by Hugh Walpole
“My trouble is that my wife’s come back.”
It took her some little while to realize that — then she said:
“Your wife?”
“Yes, after nearly twenty years. Of course I don’t mean that that’s a trouble. But she’s ill — very ill indeed. She’s very unhappy. She’s had a terrible time.”
“Oh, Peter, I am sorry!”
“Yes, it’s difficult after all this time — difficult to find the joining-points. And I’m not very good at that — clumsy and slow.”
“Is her illness serious? What is it?”
“Everything! Everything’s the matter with her — heart and all. But that isn’t her chief trouble. She’s so lonely. Can’t get near to anybody. It’s so difficult to help her. I’m stupid,” he repeated. They had come to Millie’s door. They stood there facing one another in the dusk.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she repeated.
“Well, you must help me,” he suddenly jerked out, almost roughly. “Only you can.”
“Help you? How?”
“Come and see her.”
“I? . . . Oh no!” Millie shrank back.
“Yes, you must. Perhaps you can talk to her. Make her laugh a little. Make her a little less unhappy.”
“I make any one laugh?”
“Yes. Just to look at you will do her good. Something beautiful. Something to take her out of herself — —”
“Oh no, Peter, I can’t. Please, please don’t ask me.”
“Yes, yes, you must.” He was glaring at her as though he would strike her. “Do you remember when we three were in Henry’s room alone and we swore friendship? We swore to help one another. Well, this is a way you can help me. And you’ve got to do it.”
“Peter, don’t ask me — just now — —”
“Yes, now — at once. You have got to.”
Suddenly she submitted.
“Very well, then. But I’ll be no good. I’m no use to any one just now.”
“When will you come?”
“Soon. . . .”
“No, definitely. To-morrow. What time?”
“Not to-morrow, Peter. The day after.”
“Yes, to-morrow. To-morrow afternoon. About five.”
“Very well.”
“I’ll expect you.” He strode off. It was not until she was in her room that she realized that he had said no single word about her broken engagement.
CHAPTER V
AND FINDS SOME ONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF
Millie stood in Peter’s room looking about her with uneasy discomfort. She was alone there: Peter, after greeting her, had gone into the bedroom. She felt that he was in there protesting and arguing with some one who refused a meeting. She hated him for putting her in so false a position. She was tired with her day’s work. Victoria, now that she was engaged, allowing, nay encouraging, moods to sweep across her as swiftly as clouds traverse the sun. She would wait only a moment longer and then she would go. She had kept her word to Peter by coming. That was enough.
The door opened, and a little woman, a shawl around her shoulders, came out, moved to the sofa without looking at Millie, and lay down upon it. Peter followed her, arranged the cushions for her, drew a little table to her side and placed a cup and saucer upon it. Millie, in spite of herself, was touched by the careful clumsiness of his movements. Nevertheless she longed to do these things herself.
Peter turned to her. “Clare, dear,” he said, “I want you to know a very great friend of mine, Miss Trenchard. Millie, dear, this is my wife.”
Millie came over to the sofa, and in spite of her proud self-control her heart beat with pity. She realized at that instant that here was a woman who had gone so far in life’s experience beyond her own timid venturings that there could be no comparison at all between them. Her passionate love of truth was one of her finest traits; one glance at Clare Westcott’s face and her own little story faded into nothingness before that weariness, that anger, that indignation.
She took Clare’s hand and then sat down, drawing a chair closer to the sofa. Peter had left the room.
“It’s kind of you to come and see me,” Clare said indifferently, her eyes roaming about the room.
“Peter asked me,” said Millie.
“Oh, I know,” Clare said. “Do come and see my poor wife. She’s very ill, she hasn’t long to live. She’s had a very bad time. You’ll cheer her up. Wasn’t that it?”
Millie laughed. “He said that you’d been ill and he’d like me to come and see you. But I believe it was more to do me good than you. I’ve been in a bit of trouble myself and have altogether been thinking too much about myself.”
Millie’s laugh attracted Clare’s attention. Her wandering glance suddenly settled on Millie’s face.
“You’re beautiful,” she said. “I like all that bright colour. Purple suits you and you wear clothes well, too, which hardly any English girls do. It’s clever, that little bit of white there. . . . Nice shoes you have . . . lovely hair. I wonder . . .”
She broke off, staring at Millie. “Why, of course! You’re the girl Peter’s in love with.”
“Me!”
“Yes, you. Of course I discovered after I’d been back an hour that there was somebody. Peter isn’t so subtle but that you can’t find out what he’s thinking. Besides, I knew him twenty years ago and he hasn’t changed as much as I have. You’re the girl! Well, I’m not sorry. I did him an injury twenty years ago, more or less ruined his life for him, and I won’t be sorry to do him a good turn before I go. You won’t have long to wait, my dear. I was very nearly finished last night, if you want to know. I can tell you a few things about Peter that it will be good for you to understand if you’re going to live with him.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong! You’re entirely wrong!” cried Millie. “I’m sure Peter doesn’t love me, and even if he did — anyway, I don’t love him. I was engaged until a few days ago. It has just been broken off — some one I loved very much. That’s the trouble I spoke about just now.”
“Tell me about it,” said Clare, looking at her with eyes half-closed.
“Oh, but you wouldn’t — it isn’t — —”
“Yes, I would . . . Yes, it is. . . . Remember there’s nothing about men I don’t know. You look so young: you can’t know very much. Perhaps I can help you.”
“No,” said Millie, shaking her head. “You can’t help me. No one can help me but myself. It’s all over — quite, quite over.”
“What did he do, the young man?”
“We were engaged six months ago. Meanwhile he was really engaged to another girl in his own village. She is going to have a baby this month — his baby. I didn’t know of this. He never would have told me if some one hadn’t gone to his village and found it all out.”
“Some one? Who? A woman?”
“Yes. She thought she was helping me.”
“Are you sure it’s true?”
“Yes. He admitted it himself.”
“Hum. Were you very much in love with him?”
“Yes, terribly.”
“No, not terribly, my dear, or you’d have gone off with him whatever happened. Do you love him still?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to belong to me any more. It was knowing that he wasn’t going to help that poor girl about her baby that came right down between us. That was cruel, and cruelty’s worse than anything. He could have been cruel to me — he was sometimes, and I daresay I was to him. People generally are when they are in love with one another. But that poor girl — —”
“Never mind that poor girl. We don’t know how much of it was her doing. Perhaps she’s not going to have a baby at all. Anyway, it may not be his baby. No, if you’d been really in love with him you’d have gone down to that village and found it all out for yourself, the exact truth. And then, probably you’d have married him even if it had been true. . . . Oh, yes, you would. My dear, you’re too young to know anything about love yet. Now tell me — weren’t you
feeling very uncertain about it all long before this happened?”
“I had some miserable times.”
“Yes, more and more miserable as time went on. But not so miserable as they are now. I know. But what you’re feeling now is loneliness. And soon you won’t be lonely with your prettiness and health and love of life.”
“Oh, you’re wrong! you’re wrong!” cried Millie. “You are indeed. Love is over for me. I’m never going to think of it again. That part of my life’s done.”
Clare smiled. “Good God, how young you are!” she said. “I was like that myself once, another life, another world. But I was never like you, never lovely as you are. I was pretty in a commonplace kind of way. Pretty enough to turn poor Peter’s head. That’s about all. Now listen, and I’ll tell you a little about myself. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes,” said Millie.
The memory came to her of Peter telling her this same story; for a flashing second she saw him standing beside her, the look that he gave her. Was she not glad now that he loved her?
Clare began: “I was the daughter of a London doctor — an only child. My parents spoilt me terribly, and I thought I was wonderful, clever, and beautiful and everything. Of course, I always meant to be married, and there were several young men I was considering, and then Peter came along. He had just published his first book and it was a great success. Every one was talking about it. He was better-looking then than he is now, not so fat, and he had a romantic history — starving in the slums and some one discovered him and just saved his life. He was wildly in love with me. I thought he was going to be great and famous, and I liked the idea of being the wife of a famous man. And then for a moment, perhaps, I really was in love with him, physically, you know. And I knew nothing about life, nothing whatever. I thought it would be always comfortable and safe, that I should have my way in everything as I always had done. Well, we were married, and it went wrong from the beginning. Peter knew nothing about women at all. He had strange friends whom I couldn’t bear. Then I had a child and that frightened me. Then he got on badly with mother, who was always interfering. Then the other books weren’t as successful as the first, and I thought he ought to give me more good times and grudged the hours he spent over his work. Then our boy died and the last link between us seemed to be broken. . . . Well, to cut a long story short, his best friend came along and made love to me, and I ran off with him to Paris.”
“Oh!” cried Millie, “poor Peter!”
“Yes, and poor me too, although you may not believe it. I only ran off with him because I hated my London life so and hated Peter and wanted some one to make a fuss of me. I hadn’t been in Paris a week before I knew my mistake. Never run off with a man you’re not married to, my dear, if you’re under thirty. You’re simply asking for it. He was disappointed too, I suppose — at any rate after about six months of it he left me on some excuse and went off to the East. I wasn’t sorry; I was thinking of Peter again and I’d have gone back to him, I believe, if my mother hadn’t prevented me. . . . Well, I lived with her in Paris for two years and then — and then — Maurice appeared.”
She stopped, closing her eyes, lying back against her cushions, her hand on her heart. She shook her head when Millie wanted to fetch somebody.
At last she went on: “No, let’s have this time alone together. It may be the only time we’ll get . . . Maurice . . . yes. That was love, if you like. Didn’t I know the difference? You bet! He was a French poet. Funny! two writers, Peter and Maurice, when I myself hadn’t the brain of a snail. But Maurice didn’t care about my brain. I don’t know what he did care about — but I gave him the best I had. He was married already of course, and so was I, but we went off together and travelled. He had some money — not very much, but enough — and things I wouldn’t have endured for Peter’s sake I adored for Maurice’s.
“We settled down finally in Spain and had three divine years. Then Maurice fell ill, money ran short, I fell ill, everything was wrong. But never our love — that never changed, never faltered. We quarrelled sometimes, of course, but even in the middle of the worst of our fights we knew that it wasn’t serious, that really nothing could separate us but death — for once that sentimental phrase was justified. Well, death did. Two months before the War he died. My mother had died the year before and as I learnt later my father two years before. But I didn’t care what happened to me. When real love has come to you, then you do know what loneliness means. The War gave me something to do but my heart was all wrong. I fell ill again in Paris, was all alone, tried to die and couldn’t, tried to live and couldn’t. . . . We won’t talk about that time if you don’t mind.
“I had often thought of Peter, of course. I felt guilty about him as about nothing else in my life. He was so young when I married him, such an infant, so absurdly romantic; I spoilt everything for him as I couldn’t have spoilt it for most men. He is such a child still. That’s why you ought to marry him, my dear, because you’re such a child too. And your brother — infants all three of you. I used to think of returning to him. I myself was romantic enough to think that he might still be in love with me, and although I was much too tired to care for any one again, the thought of some one caring for me again was pleasant. Twice I nearly hunted him out. Once hunger almost drove me but I tried not to go for that reason, having, you see, still a scrap of sentiment about me. Then a man who’d been very good to me but at last couldn’t stand my moods and tantrums any longer left me — small blame to him! — and I gathered my last few coppers together and came to Peter. I nearly died on his doorstep — now instead I’m going to die inside. It’s warmer and more comfortable.”
“No, no, no, you’re not!” cried Millie. “You’re going to live. Peter and I will see to it. We’re going to make you live.”
Clare frowned.
“Don’t be sentimental, my dear. Face facts. It would be extremely tiresome for you if I lived. You may not be in love with Peter but you like him very much, and there’ll be nothing more awkward for you than having a sick woman lying round here — —”
Millie broke in:
“There you’re wrong! you’re wrong indeed! I’d love to make you well. It isn’t sentiment. It’s truth. How have I dared to tell you about my silly little affair when you’ve suffered as you have! How selfish I am and egoistic — give me a chance to help you and I’ll show you what I can do.”
Clare shook her head again. “Well, then,” she said, “if I can’t put you off that way I’ll put you off another. You’d bore me in a week, you and Peter. I’ve been with bad people so long that I find good ones very tiresome. Mother was bad. That’s a terrible thing to say about your mother, isn’t it? — but it’s true. And I’ve got a bad strain from her. You’re a nice girl and beautiful to look at, but you’re too English for me. I should feel as though you were District Visiting when you came to see me. Just as I feel about Peter when he drops his voice and walks so heavily on tip-toe and looks at me with such anxious eyes. No, my dear, I’ve told you all this because I want you to make it up to Peter when I’ve gone. You’re ideally suited to one another. When I look at him I feel as though I’d been torturing one of those white mice we used to keep at school. I’m not for you and you’re not for me. My game’s finished. I’ll give you my blessing and depart.”
Millie flushed and answered slowly: “How do you know I’m so good? How do you know I know nothing about life? Perhaps I have deceived myself over this love affair. It was my first: I gave him all I could. Perhaps you’re right. If I’d loved him more I’d have given him everything. . . . But I don’t know. Is it being a District Visitor to respect yourself and him? Is the body more important than anything else? I don’t call myself good. . . . I don’t call myself bad. It’s only the different values we put on things.”
Clare looked at her curiously. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “Physical love when that’s all there is, is terribly disappointing — an awful sell. I could have been a friend of yours if
I’d been younger. There! Get up a moment — stand over there. I want to look at you!”
Millie got up, crossed the room and stood, her arms at her side, her eyes gravely watching.
Clare sat up, leaning on her elbow. “Yes, you’re lovely. Men will be crazy about you — you’d better marry Peter quickly. And you’re fine too. There’s spirit in you. Move your arm. So! Now turn your head. . . . Ah, that’s good! That’s good! . . .”
She suddenly turned, buried her face in the cushions and burst into tears. Millie ran across to her and put her arms round her. Clare lay for a moment, her body shaken with sobs. Then she pushed her away.
“No, no. I don’t want petting. It’s only — what it all might have been. You’re so young: it’s all before you. It’s over for me — over, over!”
She gave her one more long look.
“Now go,” she said, “go quickly — or I’ll want to poison you. Leave me alone — —”
Millie took her hat and coat and went out into the rain.
CHAPTER VI
CLARE GOES
That night Clare died.
Peter slept always now in the sitting-room with the door open lest she should need anything. He was tired that night, exhausted with struggles of conscience, battles of the flesh, forebodings of the future; he slept heavily without dreams. When at seven in the morning he came to see whether she were awake, he found her, staring ironically in front of her, dead.
Heart-failure the doctor afterwards said. He had told Peter days before that veronal and other things were old friends of hers. To-day no sign of them. Nevertheless . . . had she assisted herself a little along the inevitable road? Before he left on the evening before she had talked to him. He was often afterwards to see her, sitting up on the sofa, her yellow hair piled untidily on her head, her face like the mask of a tired child, her eyes angry as always.