was capable of sitting, quite happily for hours, without saying anything at all. For some time they were both silent.
At last Peter said: “By jove, Maradick, yours is a fortunate sort of life — just going into the city every day, coming back to your wife in the evening — no stupid troubles that come from imagining things that aren’t there—”
“How do you know I don’t?” answered Maradick quietly. “Imagination hasn’t anything to do with one’s profession. I expect there’s as much imagination amongst the Stock Exchange men as there is with you literary people — only it’s expressed differently.”
“What do you do,” said Peter, “if it ever gets too much for you?”
“Do? How do you mean?”
“Well suppose you’re feeling all the time that one little thing more, one little word or some one coming in or a window breaking — anything will upset the equilibrium of everything? Supposing you’re out with all your might to keep things sane and to prevent your life from swinging back into all the storm and uncertainty that it was in once before, and supposing you feel that there are a whole lot of things trying to get you to swing back, what’s the best thing to do?”
“Why, hold on, hold on—”
“How do you mean?”
“Fortitude — Courage. Clinging on with your nails, setting your teeth.”
Peter was surprised at the man’s earnestness. The two of them sitting there in that lonely deserted little conservatory were instantly aware of some common experience.
Maradick put his hand on Peter’s knee.
“Westcott, you’re young, but I know the kind of thing you mean. Believe me that it’s no silly nonsense to talk of the Devil — the Devil is as real and personal as you and I, and he’s got his agents in every sort and kind of place. If he once gets his net out for you then you’ll want all your courage. I know,” he went on sinking his voice, “there was a time I had once in Cornwall when I was brought pretty close to things of that sort — it doesn’t leave you the same afterwards. There’s a place down in Cornwall called Treliss....”
“Treliss!” Peter almost shouted. “Why that’s where I come from. I was born there — that’s my town—”
Before Maradick could reply Bobby Galleon burst into the conservatory. “Oh, there you are — I’ve been looking for you everywhere. How are you, Maradick? Look here, Peter, you’ve got to come down to supper with us. We’ve got a table — Alice, Clare, Millicent, Percival, Tony Gale and his wife and you and I — and — one other — an old friend of yours, Peter.”
“An old friend?” said Peter, getting up from his chair and trying to look as though he were not furious with Bobby for the interruption.
“Yes — you’ll never guess, if I give you a hundred guesses — it’s most exciting — come along—”
Peter was led away. As he moved through the dazzling, noisy rooms he was conscious that there, in the quiet, dark little conservatory, Maradick was sitting, motionless, seeing Treliss.
IV
On his way down to the supper room he was filled with annoyance at the thought of his interrupted conversation. He might never have his opportunity again. Maradick was so reserved a fellow and took so few into his confidence — also he would, in all probability, be ashamed to-morrow of having spoken at all.
But to Peter at that moment the world about him was fantastic and unreal. It seemed to him that at certain periods in his life he was suddenly confronted with a fellow creature who perceived life as he perceived it. There were certain persons who could not leave life alone — they must always be seeing it as a key to something wider, bigger altogether. This was nothing to do with Christianity or any creed whatever, because Creeds implied Certainty and Definition of Knowledge, whereas Peter and the others like him did not know for what they were searching. Again, they were not Mystics because Mysticism needed a definite removal from this world before any other world were possible. No, they were simply Explorers and one traced a member of the order on the instant. There had been already in Peter’s life, Frosted Moses, Stephen, Mr. Zanti, Noah Monogue, and now suddenly there was Maradick. These were people who would not laugh at his terror of Scaw House, at his odd belief that his father was always trying to draw him back to Treliss....
As he entered the supper-room and saw Clare sitting at a distant table, he knew that his wife would never be an Explorer. For her Fires and Walls, for her no questions, no untidiness moral or physical — the Explorer travelled ever with his life in his hands — Clare believed in the Stay-at-homes.
The great dining-room was filled with Stay-at-homes. One saw it in their eyes, in the flutter of useless and tired words that rose and fell; all the souls in that room were cushioned and were happy that it was so. The Rider on the Lion was beyond the Electric Lights — on the dark hill, over the darker river, under the stars. Somebody pulled a cracker and put on a paper cap. He was a stout man with a bald head and the back of his neck rippled with fat. He had tiny eyes.
“Look at Mr. Horset,” cried the woman next to him— “Isn’t he absurd?”
Peter found at the table in the corner Alice, Clare, Millicent and Percival Galleon, Tony Gale and his wife, waiting. There was also a man standing by Alice’s chair and he watched Peter with amused eyes.
He held out his hand and smiled. “How do you do, Westcott?” he said. Then, with the sound of his voice, the soft almost caressing tilt of it, Peter knew who it was. His mind flew back to a day, years ago, when he had flung himself on the ground and cried his soul out because some one had gone away....
“Cards!” he cried. “Of all wonderful things!”
Cards of Dawson’s — Cards, the magnetic, the brilliant, Cards with his World and his Society and now slim and dark and romantic as ever, making every one else in the room shabby beside him, so that Bobby’s white waistcoat was instantly seen to be hanging loosely above his shirt and Peter’s trousers were short, and even the elegant Percival had scarcely co
vered with perfect equality the ends of his white tie.
Instantly as though the intervening years had never been, Bobby took his second place beside Cards’ glory — even Percival’s intention of securing the wonderful Mr. Rondel, author of “The Violet’s Redemption,” for their table, failed of its effect.
They were enough. They didn’t want anybody else — Room for Mr. Cardillac!
And he seized it. Just as he would have seized it years ago at school so he seized it now. Their table was caught into the most dazzling series of adventures. Cards had been everywhere, seen everybody and everything — seen it all, moreover, with the right kind of gaiety, with an appreciation that was intelligent and also humorous. There was humour one moment and pathos the next — deep feeling and the wittiest cynicism.
They were all swung about Europe and with Cards at their head pranced through the cities of the world. Meanwhile Peter fancied that once or twice Clare flung him a little glance of appeal to ask for forgiveness — and once they looked up and smiled at one another. A tiny smile but it meant everything.
“Oh! won’t we have a reconciliation afterwards? How could I have said those things? Don’t we just love one another?”
When they went upstairs again Peter and Cards exchanged a word:
“You’ll come and see us?”
“My dear old man, I should just think so. This is the first time I’ve been properly in London for years and now I’m going to stay. Fancy you married and successful and here am I still the rolling-stone!”
“You! Why you can do anything!”
“Can’t write ‘Reuben Hallard,’ old boy....” and so, with a laugh, they parted.
In the cab, afterwards, Clare’s head was buried in Peter’s coat, and she sobbed her heart out. “How I could have been such a beast, Peter, Peter!”
“Darling, it was nothing.”
“Oh, but it was! It shall never, never happen again...but I was frightened—”
“Frightened!”
“Yes, I always think some one’s going to take you away. I don’t understand all those other people. They frighten me — I want you to myself, just you and I — always.”
“But nobody can take me away — nobody—”
The cab jolted along — her hand was on his knee — and every now and again a lamp lighted her face for him and then dropped it back into darkness.
By the sharp pressure of her hand he knew that she was moved by an intensity of feeling, swayed now by one of those moods that came to her so strangely that it seemed that they belonged to another personality.
“Look... Peter. I’m seeing clearly as I think I never have before. I’m afraid — not because of you — but because of myself. If you knew—” here his hand came down and found hers— “if you knew how I despise myself, my real self. I’ve been spoilt always, always, always. I’ve always known it. My real self is ashamed of it. But there’s another side of me that comes down suddenly and hides all that — and then — when that happens — I just want to get what I want and not to be hurt and ...” she pressed closer against him and went on in a whisper.
“Peter, I shall always care for you more than any one — always whatever happens. But think, a time will come — I know it — when you’ll have to watch me, to keep me by you, and even let your work go — everything, just for a time until I’m safe. I suppose that moment comes to most women in their married lives. But to me, when it happens, it will be worse than for most women because I’ve always had my way. You mustn’t let me have my way then — simply clutch me, be cruel, brutal, anything only don’t let me go. Then, if you keep me through that, you’ll always keep me.”
To Peter it was almost as though she were talking in her sleep, something, there in the old, lumbering cab that was given to her by some one else to say something to which she herself would not give credit.
“That’s all right, you darling, you darling, you darling.” He covered her face, her eyes with kisses. “I’ll never let you go — never.” He felt her quiver a little under his arms.
“Don’t mind, Peter, my horrible, beastly character. Just keep me for a little, train me — and then later I’ll be such a wife to you, such a wife!”
Then she drew his head down. His lips touched her body just above her dress, where her cloak parted.
She whispered:
“There’s something else.”
She raised her face from his coat and looked up at him. Her cheeks were stained with crying and her eyes, large and dark, held him furiously as though he were the one place of safety.
He caught her very close.
“What is it?...”
That night, long after he, triumphant with the glory of her secret, had fallen asleep, she lay, staring into the dark, with frightened eyes.
CHAPTER VI
BIRTH OF THE HEIR
I
Peter’s child was born on a night of frost when the stars were hard and fierce and a full moon, dull gold, flung high shadows upon the town.
During the afternoon the fear that had been in Clare’s eyes for many weeks suddenly flamed into terror — the doctor was sent for and Peter was banished from the room.
Peter looked ludicrously, pitifully young as he sat, through the evening, in his room at the top of the house, staring in front of him, his face grey with anxiety, his broad shoulders set back as though ready for a blow; his strong fingers clutched the things on his writing-table, held them, dropped them, just like the hands of a blind man about the shining surface, tapping the wood.
He saw her always as he had seen her last night when she had caught his arm crying— “If I die, Peter.... Oh, Peter, if I die!”... and he had comforted and stroked her hair, warming her cold fingers.
How young she was, how tiny for this suffering — and it was he, he who had brought it upon her! Now, she was lying in her bed, as he had once seen his mother lie, with her hair spread about the pillow, her hands gripping the sheets, her eyes wide and black — the vast, hard bed-room closing her in, shutting her down —
She who loved comfort, who feared any pain, who would have Life safe and easy, that she should be forced —
The house was very still about him — no sound came up to him; it seemed to him that the hush was deliberate. The top branches of the trees in the little orchard touched his window and tapped ever and again; a fire burnt brightly, he had drawn his curtains and beyond the windows the great sheet of stars, the black houses, the white light of the moon.
And there, before him — what mockery! the neat pages of “The Stone House” now almost completed.
He stared into the wall and saw her face, her red-gold hair upon the pillow, her dark staring eyes —
Once the nurse came to him — Yes, she was suffering, but all went well ... it would be about midnight, perhaps. There was no cause for alarm....
He thought that the nurse looked at him with compassion. He turned fiercely upon Life that it should have brought this to them when they were both so young.
At last, about ten o’clock, able no longer to endure the silence of the house — so ominous — and the gentle tap-tap of the branches upon the pane and the whispering crackle of the fire, he went out....
A cold hard unreal world received him. Down Sloane Street the lines of yellow lamps, bending at last until they met in sharp blue distance, were soft and misty against the outline of the street, the houses were unreal in the moonlight, a few people passed quickly, their footsteps sharp in the frosty air — all the little painted doors of Sloane Street were blind and secret.
He passed through Knightsbridge, into the Park. As the black trees closed him in the fear of London came, tumbling upon him. He remembered that day when he had sat, shivering, on a seat on the Embankment, and had heard that note, sinister, threatening, through the noise and clattering traffic. He heard it again now. It came from the heart of the black trees that lined the moonlit road, a whisper, a thread of sound that accompanied him, pervaded him, threatened him. The scaly b
east knew that another victim was about to be born — another woman was to undergo torture, so that when the day came and the scaly beast rose from its sleep then there would be one more to be devoured.
He, Peter, was to have a child. He had longed for a child ever since he could remember. He had always loved children — other people’s children — but to have one of his own!... To have something that was his and Clare’s and theirs alone, to have its love, to feel that it depended Upon them both, to watch it, to tend it — Life could have no gift like that.
But now the child was hidden from him. He thought of nothing but Clare, of her suffering and terror, of her waiting there so helplessly for the dreadful moment of supreme pain. The love that he had now for Clare was something more tender, more devoted, than he had ever felt for any human being. His mind flew back fiercely to that night of his first quarrel when she had told him. Now he was to be punished for his heartlessness and cruelty ... by her loss.
His agony and terror grew as he paced beneath the dark and bending trees. He sat down on a seat, at the other end of which was a little man with a bowler hat, spectacles and his coat collar turned up. He was a shabby little man and his thin bony hands beat restlessly upon his knees.
The little man said, “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” said Peter, staring desperately in front of him.
“It’s all this blasted government—”
“I beg your pardon—”
“This blasted government — This income tax and all—”