by Hugh Walpole
“Bobby!”
“Oh yes — I know I’m saying a serious thing — but you asked me for my advice and I give it. I don’t say that Cards means any harm but people will talk and it wouldn’t do you any damage in Clare’s eyes either, Peter, if you were to stand up to him a little.”
Peter smiled. “Dear old Bobby! If any one else in the world had said such a thing of course I should have been most awfully angry, but I’ve always known how unfair you were about Cards. You never liked him, even in the Dawson days. You just don’t suit one another. But I tell you, Bobby, that I’d trust Cards more than I’d trust any one in the world. Of course Clare likes to be with him and of course he likes to be with her. They suit one another exactly. Why, he’s splendid! The other day when I’d been a perfect beast — losing my temper like a boy of ten — you should have heard the way he took it. One day, Bobby, you’ll see how splendid he is.”
Bobby said no more.
Peter went on again: “No, it’s my mother-in-law’s done the damage. You’re right, the thing to do is to get Clare alone and have it right out with her. We’ll clear the mists away.”
Bobby said: “You know Peter, both Alice and I would do anything in the world to make you happy — anything.”
Peter gripped his hand.
“I know you would. If I could forget young Stephen,” he caught his breath— “Bobby, I see him everywhere, all the time. I lie awake hours at night thinking about him. I see him in my sleep, see him sometimes grown-up — splendid, famous.... Sometimes I think he comes back. I can see him, lying on his back and looking up at the ceiling, and I say to myself, ‘Now if you don’t move he’ll stay there’ ... and then I move and he’s gone. And I haven’t any one to talk about him to. I never know whether Clare thinks of him or not. He was so splendid, Bobby, so strong. And he loved me in the most extraordinary way. We’d have been tremendous pals if he’d lived.
“I could have stood anything if I’d been able to see him growing up, had him to care about.... I’m so lonely, Bobby — and if I don’t make Clare come back to me, now that the book’s failed, I — I — I’ll go back to Scaw House and just drink myself to the devil there with my old father; he’ll be glad enough.”
“You once told me,” Bobby said, “about an old man in your place when you were a kid, who said once, ‘It isn’t life that matters but the courage you bring to it—’ Well, that’s what you’re proving now, Peter.”
“Yes, but why me? I’ve had a bad time all my life — always been knocked about and cursed and kicked. Why should it go on all the time — all the time?”
“Because They think you’re worth it, I suppose,” said Bobby.
III
And the result of that conversation was that, on that very night Peter made his appeal. They had had a silent evening (Mrs. Rossiter was staying in the house at this time), and at last they all had gone up to bed. Peter stayed for a moment in his dressing-room, seeing his white face in the looking-glass, hearing the beating of his heart and then with a hand that strangely trembled, knocked on Clare’s door.
Her voice sounded frightened, he thought, as she called to him to come in. Indeed, as he entered she folded a letter that she had been reading, and put it in a drawer in the dressing-table at which she was sitting.
It was only seldom now that he disturbed her in that room. She had turned on the electric light over her dressing-table; the rest of the room was in darkness. She seemed to Peter very fragile and tiny as she sat there in her black evening frock, her breast rising and falling as though something had suddenly frightened her, her eyes wide and startled. He felt a gross, coarse brute as he stumbled, coming across the dark floor to her.
“My God,” he cried in his heart, “put everything right now — let this make everything right.”
His big square body flung huge fantastic shadows upon the wall, but he looked, as he faced her, like a boy who had come to his master to confess some crime.
Apparently she was reassured now, for she took off her necklace and moved about the things on her table as though to show him that she was on the point of undressing.
“Well, Peter, what is it?” she said.
“I’ve come — Clare — just a moment — I want a talk.”
“But it’s late, I’m tired — won’t some other time do?”
“No, I want it now.”
“What is it?”
She was looking into the glass as she spoke to him.
He pulled a little chair over to her and sat forward so that his knees nearly touched her thin black dress. He put out his big hand and caught one of her little ones; he thought for a moment that she was going to resist — then it lay there cold as ice.
“Clare — darling — look here, everything’s been wrong with both of us — for ages. And I’ve come — I’ve come — because I know it’s been very largely my fault. And I’ve come to say that everything will be different now and I want you to let things — be — as they were before—”
For a moment he fancied that he saw a light leap into her eyes; he felt her hand tremble for a moment in his. Then the expression was gone.
“How do you mean?” she said, still looking into the glass. “What do you mean, Peter? I haven’t noticed anything different.”
“Oh yes, you have. You know that — ever since Stephen died and before that really — you’ve avoided me. You’d rather be without me than with me. You’ve all thought me selfish and glum and so I suppose I was. But I missed — the kid — a lot.” Again Peter felt her hand tremble. He pressed it. Then he went on, leaning more toward her now and putting an arm out to touch her dress.
“Clare — it’s been like a fog all these weeks — we’ve never had it out, we’ve never talked about it, but you’ve been disappointed in me. You thought I was going to write great books and I haven’t — and then your mother — and I — don’t get on. And then I suppose I’m stupid in society — I can’t talk a lot to any one who comes along as all you people can. I’ve been brought up differently and — and — I know you don’t like to think about that either, and so I’ll never bring my old friends into the house and I’ll see that I’m not such a gawk at your parties—”
He paused for a moment; she was looking down now and he couldn’t see her eyes. He bent forward more closely — his arm caught her waist — his hand crushed hers —
She tried desperately to pull herself together to say something —
“No — there’s nothing. Well, if there is — Of course I suppose it happens to all married people—”
“What happens?”
“Why, they find one another out a little. Things aren’t quite as they thought they’d be. That must happen always.”
“But tell me — tell me the things in me that have disappointed you and then I can alter—”
“Well — it’s a little as you say. You have been rather rude to Mother. And then — your quarrel—”
“What! You mean with Cards!”
“With — Jerry — yes. And then,” her voice was high and sharp now — her eyes avoided his— “I’ve always — been happy, until I married. Things frighten me. You don’t understand me, Peter, how easily I’m frightened — you never seemed to see that. Other people — know.”
“I’ve been selfish — I—”
“Yes,” she went on still in that high voice, “and you never consider me in little things. And you laugh at me as though I were stupid. I don’t suppose it’s all your fault. You were brought up — roughly. But you are rough. You hurt me often. I can’t bear,” her lip was trembling and she was nearly crying— “I can’t bear being unhappy—”
“My God!” cried Peter, “what a beast I am! What a brute I’ve been!”
“Yes — and you never seemed to think that I minded poor little Stephen’s death — the dear little thing — of course it hurt me dreadfully — and you never thought of me—”
“It’s all going to be different now. Love me, Clare — love me and it will al
l come back. And then if you’ll only love me I’ll be able to write the most wonderful books. I’ll be famous all the world over — if you’ll only love me, Clare darling—”
He dropt on to his knees before her and looking up at her whispered— “Clare — darling, darling — you’re all that I’ve got now — everything in the world. And in return I’ll try to be everything to you. I’ll spend my life in making you happy. I’ll care for only one thing and that is to be your servant. Clare — Clare—”
She gave a little protesting cry— “Peter, Peter — don’t — I — I — can’t—” and then in a shuddering whisper— “Peter — I’m not good enough — I don’t love you now — I — can’t—”
But he had caught her, was holding her to him now, with both his arms round her, pressing her against his shirt, hurting her — at last covering her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks with kisses.
He had not heard those words now, in the triumph of having her back again, his as she had been on the first day of their marriage, did not feel her body unresponsive, her hands cold, nor did he see the appeal, wild and desperate, in her eyes....
At last he left her, closing, softly her door between them.
CHAPTER XIV
PETER BUYS A PRESENT
I
Peter did not hesitate now. He should win Clare back with his strong right hand and he would rule The Roundabout with a rod of iron. Ruling The Roundabout meant ruling Mrs. Rossiter and he was surprised at the ease with which he won his victory over that lady. Had he considered it more deeply that easy victory might have seemed to him ominous.
At luncheon on the day after his talk with Clare they three sat together — Mrs. Rossiter silent, Clare silent, Peter silent.
Suddenly Peter said: “Oh by the way, Clare, I telephoned for seats this morning for the new thing at the Criterion. I got two stalls.”
They had not been to the theatre together since Stephen’s death.
Clare lifted a white face— “I don’t think I—”
“Oh yes,” said Peter, smiling across at her— “you’ll enjoy it.”
Mrs. Rossiter stroking her large bosom with a flat white hand said, “I don’t think Clare—”
“Oh yes,” said Peter again, “it will do her good.”
Mrs. Rossiter smiled. “Get another stall, Peter, and I will come too.”
“I’m afraid,” said Peter very politely, “that it’s too late. The piece is a thumping success. I was very lucky to get any seats at all.”
And then Mrs. Rossiter subsided, absolutely subsided ... very strange.
That was not a very happy evening. Clare scarcely spoke, she answered him with “Yes” and “No,” she sat in the stalls looking like a little unhappy ghost. She did not in any way repulse him — she let him take her hand coming home in the cab. She shivered and he asked whether she were cold and she said, Yes, she thought that she was. That night he came in, took her for a moment in his hands, kissed her very gently on the lips, and said —
“Clare, you’re not angry with me for last night?”
“No” she answered him. Then she added slowly, as though she were repeating a part that she’d learnt, “Thank you for taking me to the play, Peter. I was rather tired. But thank you for taking me.”
He went to bed thanking God for this change in her. “I’ll make her love me just as she used to, those days on our honeymoon. God bless her.”
Yes, Mrs. Rossiter was strangely altered. It all shows what one can do with a woman when one tries. Her hostile placidity had given place to something almost pathetic. One would have thought, had one not known that lady’s invariable assurance of movement, that she was perplexed, almost distressed.
Peter was conscious that Clare was now as silent with her mother as she was with him. He perceived that Mrs. Rossiter was disturbed at Clare’s reticence. He fancied that he sometimes interrupted little conversations between the mother and the daughter the intention of which was, on Mrs. Rossiter’s part at any rate, that “Clare should tell her something.” There was no doubt at all, that Mrs. Rossiter was anxious. Even — although this seemed impossible — she appeared to be ready to accept Peter as a friend and ally now — now after these many weeks of hostility. Surely women are strange creatures. In any case, one may observe the yellow brooch agitated now and ill at ease.
Very soon, too, Cards came to make his farewells — he was going to Paris for the whole of May.
“What! Won’t you be back for the beginning of the Season?” cried Peter astonished.
“No,” Cards answered, laughing. “For once the Season can commence without me.”
He was especially affectionate but seemed anxious to be gone. His dark eyes avoided Peter’s gaze. He didn’t look well — a little anxious: and Cards was generally the soul of light-hearted carelessness.
What a splendid fellow he was! Peter looked him up and down taking that same delight that he had always taken in his distinction, his good looks, his ease. “He ought to have been born king of somewhere,” Peter used to think, “he ought really — no wonder people spoil him.”
“There’s another thing,” Peter said, “you’re forgetting Clare’s birthday next week. She’ll be dreadfully disappointed at your not being here for it.”
“I’ll have to remember it from Paris,” Cards said.
“Well — it’s an awful pity that you’re going for a whole month. I don’t know what we shall do without you. And you cheer Clare up — she’s rather depressed just now. Thinks of the kid a bit, I expect.”
“Well, I’ll write,” said Cards, and was gone.
II
Peter received at this time a letter that showed him that he had, at any rate, one friend, in the world who believed in him. It was from James Maradick and it was strangely encouraging — now at this period of yawning pits from whose blackness he so resolutely turned away.
It asked him to go with Maradick as his guest to some Club dinner. Then it went on.... “You know, Westcott, we don’t meet as often as we should. Like ships in the night, we signal every now and again and then pass. But I am quite sure that we have plenty to say to one another. Once or twice — you remember that party when I gassed about Cornwall? — we have nearly said it, but something has always prevented. I remember that you divided the world once in a fit of youthful confidence, into Explorers and Stay-at-homes. Well, those words will do as well as any others to describe the great dividing line. At any rate, you’re an Explorer and you’re trying to get on terms with the Stay-at-homes, and I’m a Stay-at-home and I’m trying to get on terms with the Explorers and that’s why we’re both so uncomfortable. The only happy people, take my word for it, are those who know the kind of thing they are — Explorers or Stay-at-homes, and just stick at that and shut their eyes tight to the other kind of people — il n’existe pas, that other world. Those are the happy people, and, after all most people are like that. But we, you and I, are uncomfortably conscious of the other Party — want to know them, in fact, want them to receive us.
“Well, I’m getting on and it’s late days for me, but you’ve got all your life before you and will do great things, take my word for it. Only don’t be discouraged because the Stay-at-homes don’t come to you all at once. Give ’em time — they’ll come....”
This seemed to Peter, at this moment of a whole welter of doubt and confusion and misunderstanding of people’s motives and positions, to explain a great deal. Was that the reason why he’d been so happy in old Zachary Tan’s shop years ago? Why he’d been happy through all that existence at the bookshop, those absurd unreal conspirators — happy, yes, even when starving with Stephen in Bucket Lane.
He was then in his right company — explorers one and all. Whereas here? — Now? Had he ever been happy at The Roundabout except during the first year, and afterwards when Stephen came? And was not that, too, the explanation of young Stephen’s happiness upon the arrival of Mr. Zanti and Brant? Did he not recognise them for what they were, explorers? He being a
young explorer himself.
On the other side Mrs. Rossiter, Clare, Cards, old Bobby who in spite of his affection never understood half the things that Peter did or said, the Galleons, old Mrs. Galleon and Percival and his sister?... Had Henry Galleon known that dividing-line and suffered under it all his life, and borne it and perhaps conquered it?
And Peter suddenly, standing at his window watching London caught by the evening light, saw for an instant his work in front of him again. London with her towers, her roofs and chimneys — smoke and mist and haze weaving a web — and then beneath it, humming, buzzing, turning, all the lives, all the comedies, all the tragedies — Kings and princes, guttersnipes and duchesses, politicians and newsboys, criminals and saints —
Waiting, that golden top, for some hand to set it humming.
In that moment Peter Westcott, aged twenty-nine, with a book just behind him that had been counted on every side the most dismal of failures, saw himself the English Balzac, saw London open like a book at his feet, saw heaven and all its glories... himself the one and only begetter of a thousand masterpieces!
But the sun set — the towers and roofs and chimneys were coldly grey, a ragged wind rose through the branches of the orchard, dark clouds hid the risen moon, newsboys were crying a murder in Whitechapel.
“I hate this house,” Peter said, turning away from the window, into a room crowded now with dusk.
III
It was the first of May, and the day before Clare’s birthday. It was one of the most beautiful days of the year, with a hint of summer in its light and shadow, a shimmer of golden sun shaking through the trees in the orchard, flung from there on to the windows of The Roundabout, to dance in twisting lines along the floors and across the walls.
All doors and windows seemed to be open; the scent of flowers — a prophecy of pinks and roses where as yet there were none — flooded the little Chelsea streets.
The Velasquez on the walls of The Roundabout danced in her stiff skirts, looking down upon a room bathed in green and gold shadow.