Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  She was in the Roundabout now all the time. How poor Dr. Rossiter fared it was difficult to imagine, but he cared for Clare as deeply as his wife did and was quite ready for everything to be sacrificed to her at this crisis of her history.

  Mrs. Rossiter, meanwhile, was entirely convinced that Peter was responsible for his son’s death. Had you suddenly challenged her and demanded her reasoned argument with regard to this matter she would probably have failed you — she did not like reasoned arguments — but she would also have been most sincerely indignant had you called her a liar and would have sworn to her convictions before a court of law.

  “Those Cornishmen” had frightened the poor little thing into fits and it was only to be expected. Moreover it followed from this that a man who murdered his only child would most assuredly take to beating his wife before very long. After that, anything might happen. Peter was on a swift road to being a “Perfect Devil.”

  Indeed, allow Mrs. Rossiter two consecutive hours of peace and quiet, she, sitting like the personification of the English climate, alone before her fire, and she could make any one into anything — once made so they remained.

  It mattered nothing to her that poor Peter was, during these weeks, the most subdued and gently courteous of husbands — that was as it might be (a favourite phrase of hers). She knew him ... and, so knowing, waited for the inevitable end.

  But the more certain she was of his villainous possibilities the more placid she became. She spread her placidity over everything. It lay, like an invisible glue, upon everything in the Roundabout — you could feel it on the door-handles, as you feel the jammy reminiscences of incautious servant-maids. Peter felt it but did not know what it was that he had to deal with.

  He had determined, when the sharpest shock of Stephen’s death had passed, and he was able to think of other things, that the supremely important thing for him now to do was to get back to his old relations with Clare. There was, he grimly reflected, “Mortimer Stant” to be finished within a month or two and he knew, perfectly well, with the assurance of past experience that whilst Clare held the stage, Mortimer had the poorest of chances — nevertheless Clare was, at this moment, the thing to struggle for.

  He must get her back — he must get her back.

  Behind his brain, all this time, was the horror of being left alone in the world and of what he might do — then.

  To get Clare back he must have the assistance of two people — Mrs. Rossiter and Cards.

  It was at this point that he perceived Mrs. Rossiter’s placidity.

  He could not get at her at all — he could not get near her. He tried in every way, during these weeks, to please her. She apparently noticed nothing. He could force no direct opinion about anything from her and yet he was conscious of opposition. He was conscious of opposition, increasingly, every day.

  “I believe she wants Clare to hate me,” he suddenly revealed to himself, and, with that, all hope of her as an ally vanished.

  Then he hated her — he hated her more bitterly every day.

  He wanted to tell her not to call him “Peter dear” — she loved to put him in positions that showed him in the worst light to Clare.

  At luncheon for instance: “Peter dear, it would be a nice thing for you and Clare to go to that Private View at the Carfax this afternoon. You’ve nothing to do, Clare, have you?”

  Peter knew that Mrs. Rossiter had already ascertained that he was engaged. He knew also that Clare had had no thought of Peter’s company before but that now she would very speedily feel herself injured.

  “I’m afraid—” Peter would begin.

  “Peter’s too engaged to take you, Clare dear.”

  “I dare say Jerry will come—” this from Clare.

  “Ah! yes, Mr. Cardillac is always ready to take any trouble, Peter.”

  “If you’d let me know earlier, Clare, that you wanted me.”

  Mrs. Rossiter. “Oh! don’t put yourself out, Peter. It would never do to break an engagement. Only it seems such a long time since you and Clare—”

  Peter. “We’ll go to-morrow afternoon, Clare.”

  Clare. “You’re so gloomy when you do come, Peter. It’s like going out with a ghost.”

  Mrs. Rossiter. “Ah! Peter has his work, dear — so much hangs on the next book, doesn’t it, Peter? Naturally the last one didn’t quite—”

  Peter. “Look here, Clare, I’ll chuck this engagement.”

  Clare. “No, thank you, Peter — Jerry and I will be all right. You can join us if you like—”

  The fact was that Peter wasn’t tactful. He showed Mrs. Rossiter much too plainly that he disliked her intensely. He had no idea that he showed it her. He thought, indeed, that he was very skilful in his disguise of his feelings but Mrs. Rossiter knew and soon Clare knew also.

  Peter had no conception of subtlety in the matter. It was clear to him that he had once been devoted to Clare and she to him, it was clear also that that relationship had recently been dimmed. Now that Stephen was gone that early intimacy must be restored and the fact that he was willing on his side to do anything to bring it back seemed to him reason enough for its restoration. That the whole matter was composed of the most delicate and intricate threads never occurred to him for an instant. Clare had loved him once. Clare would love him again — and the sooner it happened the better for him.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Rossiter being enemy rather than ally there remained Cards.

  But Cards was strange. Peter could never claim to have been intimate with him — their relationship had been founded on an inequality, on a recognition from Peter of Cards’ superiority. Cards had always laughed at Peter, always patronised him. But now, although Cards had been in the place so much of late, the distance seemed farther than ever before.

  Cards was as kind as he could be — always in good spirits, always ready to do anything, but Peter noticed that it was only when Clare was present that Cards changed from jest to earnest. “He thinks Clare worth talking to seriously.... I suppose it’s because he was at Dawson’s ... but after all I’m not an imbecile.”

  This attitude of Cards was in fact as vague and nebulous as all the other things that seemed now to stand between Peter and Clare.

  Peter tried to talk to Cards — he was always prevented — held off with a laughing hand.

  “What’s the matter with me?” thought Peter. “What have I done? It’s like being out in a fog.”

  At last one evening, after dinner, when Clare and Mrs. Rossiter had gone upstairs he demanded an answer.

  “Look here, Cards, what have I done? You profess to be a friend of mine. Tell me what crime I’ve committed?”

  Cards’ eyes had been laughing. Suddenly he was serious. His dark, clean-cut face was stern, almost accusing.

  “Profess, Peter? I hope you don’t doubt it?”

  “No, of course not. You know you’re the best friend I’ve got. Tell me — what have I done?”

  “Done?”

  “Yes — you and Clare and her mother — all of you keep me at arms’ length — why?”

  “Do you really want a straight talking?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I can only speak for myself — but — to tell the truth, old boy — I think you’ve been rather hard on poor little Clare.”

  For the first time since his marriage Peter resented Cards’ words. “Poor little Clare” — wasn’t that a little too intimate?

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a little harder.

  “Well — I don’t think you understand her, Peter.”

  “Explain.”

  “She’s a happy, merry person if ever there was one in this world. She wants all the happiness you can give her—”

  “Well?”

  “Well, you don’t seem to see that. Of course young Stephen’s death—”

  “Let’s leave that—” Peter’s voice was harder again.

  “Oh, all right — just as you please. But most men would have seen wh
at a shock it must be to a girl, so young, who knew so little about the cruelty of life. You didn’t — you don’t mind, Peter, do you? — you didn’t seem to think of that. Never tried to cheer her up, take her about, take her out of herself. You just wrapped yourself up—”

  “You don’t understand,” muttered Peter, his eyes lowered. “If I’d thought that she’d really minded Stephen’s death—”

  “Oh! come Peter — that’s grossly unfair. Why, she felt it all most horribly. That shows how little you’ve understood her, how little you’ve appreciated her. You’ve always been a gloomy, morbid devil and—”

  “All right, Cards — that’ll do.”

  Cards stood back from the table, his mouth smiling, his eyes hard and cold.

  “Oh! no, it won’t. You asked for it and now you’re going to get it. You’ve not only been gloomy and morbid all your life, you’ve been selfish as well — always thinking of yourself and the books you were going to write, and then when they did come they weren’t such great shakes. You oughtn’t to have married at all — you’ve never considered Clare at all — your treatment of her—”

  Peter stood up, his face white, so that his eyes and the lines of his mouth showed black in the shadow.

  “Clear out — I’ve heard enough.”

  “Oh! that’s just like you — ask me for my opinion and then lose your temper over it. Really, Peter, you’re like a boy of ten — you don’t deserve to be treated as a grown-up person.”

  Peter’s voice shook. “Clear out — clear out or I’ll do for you — get out of my house—”

  “Certainly.”

  Cards opened the door and was gone. Peter heard him hesitate for a moment in the hall, get his hat and coat and then close the hall-door after him.

  The house was suddenly silent. Peter stood, his hands clenched. Then he went out into the hall.

  He heard Mrs. Rossiter’s voice from above— “Aren’t you two men ever coming up?”

  “Jerry’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes — we’ve had a row.”

  Mrs. Rossiter made no reply. He heard the drawing-room door close. Then he, too, took his coat and hat and went out.

  V

  The night was cool and sweet with a great silver haze of stars above the sharply outlined roofs and chimneys. The golden mist from the streets met the night air and mingled with it.

  Peter walked furiously, without thinking of direction. Some clock struck half-past nine. His temper faded swiftly, leaving him cold, miserable, regretful. There went his damnable temper again, surging up suddenly so hot and fierce that it had control of him almost before he knew that it was there. How like him, too! Now when things were bad enough, when he must bend all his energies to bringing peace back into the house again, he must needs go and quarrel with the best friend he had in the world. He had never quarrelled with Cards before, never had there been the slightest word between them, and now he had insulted him so that, probably, he would never come into their house again.

  And behind his immediate repentance at the quarrel there also bit into his heart the knowledge that there was truth in the accusation that Cardillac had flung at him. He had been morbid, he had been selfish. Absorbed by his own grief at Stephen’s loss he had given no thought to any one else. He had expected Clare to be like himself, had made no allowance for differences of temperament, had.... Poor Peter had never before known an hour of such miserable self-condemnation. Had he known where to find him he would have gone that very instant to beg Cards’ pardon.

  Now, in comparison with his own black deeds, Mrs. Rossiter seemed an angel. He should show her in the future that he could mend his ways. Clare should make no further complaint of him. He found himself in Leicester Square and still wrapt in his own miserable thoughts went into the Empire. He walked up and down the Promenade wondering that so many people could take the world so lightly. Very far away a gentleman in evening dress was singing a song — his mouth could be seen to open and shut, sometimes his arms moved — no sound could be heard.

  The Promenade was packed. Up and down ladies in enormous hats walked languidly. They all wore clothes that were gorgeous and a little soiled. They walked for the most part in couples and appeared to be absorbed in conversation, but every now and again they smiled mechanically, recognised a friend or saw somebody who was likely very shortly to become one.

  There was a great deal of noise. There were numbers of men — old gentlemen who were there because they had always been there, young gentlemen who were there because they had never been there before and a few gentlemen who had come to see the Ballet.

  The lights blazed, the heat and noise steadily accumulated, corks were popped in the bar behind, promises were broken in the Promenade in front, and soon after eleven, when everything had become so uncomfortable that the very lights in the building protested, the doors were opened and the whole Bubble and Squeak was flung out into the cool and starlit improprieties of Leicester Square.

  Peter could not have told you if he had been asked, that he had been there, felt a devouring thirst and entered a building close at hand where there were rows of little round tables and numbers of little round waiters.

  Peter sat down at the first table that occurred to him and it was not until he looked round about him that he discovered that a lady in a huge black hat was sitting smiling opposite him. Her cheeks were rouged, her gloves were soiled and her hair looked as though it might fall into a thousand pieces at the slightest provocation, but her eyes were pathetic and tired. They didn’t belong to her face.

  “Hullo, dear, let’s have a drink. Haven’t had a drink to-night.”

  He asked her what she would like and she told him. She studied him carefully for quite a long time.

  “Down on your luck, old chum?” she said at last.

  “Yes, I am,” Peter said, “a bit depressed.”

  “I know. I’m often that way myself. We all catch it. Come home and have a bit of supper. That’ll cheer you up.”

  “No, thanks,” said Peter politely. “I must get back to my own place in a minute.”

  “Well,” said the lady. “Please yourself, and I’ll have another drink if you don’t very much mind.”

  It was whilst he was ordering another drink that he came out of his own thoughts and considered her.

  “That’s right,” she said smiling, “have a good look. My name’s Rose Bennett. Here’s my card. Perhaps you’d like to come and have tea with me one day.”

  She gave him a very dirty card on which was written “Miss Rose Bennett, 4 Annton Street, Portland Place.”

  “You’re Cornish,” he suddenly said, looking at her.

  She moved her soiled gloves up and down the little table— “Well, what if I am?” she said defiantly, not looking at him.

  “I knew it,” said Peter triumphantly, “the way you rolled your r’s—”

  “Well, chuck it, dear,” said Miss Bennett, “and let’s talk sense. What’s Cornwall got to do with us anyhow?”

  “I’m Cornish too,” said Peter, “it’s got a good deal to do with us. You needn’t tell me of course — but what part do you come from?”

  Still sullenly she said: “Almost forgotten the name of it, so long ago. You wouldn’t know it anyway, it’s such a little place. They called it Portergwarra—”

  “I know,” cried Peter, “near the Land’s End. Of course I know it. There are holes in the rocks that they lift the boats through. There’s a post-box on the wall. I’ve walked there many a time—”

  “Well, stow it, old man,” Miss Bennett answered decisively. “I’m not thinking of that place any more and I don’t suppose they’ve thought of me since. Why, it’s years—”

  She broke off and began hurriedly to drink. Peter’s eyes sought her eyes — his eyes were miserable and so were hers — but her mouth was hard and laughing.

  “It’s funny talking of Cornwall,” she said at last. “No one’s spoken of the place since I came up here. But
it’s all right, I tell you — quite all right. You take it from me, chucky. I enjoy my life — have a jolly time. There’s disadvantages in every profession, and when you’ve got a bit of a cold as I have now why—”

  She stopped. Her eyes sought Peter’s. He saw that she was nearly crying.

  “Talking of Cornwall and all that,” she muttered, “silly rot! I’m tired — I’m going home.”

  He paid for the drinks and got a hansom.

  At that moment as he stood looking over the horse into the dimly-lit obscurities of the Square he thought with a sudden beating of the heart that he recognised Cardillac looking at him from the doorway of a neighbouring restaurant. Then the figure was gone. He had got Cardillac on the brain! Nevertheless the suggestion made him suddenly conscious of poor Miss Bennett’s enormous hat, her rouge, her soiled finery that allowed no question as to her position in the world.

  Rather hurriedly he asked her to get into the cab.

  “Come that far—” she said.

  He got in with her and she took off one glove and he held her hand and they didn’t speak all the way.

  When the hansom stopped at last he got down, helped her out and for a moment longer held her hand.

  “We’re both pretty unhappy,” he said. “Things have been going wrong with me too. But think of Cornwall sometimes and remember there’s some one else thinking of it.”