by Hugh Walpole
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Peter was going out to buy Clare a present. He had seen a ruby pendant many months ago in a window in Bond Street. He had thought of it for Clare but he had known that, with young Stephen’s education and the rest of the kid’s expenses, he could not dare to afford it. Now... things were different.
It should sign and seal this new order....
He came downstairs. He looked into the little sitting-room. Clare was standing there by the window looking at the gay trees in the orchard. On the opposite wall the Velasquez danced....
She had not heard him come in and she was standing by the window with her hands clasped tightly behind her, her body strung up, so it seemed, by some height of determination. She wore a black dress with a little white round her neck and at the sleeves. Her hair was rolled into a pile on the top of her head and the sunlight from the orchard was shining upon it.
When Peter called her name she turned round with a startled cry and put her hand to her throat. Then she moved back against the window as though she were afraid that he was going to touch her.
He noticed her movement and the words that he had intended to say were checked on his lips. He stammered, instead, something about going out. She nodded her head; she had pulled herself together and walked towards him from the window.
“Won’t you come, too? It is such a lovely day,” he asked her.
“I’ve got a headache.”
“It’ll do your headache good.”
But she shook her head— “No, I’m going upstairs to lie down.”
She moved past him to the door. Then with her hand on it she turned back to him: —
“Peter, I—” she said.
She seemed to appeal to him with her eyes beseeching, trying to say something, but the rest of her face was dumb.
The appeal, the things that she would have said suddenly died, leaving her face utterly without expression.
“Bobby and mother are coming to dinner to-night, aren’t they?”
“Yes—”
She passed through the door across the sunlit hall, up the dark stairs. She walked with that hesitating halting step that he knew so well: her small, white hand lay, for a moment on the banisters — then she had disappeared.
IV
Coming through the hall Peter noticed that there was a letter in the box. He took it out and found, with delight, that it was from Stephen Brant. He had had no word from him since the day when he and Mr. Zanti had paid their fateful visit.
The letter said: —
Dear Mr. Peter,
This is a hurried line to tell you that He is dead at last, died in drink cursing and swearing and now her mother and she, poor dear, are going to America and I’m going to look after her hoping that we’ll be marrying in a few months’ time and so realise my heart’s wish.
Dear Peter I sail on Thursday from Southampton and would be coming to see you but would not like to inconvenience you as you now are, but my heart is ever the same to you, Dear Boy, and the day will come when we can talk over old times once again.
Your affectionate friend, sir,
Now about to be made the happiest man in all the world,
Stephen.
N.B. I hope the little kid is strong and happy.
N.B. Zanti goes with us to America having heard of gold in California and is to be my best man when the day comes.
So Stephen’s long wait was ended at last. Peter’s eyes were dimmed as he put the letter away in his pocket. What a selfish beast, to be sure, must this same Peter Westcott, be, for here he was wishing — yes, almost wishing — that Stephen’s happiness had not come to him. Always at the back of everything there had been the thought of Stephen Brant. Let all the pits in the world gape and yawn, there was one person in the world to whom Peter was precious. Now — in America — with a wife... some of the sunlight had gone out of the air and Peter’s heart was suddenly cold with that old dread.
Another friend taken from him! Another link gone! Then he pulled himself together, tried to rejoice with Stephen at his happiness, failed dismally, walked down Piccadilly defiantly, with swinging shoulders and a frowning face, like a sailor in a hostile country, and went into the Bond Street jeweller’s.
He had been there on several former occasions and a large stout man who looked as though he must have been Lord Mayor several years running came forward and gave Peter an audience. Precious stones were of no account in such a place as this, and the ruby pendant looked quite small and humble when it was brought to Peter — nevertheless it was beautiful and would suit Clare exactly. It seemed to appeal personally to Peter, as though it knew that he wanted it for a very especial occasion. This wasn’t one of those persons who would come in and buy you as though you were dirt. It meant something to Peter. It meant something indeed — it meant exactly sixty pounds —
“Isn’t that rather a lot?” said Peter.
“It’s as fine a ruby—” said the dignitary, looking over Peter’s head out of the window, as though he were tired of the affair and wanted to see whether his car were there.
“I’ll take it,” said Peter desperately.
Sixty Pounds! Did one ever hear of such a thing? Sixty pounds ... Never mind, it marked an occasion. The ruby smiled at Peter as it was slipped into its case; it was glad that it was going to somebody who hadn’t very many things.
He had several other matters to settle and it was nearly five o’clock when he turned out of Knightsbridge down Sloane Street. The sun was slipping behind the Hyde Park Hotel so that already the shadows were lying along the lower parts of the houses although the roofs were bright with sunshine.
It was the hour when all the dogs were taken for the last exercise of the day. Every kind, of dog was there, but especially the fat and pampered variety — Poms, King Charles, Pekinese, Dachshunds — a few bigger dogs, and even one mournful-eyed Dane who walked with melancholy superiority, as a king amongst his vassals.
The street stirred with the patterings of dogs. The light slid down the sky — voices rang in the clear air softly as though the dying day had besought them to be tender. The colours of the shops, of the green trees, of slim and beautifully-dressed houses were powdered with gold-dust; the church in Sloane Square began to ring its bells.
Peter, as he turned down the street, was cold — perhaps because Knightsbridge had been blazing with sunshine and the light here was hidden.... No, it was more than that....
“They say,” he thought, “that Cornishmen always know when a disaster’s coming. If that’s true, something ought to be going to happen to me.”
And then, in a flash, that sound that he had been half-subconsciously expecting, came — the sound of the sea. He could hear it quite distinctly, a distant, half-determined movement that seemed so vast in its roll and plunge, so sharp in the shock with which it met the shore, and yet so subdued that it might be many thousands of miles away. It was as though a vast tide were dragging back a million shells from an endless shore — the dragging hiss, the hesitating suspense in mid-air, and then the rattle of the returning wave.
As though hypnotised he closed his eyes. Yes, he was walking along the Sea Road. There was that range of rock that lay out at sea like a crouching dog. There was that white twisting circle of foam that lay about the Ragged Stone — out there by itself, the rock with the melancholy bell. Then through the plunging sea he could hear its note — the moan of some one in pain. And ever that rattle, that hiss, that suspense, that crash.
“I beg your pardon—” he had run into a lady’s maid who was leading a pompous King Charles. The spaniel eyed him with hatred, the maid with distrust. He passed on — but the Sea had departed.
To chase away his gathering depression he thought that he would go in and have tea with Bobby and Alice. It was quite late when he got there, and stars were in a sky that was so delicate in colour that it seemed as though it were exhausted by the glorious day that it had had; a little sickle moon was poised above the Chelsea tree
s.
To his disgust he found that Percival and Millicent Galleon were having tea with their brother. Their reception of him very quickly showed him that “Mortimer Stant” had put a final end to any hopes that they might have had of his career as an artist.
“How’s the book doing, Westcott?” said Percival, looking upon Peter’s loose-fitting clothes, broad shoulders and square-toed shoes with evident contempt.
“Not very well thank you, Galleon.”
“Ah, well, it didn’t quite come off, did it, Westcott? — not quite. Can’t hit the nail every time. Now young Rondel in this Precipice of his has done some splendid work. We had him to tea the other day and really he seemed quite a nice unassuming fellow—”
“Oh! shut up,” Bobby growled. “You talk too much, Percival.”
Peter was growing. Quite a short time ago he would have been furious, would have gone into his shell, refused to speak to anybody, been depressed and glowering.
Now, smiling, he said:
“Alice, won’t you consider it and come up and dine with us after all to-night? It’s only my mother-in-law beside ourselves—”
“No, thanks, Peter. I mustn’t. The boy’s not quite the thing.”
“Well, all right — if you must.”
Nevertheless, it hurt, although it was only that young ass of a Galleon. That, though, was one of the pits into which one must not look.
He felt the little square box that contained the ruby, lying there so snugly in his pocket. That cheered him.
“I must be getting back. Good-night, everybody. See you at dinner, Bobby.”
He went.
After Percival and his sister had also gone Alice said: —
“Dear Peter’s growing up.”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “My sweet young brother wants the most beautiful kicking and he’ll get it very soon.” Then he looked at the clock. “I must go up and dress.”
“I’m rather glad,” said Alice, “I’m not coming. Clare gets considerably on my nerves just at present.”
“Yes,” said Bobby, “but thank God Mr. Cardillac’s in Paris — for the time being.” Then he added, reflectively —
“Dear old Peter — bless him!”
CHAPTER XV
MR. WESTCOTT SENIOR CALLS CHECKMATE
I
Peter felt as he closed the hall door behind him that The Roundabout was both cold and dark. The little hall drew dusk into its corners very swiftly and now, as he switched on the electric light, he was conscious almost of protest on the part of the place, as though it wished that it might have been left to its empty dusk.
A maid passed him.
“Has your mistress gone upstairs?” he asked her.
“I don’t think she has come in, sir.”
“Not come in?”
“No, sir, she went out about three o’clock. I don’t think she’s come back, sir.”
She’s running it pretty close, he thought as he looked at his watch — then he went slowly up to dress.
He had been more irritated by the superiorities of young Percival Galleon than he had cared to confess. Peter had, at the bottom of his soul, a most real and even touching humility. He had no kind of opinion of his abilities, of his work in comparison with the other workers that counted. Moreover he would not, were his ultimate critical sense aroused, fail to admit to himself some certain standard of achievement. Nothing that young Galleon could say mattered from the critical standpoint — nevertheless he seemed to represent, in this case, a universal opinion; even in his rejection of Peter one could see, behind him, a world of readers withdrawing their approval.
“Peter Westcott’s no good.... Peter Westcott’s no good.... Peter Westcott’s no good....”
In any case that was quite enough to account for the oppression that he was feeling — feeling with increasing force as the minutes passed. He undressed and dressed again slowly, wondering vaguely, loosely, in the back of his mind, why it was that Clare had not come in. Perhaps she had come in and the maid had not heard her. He took the ruby out of his pocket, opened the little case, looked at the jewel shining there under the electric light, thought of Clare with a sudden rush of passionate affection. “Dear thing, won’t she look lovely in it? Her neck’s so white and she’s never worn much jewellery — she’ll be pleased. She’ll know why I’m giving it to her now — a kind of seal on what we agreed to the other night. A new life ... new altogether....”
He was conscious as he took his shirt off that his windows were open and a strange scent of burning leaves was with him in the room. It was quite strong, pungent — very pleasant, that sense of burning. Burning leaves in the orchard.... But it was rather cold. Then he came back to his looking-glass and, standing there, naked save for his dress trousers, he saw that he was looking in much better health than he had looked for weeks. The colour had returned to his face, his eyes were brighter and more alert — the lines had gone. He was strong and vigorous as he stood there, his body shining under the glow. He opened and shut his hands feeling the strength, force, in his fingers. Thick-set, sturdy, with his shoulders back again now, straight, not bent as they had been.
“Oh, I’m all right — I’m all right you know. I’ll write some stuff one day...” and even behind that his thought was— “that young Galleon, by jove, I could jolly well break him if I wanted to — just snap him up.”
And then the odour of the burnt leaves filled his nostrils again; when he had dressed he turned out the light, opened the windows more widely, and stood for a moment there smelling the smoke, feeling the air on his forehead, seeing the dark fluttering shadows of the trees, the silver moon, the dim red haze of the London sky....
II
He went down to his study. Clare must be in now. Bobby would be here in a few minutes. He took up the Times but his mind wandered. “Mr. Penning Bruce was at his best last night in the new musical Comedy produced at the Apollo Theatre — the humour of his performance as Lieutenant Pottle, a humour never exaggerated nor strained....”
But he couldn’t attend. He looked up at the little clock and saw that it was nearly dinner-time. Bobby ought to be here.
He stood up and listened. The house was profoundly silent. It was often silent — but to-night it was as though everything in the house — the furniture, the pictures — were listening — as though The Roundabout itself listened.
He went into the hall — stood for a moment under the stairs — and then called “Clare — Clare.” He waited and then again “Clare, Clare — I say, it’s late. Come along—”
There was no answer.
Then, crossing the hall, he opened the door of the little drawing-room and looked in. It was black and empty — here, too, he could smell the burning leaves.
He switched on the light and instantly, perched against the Velasquez Infanta, saw the letter, white and still before the pink and grey of the picture. At the sight of the letter the room that had been empty and cold was suddenly burning hot and filled with a thousand voices. “Take it — take it — why don’t you take it? It’s been waiting there for you a long time and we’ve all been wondering when you were coming in for it. It’s waiting there for you. Take it — take it — take it!”
At the sight of it too, the floor of the room seemed instantly to pitch, slanting downwards, like the deck of a sinking ship. He caught on to the back of a chair in order that he might not slip with it. His hands shook and there was a great pain at his heart, as though some one were pulling it tight, then squeezing it in their fingers and letting it go again.
Then, as suddenly, all his agitation fled. The room was cold and empty again, and his hands were steady. He took the letter and read it.
It was written in great agitation and almost illegible, and at the bottom of the paper there was a dirty smudge that might have been a tear stain or a finger mark. It ran:
I must go. I have been so unhappy for so long and we don’t get on together, Peter, now. You don’t understand me and I must be happy. I had
always been happy until I married you — perhaps it’s partly my fault but I only hinder your work and there is some one else who loves me. He has always said so.
I would not have gone perhaps if it had not been for what you did on April 12. I know because some one saw you getting into a cab at midnight with that horrible woman. That shows that you don’t care about me, Peter. But perhaps I would have gone anyhow. Once, the night I told you about baby coming, I told you there’d be a time when you’d have to hold me. It came — and you didn’t see it. You didn’t care — you can’t have loved me or you would have seen.... But anything is better than staying here like this. I am very unhappy now but you will not care. You are cruel and hard, Peter. You have never understood what a woman wants.
I am going to Jerry in Paris. You can divorce me. I don’t care about anything now. I won’t come back — I won’t, I won’t — Clare.
He read this all through, very carefully with a serious brow. He finished it and then knew that he had not read a word of it. He went, slowly, to the window and opened it because the room was of a stifling heat. Then he took the letter again and read it. As he finished it again he was conscious that the door-bell was ringing. He wondered why it was ringing.
He was standing in the middle of the room and speaking to himself: “The humour of his performance as Lieutenant Pottle, a humour never exaggerated nor strained ...”
“The humour of his Lieutenant Pottle as a performer — never strained... never exaggerated... never strained...”
Bobby came in and found him there. Peter’s face was so white that his collar and shirt seemed to be a continuation of his body — a sudden gruesome nakedness. Both his hands were shaking and his eyes were puzzled as though he were asking himself some question that he could not solve.
Bobby started forward —
“God, Peter, what—”
“She’s gone away, Bobby,” Peter said, in a voice that shook a little but was otherwise grave and almost a whisper, so low was it. “She’s gone away — to Cardillac.” Then he added to himself— “Cardillac is my best friend.”