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diff --git a/7887-h/7887-h.htm b/7887-h/7887-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf4cf9a --- /dev/null +++ b/7887-h/7887-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,23478 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Fortitude, by Hugh Walpole + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fortitude, by Hugh Walpole + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fortitude + +Author: Hugh Walpole + + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7887] +This file was first posted on May 31, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORTITUDE *** + + + + +Text file produced by The Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FORTITUDE + </h1> + <h2> + By Hugh Walpole + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + To <br /> <br /> Charles Maude <br /> <br /> The best of friends and the most + honest of critics + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_TOC"> TABLE OF CONTENTS </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>BOOK I — SCAW HOUSE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> <b>BOOK II — THE BOOKSHOP</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> <b>BOOK III — THE ROUNDABOUT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> <b>BOOK IV — SCAW HOUSE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TABLE OF CONTENTS + </h2> + <p> + <b>BOOK I: SCAW HOUSE</b> <br /> I INTRODUCTION TO COURAGE <br /> II HOW THE + WESTCOTT FAMILY SAT UP FOR PETER <br /> III OF THE DARK SHOP OF ZACHARY + TAN, AND OF THE DECISIONS THAT THE <br /> PEOPLE IN SCAW HOUSE CAME TO + CONCERNING PETER <br /> IV IN WHICH “DAWSON'S,” AS THE GATE OF LIFE, IS + PROVED A DISAPPOINTMENT <br /> V DAWSON'S, THE GATE INTO HELL <br /> VI A + LOOKING-GLASS, A SILVER MATCH-BOX, A GLASS OF WHISKY, AND <br /> VOX POPULI + <br /> VII PRIDE OF LIFE <br /> VIII PETER AND HIS MOTHER <br /> IX THE THREE + WESTCOTTS <br /> X SUNLIGHT, LIMELIGHT, DAYLIGHT <br /> XI ALL KINDS OF FOG + IN THE CHARING CROSS ROAD <br /> XII BROCKETT'S: ITS CHARACTERS AND + ESPECIALLY MRS. BROCKETT <br /><br /> <b>BOOK II: THE BOOKSHOP</b> <br /> I + “REUBEN HALLARD” <br /> II THE MAN ON THE LION <br /> III ROYAL PERSONAGES + ARE COMING <br /> IV A LITTLE DUST <br /> V A NARROW STREET <br /> VI THE + WORLD AND BUCKET LANE <br /> VII DEVIL'S MARCH <br /> VIII STEPHEN'S CHAPTER + <br /><br /> <b>BOOK III: THE ROUNDABOUT</b> <br /> I NO. 72, CHEYNE WALK + <br /> II A CHAPTER ABOUT SUCCESS: HOW TO WIN IT, HOW TO KEEP IT—WITH + A <br /> NOTE AT THE END FROM HENRY GALLEON <br /> III THE ENCOUNTER <br /> + IV THE ROUNDABOUT <br /> V THE IN-BETWEENS <br /> VI BIRTH OF THE HEIR <br /> + VII DECLARATION OF HAPPINESS <br /> VIII BLINDS DOWN <br /> IX WILD MEN + <br /> X ROCKING THE ROUNDABOUT <br /> XI WHY? <br /> XII A WOMAN CALLED ROSE + BENNETT <br /> XIII “MORTIMER STANT” <br /> XIV PETER BUYS A PRESENT <br /> + XV MR. WESTCOTT SENIOR CALLS CHECKMATE <br /><br /> <b>BOOK IV: SCAW HOUSE</b> + <br /> I THE SEA <br /> II SCAW HOUSE <br /> III NORAH MONOGUE <br /> IV THE + GREY HILL <br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK I — SCAW HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION TO COURAGE + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + “'Tisn't life that matters! 'Tis the courage you bring to it” ... this + from old Frosted Moses in the warm corner by the door. There might have + been an answer, but Dicky Tasset, the Town Idiot, filled in the pause with + the tale that he was telling Mother Figgis. “And I ran—a mile or + more with the stars dotted all over the ground for yer pickin', as yer + might say....” + </p> + <p> + A little boy, Peter Westcott, heard what old Frosted Moses had said, and + turned it over in his mind. He was twelve years old, was short and + thick-necked, and just now looked very small because he was perched on so + high a chair. It was one of the four ancient chairs that Sam Figgis always + kept in the great kitchen behind the taproom. He kept them there partly + because they were so very old and partly because they fell in so + pleasantly with the ancient colour and strength of the black smoky + rafters. The four ancient chairs were carved up the legs with faces and + arms and strange crawling animals and their backs were twisted into the + oddest shapes and were uncomfortable to lean against, but Peter Westcott + sat up very straight with his little legs dangling in front of him and his + grey eyes all over the room at once. He could not see all of the room + because there were depths that the darkness seized and filled, and the + great fiery place, with its black-stained settle, was full of mysterious + shadows. A huge fire was burning and leaping in the fastnesses of that + stone cavity, and it was by the light of this alone that the room was + illumined—and this had the effect as Peter noticed, of making + certain people, like Mother Figgis and Jane Clewer, quite monstrous, and + fantastic with their skirts and hair and their shadows on the wall. Before + Frosted Moses had said that sentence about Courage, Peter had been taking + the room in. Because he had been there very often before he knew every + flagstone in the floor and every rafter in the roof and all the sporting + pictures on the walls, and the long shining row of mugs and coloured + plates by the fire-place and the cured hams hanging from the ceiling ... + but to-night was Christmas Eve and a very especial occasion, and he was + sure to be beaten when he got home, and so must make the very most of his + time. He watched the door also for Stephen Brant, who was late, but might + arrive at any moment. Had it not been for Stephen Brant Peter knew that he + would not have been allowed there at all. The Order of the Kitchen was + jealously guarded and Sam Figgis, the Inn-keeper, would have considered so + small a child a nuisance, but Stephen was the most popular man in the + county, and he had promised that Peter would be quiet—and he <i>was</i> + quiet, even at that age; no one could be so quiet as Peter when he chose. + And then they liked the boy after a time. He was never in the way, and he + was wonderfully wise for his years: he was a strong kid, too, and had + muscles.... + </p> + <p> + So Peter crept there when he could, although it very often meant a beating + afterwards, but the Kitchen was worth a good many beatings, and he would + have gone through Hell—and did indeed go through his own special + Hell on many occasions—to be in Stephen's company. They were all + nice to him even when Stephen wasn't there, but there were other reasons, + besides the people, that drew Peter to the place. + </p> + <p> + It was partly perhaps because The Bending Mule was built right out into + the sea, being surrounded on three sides by water. This was all twenty + years ago, and I believe that now the Inn has been turned into an Arts + Club, and there are tea-parties and weekly fashion papers where there had + once been those bloody fights and Mother Figgis sitting like some witch + over the fire; but it is no matter. Treliss is changed, of course, and so + is the world, and there are politeness and sentiment where once there were + oaths and ferocity, and there is much soap instead of grimy hands and + unwashen faces ... and the fishing is sadly on the decline, but there are + good drapers' shops in the town. + </p> + <p> + For Peter the charm of the place was that “he was out at sea.” One could + hear quite distinctly the lap of the waves against the walls and on stormy + nights the water screamed and fought and raged outside and rolled in + thundering echoes along the shore. To-night everything was still, and the + snow was falling heavily, solemnly over the town. + </p> + <p> + The snow, and the black sea, and the lights that rose tier on tier like + crowds at a circus, could be seen through the uncurtained windows. + </p> + <p> + The snow and quiet of the world “out-along” made the lights and warmth of + the room the more comforting and exciting, and Sam Figgis had hung holly + about the walls and dangled a huge bunch of mistletoe from the middle beam + and poor Jane Clewer was always walking under it accidentally and waiting + a little, but nobody kissed her. These things Peter noticed; he also + noticed that Dicky the Idiot was allowed to be present as a very great + favour because it was Christmas Eve and snowing so hard, that the room was + more crowded than he had ever seen it, and that Mother Figgis, with her + round face and her gnarled and knotted hands, was at her very merriest and + in the best of tempers. All these things Peter had noticed before Frosted + Moses (so called because of his long white beard and wonderful age) made + his remark about Courage, but as soon as that remark was made Peter's + thoughts were on to it as the hounds are on to a fox. + </p> + <p> + “'Tisn't life that matters, but the Courage yer bring to it....” + </p> + <p> + That, of course, at once explained everything. It explained his own father + and his home, it explained poor Mrs. Prothero and her two sons who were + drowned, it explained Stephen's cousin who was never free from the most + painful rheumatics, and it explained Stephen himself who was never afraid + of any one or anything. Peter stared at Frosted Moses, whose white beard + was shining in the fire-place and his boots were like large black boats; + but the old man was drawing at his pipe, and had made his remark + apparently in connection with nothing at all. Peter was also disappointed + to see that the room at large had paid no attention to the declaration. + </p> + <p> + Courage. That was what they were all there for, and soon, later in the + evening, he would take his beating like a man, and would not cry out as he + had done the last time. And then, at the thought of the beating, he + shivered a little on his tall chair and his two short legs in their black + stockings beat against the wooden bars, and wished that he might have + stayed in some dark corner of The Bending Mule during the rest of the + night and not go home until the morning—or, indeed, a very much + better and happier thing, never go home again at all. He would get a worse + beating for staying out so late, but it was something of a comfort to + reflect that he would have been beaten in any case; old Simon Parlow, who + taught him mathematics and Latin, with a little geography and history + during six days of the week, had given him that morning a letter to his + father directed in the old man's most beautiful handwriting to the effect + that Master Westcott had made no progress at all in his sums during the + last fortnight, had indeed made no attempt at progress, and had given + William Daffoll, the rector's son, a bleeding nose last Wednesday when he + ought to have been adding, dividing, and subtracting. Old Parlow had shown + him the letter so that Peter knew that there was no escape, unless indeed + Peter destroyed the paper, and that only meant that punishment was + deferred. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it meant a beating, and Peter had hung about the town and the shore + all the afternoon and evening because he was afraid. This fact of his fear + puzzled him and he had often considered the matter. He was not, in any + other way, a coward, and he had done, on many occasions, things that other + friends of his own age had hung back from, but the thought of his father + made him quite sick with fear somewhere in the middle of his stomach. He + considered the matter very carefully and he decided at last (and he was + very young for so terrible a discovery) that it was because his father + liked beating him that he was afraid. He knew that his father liked it + because he had watched his mouth and had heard the noise that came through + his lips. And this, again, was rather strange because his father did not + look as though he would like it; he had a cold face like a stone and was + always in black clothes, but he did not, as a rule, show that he was + pleased or angry or sorry—he never showed things. + </p> + <p> + Now these words of Frosted Moses explained everything. It was because his + father knew that it was Courage that mattered that he liked to beat Peter + ... it was good for Peter to learn Courage. + </p> + <p> + “'Tisn't life that matters” ... it isn't a beating that matters.... + </p> + <p> + Frosted Moses was a great deal wiser than old Simon Parlow, who, in spite + of his knowing so much about sums, knew nothing whatever about life. He + knew nothing whatever about Courage either and shook like a leaf when his + sister, Miss Jessel Parlow, was angry with him, as she very often had + reason to be. Peter despised the old man with his long yellow tooth that + hung over his lower lip, and his dirty grey hair that strayed from under + his greasy black velvet cap (like wisps of hay). Peter never cared + anything for the words or the deeds of old Parlow.... But Frosted Moses! + ... he had lived for ever, and people said that he could never die. Peter + had heard that he had been in the Ark with Noah, and he had often wished + to ask him questions about that interesting period, about Ham, Shem and + Japheth, and about the animals. Of course, therefore, he knew everything + about Life, and this remark of his about Courage was worth considering. + Peter watched him very solemnly and noticed how his white beard shone in + the fire-light, how there was a red handkerchief falling out of one + enormous pocket, and how there was a big silver ring on one brown and bony + finger ... and then the crowd of sailors at the door parted, and Stephen + Brant came in. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Stephen Brant, the most wonderful person in the world! Always, through + life, Peter must have his most wonderful person, and sometimes those + Heroes knew of it and lived up to his worshipping and sometimes they knew + of it and could not live up to it, but most frequently they never knew + because Peter did not let them see. This Hero worship is at the back of a + great deal that happened to Peter, of a great deal of his sorrow, and of + all of his joy, and he would not have been Peter without it; very often + these Heroes, poor things, came tumbling from their pedestals, often they + came, in very shame, down of their own accord, and perhaps of them all + Stephen only was worthy of his elevation, and he never knew that he was + elevated. + </p> + <p> + He knew now, of course, that Peter loved him; but Peter was a little boy, + and was taken by persons who were strong and liked a laugh and were kind + in little ways. Stephen knew that when Peter grew older he must love other + and wiser people. He was a very large man, six foot three and broad, with + a brown beard, and grey eyes like Peter's. He had been a fisherman, but + now he was a farmer, because it paid better—he had an old mother, + one enemy, and very many friends; he had loved a girl, and she had been + engaged to him for two years, but another man had taken her away and + married her—and that is why he had an enemy. He greeted his friends + and kissed poor Jane Clewer under the mistletoe, and then kissed old + Mother Figgis, who pushed him away with a laugh and “Coom up there—where + are yer at?”—and Peter watched him until his turn also should come. + His legs were beating the wooden bars again with excitement, but he would + not say anything. He saw Stephen as something very much larger and more + stupendous than any one else in the room. There were men there bigger of + body perhaps, and men who were richer—Stephen had only four cows on + his farm and he never did much with his hay—but there was no one who + could change a room simply by entering it as Stephen could. + </p> + <p> + At last the moment came—Stephen turned round—“Why, boy!” + </p> + <p> + Peter was glad that the rest of the room was busied once more with its + talking, laughing, and drinking, and some old man (sitting on a table and + his nose coming through the tobacco-smoke like a rat through a hole in the + wall) had struck up a tune on a fiddle. Peter was glad, because no one + watched them together. He liked to meet Stephen in private. He buried his + small hand in the brown depths of Stephen's large one, and then as Stephen + looked uncertainly round the room, he whispered: “Steve—my chair, + and me sitting on you—please.” + </p> + <p> + It was a piece of impertinence to call him “Steve,” of course, and when + other people were there it was “Mr. Brant,” but in their own privacy it + was their own affair. Peter slipped down from his chair, and Stephen sat + down on it, and then Peter was lifted up and leant his head back somewhere + against the middle button of Stephen's waistcoat, just where his heart was + noisiest, and he could feel the hard outline of Stephen's enormous silver + watch that his family had had, so Stephen said, for a hundred years. Now + was the blissful time, the perfect moment. The rest of the world was + busied with life—the window showed the dull and then suddenly + shining flakes of snow, the lights and the limitless sea—the room + showed the sanded floor, the crowd of fishermen drinking, their feet + moving already to the tune of the fiddle, the fisher girls with their + coloured shawls, the great, swinging smoky lamp, the huge fire, Dicky the + fool, Mother Figgis, fat Sam the host, old Frosted Moses ... the gay + romantic world—and these two in their corner, and Peter so happy + that no beatings in the world could terrify. + </p> + <p> + “But, boy,” says Stephen, bending down so that the end of his beard + tickles Peter's neck, “what are yer doing here so late? Your father...?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going back to be beaten, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “If yer go now perhaps yer won't be beaten so bad?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Steve! ... I'm staying ... like this ... always.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter knew, in spite of the way that the big brown hand pressed his + white one in sympathy, that Stephen was worried and that he was thinking + of something. He knew, although he could not see, that Stephen's eyes were + staring right across the room and that they were looking, in the way that + they had, past walls and windows and streets—somewhere for + something.... + </p> + <p> + Peter knew a little about Stephen's trouble. He did not understand it + altogether, but he had seen the change in Stephen, and he knew that he was + often very sad, and that moods came upon him when he could do nothing but + think and watch and wait—and then his face grew very grey and his + eyes very hard, and his hands were clenched. Peter knew that Stephen had + an enemy, and that one day he would meet him. + </p> + <p> + Some of the men and girls were dancing now in the middle of the room. The + floor and the walls shook a little with the noise that the heavy boots of + the fishermen made and the smoky lamp swung from side to side. The heat + was great and some one opened the window and the snow came swirling, in + little waves and eddies, in and out, blown by the breeze—dark and + heavy outside against the clouded sky, white and delicate and swiftly + vanishing in the room. Dicky the Fool came across the floor and talked to + Stephen in his smiling, rambling way. People pitied Dicky and shook their + heads when his name was mentioned, but Peter never could understand this + because the Fool seemed always to be happy and cheerful, and he saw so + many things that other people never saw at all. It was only when he was + drunk that he was unhappy, and he was pleased with such very little + things, and he told such <i>wonderful</i> stories. + </p> + <p> + Stephen was always kind to the Fool, and the Fool worshipped him, but + to-night Peter saw that he was paying no heed to the Fool's talk. The Fool + had a story about three stars that he had seen rolling down the Grey Hill, + and behold, when they got to the bottom—“little bright nickety + things, like new saxpennies—it was suddenly so dark that Dicky had + to light his lantern and grope his way home with that, and all the frogs + began croaking down in the marsh 'something terrible'—now what was + the meaning of that?” + </p> + <p> + But Stephen was paying no attention. His eyes were set on the open window + and the drifting snow. Men came in stamping their great boots on the floor + and rubbing their hands together—the fiddle was playing more madly + than ever—and at every moment some couple would stop under the + mistletoe and the girl would scream and laugh, and the man's kiss could be + heard all over the room; through the open window came the sound of church + bells. + </p> + <p> + Stephen bent down and whispered in the boy's ear: “Yer'd best be going + now, Peter, lad. 'Tis half-past nine and, chance, if yer go back now yer + lickin' 'ull not be so bad.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter whispered back: “Not yet, Stephen—a little while longer.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was tremendously excited. He could never remember being quite so + excited before. It was all very thrilling, of course, with the dancing and + the music and the lights, but there was more than that in it. Stephen was + so unlike himself, but then possibly Christmas made him sad, because he + would be thinking of last Christmas and the happy time that he had had + because his girl had been with him—but there was more than that in + it. Then, suddenly, a curious thing happened to Peter. He was not asleep, + he was not even drowsy—he was sitting with his eyes wide open, + staring at the window. He saw the window with its dark frame, and he saw + the snow .. and then, in an instant, the room, the people, the music, the + tramping of feet, the roar of voices, these things were all swept away, + and instead there was absolute stillness, only the noise that a little + wind makes when it rustles through the blades of grass, and above him rose + the Grey Hill with its funny sugar-loaf top and against it heavy black + clouds were driving—outlined sharply against the sky was the + straight stone pillar that stood in the summit of the Grey Hill and was + called by the people the Giant's Finger. He could hear some sheep crying + in the distance and the tinkling of their bells. Then suddenly the picture + was swept away, and the room and the people and the dancing were before + him and around him once more. He was not surprised by this—it had + happened to him before at the most curious times, he had seen, in the same + way, the Grey Hill and the Giant's Finger and he had felt the cold wind + about his neck, and always something had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Stephen,” he whispered, “Stephen—” + </p> + <p> + But Stephen's hand was crushing his hand like an iron glove, and Stephen's + eyes were staring, like the eyes of a wild animal, at the door. A man, a + short, square man with a muffler round his throat, and a little mouth and + little ears, had come in and was standing by the door, looking round the + room. + </p> + <p> + Stephen whispered gently in Peter's ear: “Run home, Peter boy,” and he + kissed him very softly on the cheek—then he put him down on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + Stephen rose from his chair and stood for an instant staring at the door. + Then he walked across the room, brushing the people aside, and tapped the + little man with the muffler on the shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “Samuel Burstead,” he said, “good evenin' to yer.” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + All the room seemed to cease moving and talking at the moment when Stephen + Brant said that. They stood where they were like the people in the <i>Sleeping + Beauty</i>, and Peter climbed up on to his chair again to see what was + going to happen. He pulled up his stockings, and then sat forward in his + chair with his eyes gazing at Stephen and his hands very tightly clenched. + When, afterwards, he grew up and thought at all about his childhood, this + scene always remained, over and beyond all the others. He wondered + sometimes why it was that he remembered it all so clearly, that he had it + so dramatically and forcibly before him, when many more recent happenings + were clouded and dull, but when he was older he knew that it was because + it stood for so much of his life, it was because that Christmas Eve in + those dim days was really the beginning of everything, and in the later + interpretation of it so much might be understood. + </p> + <p> + But, to a boy of that age, the things that stood out were not, of + necessity, the right things and any unreality that it might have had was + due perhaps to his fastening on the incidental, fantastic things that a + small child notices, always more vividly than a grown person. In the very + first instant of Stephen's speaking to the man with the muffler it was + Dicky the Fool's open mouth and staring eyes that showed Peter how + important it was. The Fool had risen from his chair and was standing + leaning forward, his back black against the blazing fire, his silly mouth + agape and great terror in his eyes. Being odd in his mind, he felt perhaps + something in the air that the others did not feel, and Peter seemed to + catch fright from his staring eyes. + </p> + <p> + The man at the door had turned round when Stephen Brant spoke to him, and + had pushed his way out of the crowd of men and stood alone fingering his + neck. + </p> + <p> + “I'm here, Stephen Brant, if yer want me.” + </p> + <p> + Sam Figgis came forward then and said something to Stephen, and then + shrugged his shoulders and went back to his wife. He seemed to feel that + no one could interfere between the two men—it was too late for + interference. Then things happened very quickly. Peter saw that they had + all—men and women—crowded back against the benches and the + wall and were watching, very silently and with great excitement. He found + it very difficult to see, but he bent his head and peered through the legs + of a big fisherman in front of him. He was shaking all over his body. + Stephen had never before appeared so terrible to him; he had seen him when + he was very angry and when he was cross and ill-tempered, but now he was + very ominous in his quiet way, and his eyes seemed to have changed colour. + The small boy could only see the middle of the floor and pieces of legs + and skirts and trousers, but he knew by the feeling in the room that + Stephen and the little man were going to fight. Then he moved his head + round and saw between two shoulders, and he saw that the two men were + stripping to the waist. The centre of the room was cleared, and Sam Figgis + came forward to speak to Stephen again, and this time there was more + noise, and the people began to shout out loud and the men grew more and + more excited. There had often been fights in that room before, and Peter + had witnessed one or two, but there had never been this solemnity and + ceremony—every one was very grave. It did not occur to Peter that it + was odd that it should be allowed; no one thought of policemen twenty + years ago in Treliss and Sam Figgis was more of a monarch in The Bending + Mule than Queen Victoria. And now two of the famous old chairs were placed + at opposite corners, and quite silently two men, with serious faces, as + though this were the most important hour of their life, stood behind them. + Stephen and the other man, stripped to their short woollen drawers, came + into the middle of the room. Stephen had hair all over his chest, and his + arms and his neck were tremendous; and Peter as he looked at him thought + that he must be the strongest man in the world. His enemy was smooth and + shiny, but he seemed very strong, and you could see the muscles of his + arms and legs move under his skin. Some one had marked a circle with + chalk, and all the men and women, quite silent now, made a dark line along + the wall. The lamp in the middle of the room was still swinging a little, + and they had forgotten to close the window, so that the snow, which was + falling more lightly now, came in little clouds with breaths of wind, into + the room—and the bells were yet pealing and could be heard very + plainly against the silence. + </p> + <p> + Then Sam Figgis, who was standing with his legs wide apart, said something + that Peter could not catch, and a little sigh of excitement went up all + round the room. Peter, who was clutching his chair with both hands, and + choking, very painfully, in his throat, knew, although he had no reason + for his knowledge, that the little man with the shining chest meant to + kill Stephen if he could. + </p> + <p> + The two men moved round the circle very slowly with their fists clenched + and their eyes watching every movement—then, suddenly, they closed. + At once Peter saw that the little man was very clever, cleverer than + Stephen. He moved with amazing quickness. Stephen's blows came like + sledge-hammers, and sometimes they fell with a dull heavy sound on the + other man's face and on his chest, but more often they missed altogether. + The man seemed to be everywhere at once, and although the blows that he + gave Stephen seemed to have little effect yet he got past the other's + defence again and again. + </p> + <p> + Then, again, the figures in front of Peter closed in and he saw nothing. + He stood on his chair—no one noticed him now—but he could not + see. His face was very white, and his stockings had fallen down over his + boots, but with every movement he was growing more afraid. He caught an + instant's vision of Stephen's face, and he saw that it was white and that + he was breathing hard. The room seemed to be ominously silent, and then + men would break out into strange threatening sounds, and Peter could see + one woman—a young girl—with a red shawl about her shoulders, + her back against the wall, staring with a white face. + </p> + <p> + He could not see—he could not see.... + </p> + <p> + He murmured once very politely—he thought he said it aloud but it + was really under his breath: “Please, please—would you mind—if + you stood aside—just a little....” but the man in front of him was + absorbed and heard nothing. Then he knew that there was a pause, he caught + a glimpse of the brick floor and he saw that Stephen was sitting back in + his chair—his face was white, and blood was trickling out from the + corner of his mouth on to his beard. Then Peter remembered old Frosted + Moses' words: “The courage you bring to it....” and he sat back in his + chair again and, with hands clenched, waited. He would be brave, braver + than he had ever been before, and perhaps in some strange way his bravery + would help Stephen. He determined with all the power that he had to be + brave. They had begun again, he heard the sound of the blows, the movement + of the men's feet on the rough brick of the floor; people cried out, the + man in front of him pressed forward and he had a sudden view. Stephen was + on one knee and his head was down and the other man was standing over him. + It was all over—Stephen was beaten—Stephen would be killed, + and in another minute Peter would have pushed past the people and run into + the middle of the room, but Sam Figgis had again come forward, and the two + men were in their chairs again. There followed another terrible time when + Peter could see nothing. He waited—he could hear them moving again, + the noise of their breathing and of their feet, the men in the crowd were + pressing nearer, but there was no word spoken. + </p> + <p> + He must see—at all costs he must see. And he climbed down from his + chair, and crept unnoticed towards the front. Nobody saw him or realised + him.... Stephen was bending back, he seemed to be slowly sinking down. The + other man, from whose face blood was now streaming, was pressing on to + him. Peter knew that it was all over and that there was no hope; there was + a dreadful cold, hard pain in his throat, and he could scarcely see. + Courage! he must have it for Stephen. With every bit of his soul and his + mind and his body he was brave. He stood taut—his little legs stiff + beneath him and flung defiance at the world. He and Stephen were fighting + that shiny man together—both of them—now. Courage! Stephen's + head lifted a little, and then slowly Peter saw him pulling his body + together—he grew rigid, he raised his head, and, as a tree falls, + his fist crashed into his enemy's face. The man dropped without a word and + lay motionless. It was over. Stephen gravely watched for a moment the + senseless body and then sat back in his chair, his head bowed on his + chest. + </p> + <p> + The fight had not, perhaps, been like that—there must have been many + other things that happened, but that was always how Peter remembered it. + And now there was confusion—a great deal of noise and people talking + very loudly, but Stephen said nothing at all. He did not look at the body + again, but when he had recovered a little, still without a word to any one + and with his eyes grave and without expression, he moved to the corner + where his clothes lay. + </p> + <p> + “'E's not dead.” + </p> + <p> + “No—give 'im room there, he's moving,” and from the back of the + crowd the Fool's silly face, peering over... + </p> + <p> + Peter crept unnoticed to the door. The clocks were striking ten, and some + one in the street was singing. He pulled up his stockings and fastened his + garters, then he slipped out into the snow and saw that the sky was full + of stars and that the storm had passed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + HOW THE WESTCOTT FAMILY SAT UP FOR PETER + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The boy always reckoned that, walking one's quickest, it took half an hour + from the door of The Bending Mule to Scaw House, where his father lived. + If a person ran all the way twenty minutes would perhaps cover it, but, + most of the time, the road went up hill and that made running difficult; + he had certainly no intention of running to-night, there were too many + things to think about. That meant, then, that he would arrive home about + half-past ten, and there would be his aunt and his grandfather and his + father sitting up waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + The world was very silent, and the snow lay on the round cobbles of the + steep street with a bright shining whiteness against the black houses and + the dark night sky. Treliss' principal street was deserted; all down the + hill red lights showed in the windows and voices could be heard, singing + and laughing, because on Christmas Eve there would be parties and + merrymakings. Peter looked a tiny and rather desolate figure against the + snow as he climbed the hill. There was a long way to go. There would be + Green Street at the top, past the post office, then down again into the + Square where the Tower was, then through winding turnings up the hill past + the gates and dark trees of The Man at Arms, then past the old wall of the + town and along the wide high road that runs above the sea until at last + one struck the common, and, hidden in a black clump of trees (so black on + a night like this), the grim grey stones of Scaw House. + </p> + <p> + Peter was not afraid of being alone, although when snow had fallen + everything seemed strange and monstrous, the trees were like animals, and + the paths of all the world were swept away. But he was not afraid of + ghosts; he was too accustomed to their perpetual company; old Frosted + Moses and Dicky, and even men like Stephen, had seen ghosts so often, and + Peter himself could tell odd stories about the Grey Hill—no, ghosts + held no terror. But, very slowly, the shadow of all that he must very soon + go through was creeping about him. When he first came out of The Bending + Mule he still was as though he were in a dream. Everything that had + happened there that evening had been so strange, so amazing, that it + belonged to the world of dreams—it was of the very stuff of them, + and that vision of Stephen, naked, bleeding, so huge and so terrible, was + not to be easily forgotten. + </p> + <p> + But, as he climbed the steep street, Peter knew that however great a dream + that might be, there was to be no dreaming at all about his meeting with + his father, and old Frosted Moses' philosophy would be very sadly needed. + As he climbed the hill the reaction from the excitement of his late + adventure suddenly made him very miserable indeed, so that he had an + immediate impulse to cry, but he stood still in the middle of the street + and made fists with his hands and called himself “a damned gawky idiot,” + words that he had admired in the mouth of Sam Figgis some days before. + “Gawky” was certainly the last thing that he was, but it was a nice queer + word, and it helped him a great deal. + </p> + <p> + The worst of everything was that he had had a number of beatings lately + and the world could not possibly go on, as far as he was concerned, if he + had many more. Every beating made matters worse and his own desperate + attempts to be good and to merit rewards rather than chastisement met with + no success. The hopeless fact of it all was that it had very little to do + with his own actions; his father behaved in the same way to every one, and + Mrs. Trussit, the housekeeper, old Curtis the gardener, Aunt Jessie, and + all the servants, shook under his tongue and the cold glitter of his eyes, + and certainly the maids would long ago have given notice and departed were + it not that they were all afraid to face him. Peter knew that that was + true, because Mrs. Trussit had told him so. It was this hopeless feeling + of indiscriminate punishment that made everything so bad. Until he was + eight years old Peter had not been beaten at all, but when he was very + young indeed he had learnt to crawl away when he heard his father's step, + and he had never cried as a baby because his nurse's white scared face had + frightened him so. And then, of course, there was his mother, his poor + mother—that was another reason for silence. He never saw his mother + for more than a minute at a time because she was ill, had been ill for as + long as he could remember. When he was younger he had been taken into his + mother's room once or twice a week by Mrs. Trussit, and he had bent down + and kissed that white tired face, and he had smelt the curious smell in + the room of flowers and medicine, and he had heard his mother's voice, + very far away and very soft, and he had crept out again. When he was older + his aunt told him sometimes to go and see his mother, and he would creep + in alone, but he never could say anything because of the whiteness of the + room and the sense of something sacred like church froze his speech. He + had never seen his father and mother together. + </p> + <p> + His mornings were always spent with old Parlow, and in the afternoon he + was allowed to ramble about by himself, so that it was only at mealtimes + and during the horrible half-hour after supper before he went up to bed + that he saw his father. + </p> + <p> + He really saw more of old Curtis the gardener, but half an hour with his + father could seem a very long time. Throughout the rest of his life that + half-hour after supper remained at the back of his mind—and he never + forgot its slightest detail. The hideous dining-room with the large + photographs of old grandfather and grandmother Westcott in ill-fitting + clothes and heavy gilt frames, the white marble clock on the mantelpiece, + a clock that would tick solemnly for twenty minutes and then give a little + run and a jump for no reason at all, the straight horsehair sofa so black + and uncomfortable with its hard wooden back, the big dining-room table + with its green cloth (faded a little in the middle where a pot with a fern + in it always stood) and his aunt with her frizzy yellow hair, her black + mittens and her long bony fingers playing her interminable Patience, and + then two arm-chairs by the fire, in one of them old grandfather Westcott, + almost invisible beneath a load of rugs and cushions and only the white + hairs on the top of his head sticking out like some strange plant, and in + the other chair his father, motionless, reading the <i>Cornish Times</i>—last + of all, sitting up straight with his work in front of him, afraid to move, + afraid to cough, sometimes with pins and needles, sometimes with a + maddening impulse to sneeze, always with fascinated glances out of the + corner of his eye at his father—Peter himself. How happy he was when + the marble clock struck nine, and he was released! How snug and friendly + his little attic bedroom was with its funny diamond-paned window under the + shelving roof with all the view of the common and the distant hills that + covered Truro! There, at any rate, he was free! + </p> + <p> + He was passing now through the Square, and he stopped for an instant and + looked up at the old weather-beaten Tower that guarded one side of it, and + looked so fine and stately now with the white snow at its foot and the + gleaming sheet of stars at its back. That old Tower had stood a good + number of beatings in its day—it knew well enough what courage was—and + so Peter, as he turned up the hill, squared his shoulders and set his + teeth. But in some way that he was too young to understand he felt that it + was not the beating itself that frightened him most, but rather all the + circumstances that attended it—it was even the dark house, the band + of trees about it, that first dreadful moment when he would hear his knock + echo through the passages, and then the patter of Mrs. Trussit's slippers + as she came to open the door for him—then Mrs. Trussit's fat arm and + the candle raised above her head, and “Oh, it's you, Mr. Peter,” and then + the opening of the dining-room door and “It's Master Peter, sir,” and then + that vision of the marble clock and his father's face behind the paper. + These things were unfair and more than any one deserved. He had had + beatings on several occasions when he had merited no punishment at all, + but it did not make things any better that on this occasion he did deserve + it; it only made that feeling inside his chest that everything was so + hopeless that nothing whatever mattered, and that it was always more fun + to be beaten for a sheep than a lamb, stronger than ever. + </p> + <p> + But the world—or at any rate the Scaw House portion of it—could + not move in this same round eternally. Something would happen, and the + vague, half-confessed intention that had been in his mind for some time + now was a little more defined. One day, like his three companions, Tom + Jones, Peregrine Pickle and David Copperfield, he would run into the world + and seek his fortune, and then, afterwards, he would write his book of + adventures as they had done. His heart beat at the thought, and he passed + the high gates and dark trees of The Man at Arms with quick step and head + high. He was growing old—twelve was an age—and there would + soon be a time when beatings must no longer be endured. He shivered when + he thought of what would happen then—the mere idea of defying his + father sent shudders down his back, but he was twelve, he would soon be + thirteen.... + </p> + <p> + But this Scaw House, with its strange silence and distresses, was only + half his life. There was the other existence that he had down in the town, + out at Stephen's farm, wandering alone on the Grey Hill, roaming about + along the beach and in amongst the caves, tramping out to The Hearty Cow, + a little inn amongst the gorse, ten miles away, or looking for the lost + church among the sand-dunes at Porthperran. All these things had nothing + whatever to do with his father and old Parlow and his lessons—and it + was undoubtedly this other sort of life that he would lead, with the + gipsies and the tramps, when the time came for him to run away. He knew no + other children of his own age, but he did not want them; he liked best to + talk to old Curtis the gardener, to Dicky the Idiot, to Sam Figgis when + that splendid person would permit it—and, of course, to Stephen. + </p> + <p> + He passed the old town wall and stepped out into the high road. Far below + him was the sea, above him a sky scattered with shining stars and around + him a white dim world. Turning a corner the road lay straight before him + and to the right along the common was the black clump of trees that hid + his home. He discovered that he was very tired, it had been a most + exhausting day with old Parlow so cross in the morning and the scene in + the inn at night—and now—! + </p> + <p> + His steps fell slower and slower as he passed along the road. One hot hand + was clutching Parlow's note and in his throat there was a sharp pain that + made it difficult to swallow, and his eyes were burning. Suppose he never + went home at all! Supposing he went off to Stephen's farm!—it was a + long way and he might lose his way in the snow, but his heart beat like a + hammer when he thought of Stephen coming to the door and of the little + spare room where Stephen put his guests to sleep. But no—Stephen + would not want him to-night; he would be very tired and would rather be + alone; and then there would be the morning, when it would be every bit as + bad, and perhaps worse. But if he ran away altogether? ... He stopped in + the middle of the road and thought about it—the noise of the sea + came up to him like the march of men and with it the sick melancholy moan + of the Bell Rock, but the rest of the world was holding its breath, so + still it seemed. But whither should he run? He could not run so far away + that his father could not find him—his father's arm stretched to + everywhere in the world. And then it was cowardly to run away. Where was + that courage of which he had been thinking so much? So he shook his little + shoulders and pulled up those stockings again and turned up the little + side road, usually so full of ruts and stones and now so level and white + with the hard snow. Now that his mind was made up, he marched forward with + unfaltering step and clanged the iron gates behind him so that they made a + horrible noise, and stepped through the desolate garden up the gravel + path. + </p> + <p> + The house looked black and grim, but there were lights behind the + dining-room windows—it was there that they were sitting, of course. + </p> + <p> + As he stood on his toes to reach the knocker a shooting star flashed past + above his head, and he could hear the bare branches of the trees knocking + against one another in the wind that always seemed to be whistling round + the house. The noise echoed terribly through the building, and then there + was a silence that was even more terrible. He could fancy how his aunt + would start and put down her Patience cards for a moment and look, in her + scared way, at the window—he knew that his father would not move + from behind his paper, and that there would be no other sound unless his + grandfather awoke. He heard Mrs. Trussit's steps down the passage, then + locks were turned, the great door swung slowly open, and he saw her, as he + had pictured it, with a candle in her hand raised above her head, peering + into the dark. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it's you, Master Peter,” and she stood aside, without another word, + to let him in. He slipped past her, silently, into the hall and, after a + second's pause, she followed him in, banging the hall door behind her. + Then she opened the dining-room door announcing, grimly, “It's Master + Peter come in, sir.” The marble clock struck half-past ten as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + He stood just inside the door blinking a little at the sudden light and + twisting his cloth cap round and round in his hands. He couldn't see + anything at first, and he could not collect his thoughts. At last he said, + in a very little voice: + </p> + <p> + “I've come back, father.” + </p> + <p> + The lights settled before his eyes, and he saw them all exactly as he had + thought they would be. His father had not looked up from his paper, and + Peter could see the round bald patch on the top of his head. Aunt Jessie + was talking to herself about her cards in a very agitated whisper—“Now + it's the King I want—how provoking! Ah, there's the seven of spades, + <i>and the six and the five</i>—oh dear! it's a club,” and not + looking up at all. + </p> + <p> + No one answered his remark, and the silence was broken by his grandfather + waking up; a shrill piping voice came from out of the rugs. “Oh! dear, + what a doze I've had! It must be eight o'clock! What a doze for an old man + to have! on such a cold night too,” and then fell asleep again + immediately. + </p> + <p> + At last Peter spoke again in a voice that seemed to come from quite + another person. + </p> + <p> + “Father—I've come back!” + </p> + <p> + His father very slowly put down his newspaper and looked at him as though + he were conscious of him for the first time. When he spoke it was as + though his voice came out of the ceiling or the floor because his face did + not seem to move at all. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you been?” + </p> + <p> + “In the town, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Come here.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the room and stood in front of the fire between his father and + grandfather. He was tremendously conscious of the grim and dusty cactus + plant that stood on a little table by the window. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing in the town?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been in The Bending Mule, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not come home before?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + “You knew that you ought to come home?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father. I have a letter for you from Mr. Parlow. He said that I was + to tell you that I have done my sums very badly this week and that I gave + Willie Daffoll a bleeding nose on Wednesday—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—have you any excuse for these things?” + </p> + <p> + “No, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You may go up to your room. I will come up to you there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the room very slowly, closed the door softly behind him, and + then climbed the dark stairs to his attic. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + He went trembling up to his room, and the match-box shook in his hand as + he lit his candle. It was only the very worst beatings that happened in + his bedroom, his father's gloomy and solemn study serving as a background + on more unimportant occasions. He could only remember two other beatings + in the attics, and they had both been very bad ones. He closed his door + and then stood in the middle of the room; the little diamond-paned window + was open and the glittering of the myriad stars flung a light over his + room and shone on the little bracket of books above his bed (a Bible, an + “Arabian Nights,” and tattered copies of “David Copperfield,” “Vanity + Fair,” “Peregrine Pickle,” “Tom Jones,” and “Harry Lorrequer”), on the + little washing stand, a chest of drawers, a cane-bottomed chair, and the + little bed. There were no pictures on the walls because of the sloping + roof, but there were two china vases on the mantelpiece, and they were + painted a very bright blue with yellow flowers on them. + </p> + <p> + They had been given to Peter by Mrs. Flanders, the Rector's wife, who had + rather a kind feeling for Peter, and would have been friendly to him had + he allowed her. He took off his jacket and put it on again, he stood + uncertainly in the middle of the floor, and wondered whether he ought to + undress or no. There was no question about it now, he was horribly, + dreadfully afraid. That wisdom of old Frosted Moses seemed a very long + ago, and it was of very little use. If it had all happened at once after + he had come in then he might have endured it, but this waiting and + listening with the candle guttering was too much for him. His father was + so very strong—he had Peter's figure and was not very tall and was + very broad in the back; Peter had seen him once when he was stripped, and + the thought of it always frightened him. + </p> + <p> + His face was white and his teeth would chatter although he bit his lips + and his fingers shook as he undressed, and his stud slipped and he could + not undo his braces—and always his ears were open for the sound of + the step on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + At last he was in his night-shirt, and a very melancholy figure he looked + as he stood shivering in the middle of the floor. It was not only that he + was going to be beaten, it was also that he was so lonely. Stephen seemed + so dreadfully far away and he had other things to think about; he wondered + whether his mother in that strange white room ever thought of him, his + teeth were chattering, so that his whole head shook, but he was afraid to + get into bed because then he might go to sleep and it would be so + frightening to be woken by his father. + </p> + <p> + The clock downstairs struck eleven, and he heard his father's footstep. + The door opened, and his father came in holding in his hand the cane that + Peter knew so well. + </p> + <p> + “Are you there?” the voice was very cold. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that you ought to be home before six?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “And that I dislike your going to The Bending Mule?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “And that I insist on your doing your work for Mr. Parlow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “And that you are not to fight the other boys in the town?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you disobey me like this?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I try to be good.” + </p> + <p> + “You are growing into an idle, wicked boy. You are a great trouble to your + mother and myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father. I want to be better.” + </p> + <p> + Even now he could admire his father's strength, the bull-neck, the dark + close-cropped hair, but he was cold, and the blood had come where he bit + his lip—because he must not cry. + </p> + <p> + “You must learn obedience. Take off your nightshirt.” + </p> + <p> + He took it off, and was a very small naked figure in the starlight, but + his head was up now and he faced his father. + </p> + <p> + “Bend over the bed.” + </p> + <p> + He bent over the bed, and the air from the window cut his naked back. He + buried his head in the counterpane and fastened his teeth in it so that he + should not cry out.... + </p> + <p> + During the first three cuts he did not stir, then an intolerable pain + seemed to move through his body—it was as though a knife were + cutting his body in half. But it was more than that—there was terror + with him now in the room; he heard that little singing noise that came + through his father's lips—he knew that his father was smiling. + </p> + <p> + At the succeeding strokes his flesh quivered and shrank together and then + opened again—the pain was intolerable; his teeth met through the + coverlet and grated on one another; but before his eyes was the picture of + Stephen slowly straightening himself before his enemy and then that + swinging blow—he would not cry. He seemed to be sharing his + punishment with Stephen, and they were marching, hand in hand, down a road + lined with red-hot pokers. + </p> + <p> + His back was on fire, and his head was bursting and the soles of his feet + were very, very cold. + </p> + <p> + Then he heard, from a long way away, his father's voice: + </p> + <p> + “Now you will not disobey me again.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed. Very slowly he raised himself, but moving was torture; he + put on his night-shirt and then quickly caught back a scream as it touched + his back. He moved to the window and closed it, then he climbed very + slowly on to his bed, and the tears that he had held back came, slowly at + first, and then more rapidly, at last in torrents. It was not the pain, + although that was bad, but it was the misery and the desolation and the + great heaviness of a world that held out no hope, no comfort, but only a + great cloud of unrelieved unhappiness. + </p> + <p> + At last, sick with crying, he fell asleep. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The first shadow of light was stealing across the white undulating common + and creeping through the bare trees of the desolate garden when four dark + figures, one tall, two fat, and one small, stole softly up the garden + path. They halted beneath the windows of the house; the snow had ceased + falling, and their breath rose in clouds above their heads. They danced a + little in the snow and drove their hands together, and then the tall + figure said: + </p> + <p> + “Now, Tom Prother, out with thy musick.” One of the fat figures felt in + his coat and produced four papers, and these were handed round. + </p> + <p> + “Bill, my son, it's for thee to lead off at thy brightest, mind ye. Let + 'em have it praper.” + </p> + <p> + The small figure came forward and began; at first his voice was thin and + quavering, but in the second line it gathered courage and rang out full + and bold: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>As oi sat under a sicymore tree + A sicymore tree, a sicymore tree, + Oi looked me out upon the sea + On Christ's Sunday at morn.</i> +</pre> + <p> + “Well for thee, lad,” said the tall figure approvingly, “but the cold is + creepin' from the tips o' my fingers till my singin' voice is most frozen. + Now, altogether.” + </p> + <p> + And the birds in the silent garden woke amongst the ivy on the distant + wall and listened: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Oi saw three ships a-sailin' there— + A sailin' there, a-sailin' there, + Jesu, Mary, and Joseph they bare + On Christ's Sunday at morn.</i> +</pre> + <p> + A small boy curled up, like the birds, under the roof stirred uneasily in + his sleep and then slowly woke. He moved, and gave a little cry because + his back hurt him, then he remembered everything. The voices came up to + him from the garden: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Joseph did whistle and Mary did sing, + Mary did sing, Mary did sing, + And all the bells on earth did ring + For joy our Lord was born.</i> + + <i>O they sail'd in to Bethlehem, + To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem; + Saint Michael was the steersman, + Saint John sate in the horn.</i> + + <i>And all the bells on earth did ring, + On earth did ring, on earth did ring; + “Welcome be thou Heaven's King, + On Christ's Sunday at morn.”</i> +</pre> + <p> + He got slowly out of bed and went to the window. The light was coming in + broad bands from the East and he could hear the birds in the ivy. The four + black figures stood out against the white shadowy garden and their heads + were bent together. He opened his window, and the fresh morning air swept + about his face. + </p> + <p> + He could hear the whispers of the singers as they chose another carol and + suddenly above the dark iron gates of the garden appeared the broad red + face of the sun. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + OF THE DARK SHOP OF ZACHARY TAN, AND OF THE DECISIONS THAT THE PEOPLE IN + SCAW HOUSE CAME TO CONCERNING PETER + </p> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + But it was of the nature of the whole of life that these things should + pass. “Look back on this bitterness a year hence and see how trivial it + seems” was one of the little wisdoms that helped Peter's courage in after + years. And to a boy of twelve years a beating is forgotten with amazing + quickness, especially if it is a week of holiday and there have been other + beatings not so very long before. + </p> + <p> + It left things behind it, of course. It was the worst beating that Peter + had ever had, and that was something, but its occurrence marked more than + a mere crescendo of pain, and that evening stood for some new resolution + that he did not rightly understand yet—something that was in its + beginning the mere planting of a seed. But he had certainly met the affair + in a new way and, although in the week that followed he saw his father + very seldom and spoke to him not at all beyond “Good morning” and “Good + night,” he fancied that he was in greater favour with him than he had ever + been before. + </p> + <p> + There were always days of silence after a beating, and that was more + markedly the case now when it was a week of holidays and no Parlow to go + to. Peter did not mind the silence—it was perhaps safer—and so + long as he was home by six o'clock he could spend the day where he + pleased. He asked Mrs. Trussit about the carol-singers. There was a little + room, the housekeeper's room, to which he crept when he thought that it + was safe to do so. She was a different Mrs. Trussit within the boundary of + her kingdom—a very cosy kingdom with pink wall-paper, a dark red + sofa, a canary in a cage, and a fire very lively in the grate. From the + depths of a big arm-chair, her black silk dress rustling a little every + now and then, her knitting needles clinking in the firelight, Mrs. Trussit + held many conversations in a subdued voice with Peter, who sat on the + table and swung his legs. She was valuable from two points of view—as + an Historian and an Encyclopædia. She had been, in the first place, in the + most wonderful houses—The Earl of Twinkerton's, Bambary House, + Wiltshire, was the greatest of these, and she had been there for ten + years; there were also Lady Mettlesham, the Duchess of Cranburn, and, to + Peter, the most interesting of all, Mr. Henry Galleon, the famous novelist + who was so famous that American ladies used to creep into his garden and + pick leaves off his laurels. + </p> + <p> + Peter had from her a dazzling picture of wonderful houses—of + staircases and garden walks, of thousands and thousands of shining rooms, + of family portraits, and footmen with beautiful legs. Above it all was “my + lady” who was always beautiful and stately and, of course, devoted to Mrs. + Trussit. Why that good woman left these noble mansions for so dreary a + place as Scaw House Peter never could understand, and for many years that + remained a mystery to him—but in awed whispers he asked her + questions about the lords and ladies of the land and especially about the + famous novelist and, from the answers given to him, constructed a complete + and most romantic picture of the Peerage. + </p> + <p> + But, as an Encyclopædia, Mrs. Trussit was even more interesting. She had + apparently discovered at an early age that the golden rule of life was + never to confess yourself defeated by any question whatever, and there was + therefore nothing that he could ask her for which she had not an immediate + answer ready. Her brow was always unruffled, her black shining hair + brushed neatly back and parted down the middle, her large flat face always + composed and placid, and her voice never raised above a whisper. The only + sign that she ever gave of disturbance was a little clucking noise that + she made in her mouth like an aroused hen. Peter's time in the little pink + sitting-room was sometimes exceedingly short and he used to make the most + of it by shooting questions at the good lady at an astonishing rate, and + he was sometimes irritated by her slow and placid replies: + </p> + <p> + “What kind of stockings did Mr. Galleon wear?” + </p> + <p> + “He didn't wear stockings unless, as you might say, in country attire, and + then, if I remember correctly, they were grey.” + </p> + <p> + “Had he any children?” + </p> + <p> + “There was one little dear when I had the honour of being in the house—and + since then I have heard that there are two more.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Trussit, where do children come from?” + </p> + <p> + “They are brought by God's good angels when we are all asleep in the night + time.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” (this rather doubtfully). A pause—then “Did the Earl of + Twinkerton have hot or cold baths?” + </p> + <p> + “Cold in the morning, I believe, with the chill off and hot at night + before dressing for dinner. He was a very cleanly gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Trussit, where <i>is</i> Patagonia? It came in the history this + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “North of the Caribbean Sea, I believe, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + And so on, and Peter never forgot any of her answers. About the + carol-singers she was a little irritable. They had woken her it seemed + from a very delightful sleep, and she considered the whole affair + “savoured of Paganism.” And then Peter found suddenly that he didn't wish + to talk about the carol-singers at all because the things that he felt + about them were, in some curious way, not the things that he could say to + Mrs. Trussit. + </p> + <p> + She was very kind to him during that Christmas week and gave him mixed + biscuits out of a brightly shining tin that she kept in a cupboard in her + room. But outside the gates of her citadel she was a very different + person, spoke to Peter but rarely, and then always with majesty and from a + long way away. Her attitude to the little maid-of-all-work was something + very wonderful indeed, and even to Aunt Jessie her tone might be + considered patronising. + </p> + <p> + But indeed to Aunt Jessie it was very difficult to be anything else. Aunt + Jessie was a poor creature, as Peter discovered very early in life. He + found that she never had any answers ready to the questions that he asked + her and that she hesitated when he wished to know whether he might do a + thing or no. She was always trembling and shaking, and no strong-minded + person ever wore mittens. He had a great contempt for his aunt.... + </p> + <p> + On New Year's Eve, the last day but one of release from old Parlow, Mr. + Westcott spent the day doing business in Truro, and at once the atmosphere + over Scaw House seemed to lighten. The snow had melted away, and there was + a ridiculous feeling of spring in the air; ridiculous because it was still + December, but Cornwall is often surprisingly warm in the heart of winter, + and the sun was shining as ardently as though it were the middle of June. + The sunlight flooded the dining-room and roused old grandfather Westcott + to unwonted life, so that he stirred in his chair and was quite unusually + talkative. + </p> + <p> + He stopped Peter after breakfast, as he was going out of the room and + called him to his side: + </p> + <p> + “Is that the sun, boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, grandfather.” + </p> + <p> + “Deary me, to think of that and me a poor, broken, old man not able to + move an arm or foot.” + </p> + <p> + He raised himself amongst his cushions, and Peter saw an old yellow + wrinkled face with the skin drawn tight over the cheekbones and little + black shining eyes like drops of ink. A wrinkled claw shot out and + clutched Peter's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love your grandfather, boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, grandfather.” + </p> + <p> + “That's right, that's right—on a nice sunny morning, too. Do you + love your father, boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, grandfather.” + </p> + <p> + “He, he—oh, yes—all the Westcotts love their fathers. <i>He</i> + loved his father when he was young, didn't he? Oh, yes, I should rather + think so.” + </p> + <p> + And his voice rose into a shrill scream so that Peter jumped. Then he + began to look Peter up and down. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be strong, boy, when you're a man—oh, yes, I should rather + think so—I was strong once.... Do you hear that?... I was strong + once, he, he!” + </p> + <p> + And here grandfather Westcott, overcome by his chuckling, began to cough + so badly that Peter was afraid that he was going to be ill, and considered + running for Aunt Jessie. + </p> + <p> + “Hit my back, boy—huh, huh! Ugh, ugh! That's right, hit it hard—that's + better—ugh, ugh! Oh! deary me! that's better—<i>what</i> a + nasty cough, oh, deary me, what a nasty cough! I was strong once, boy, + hegh, hegh! Indeed I was, just like your father—and he'll be just + like me, one day! Oh! yes, he will—blast his bones! He, he! We all + come to it—all of us strong men, and we're cruel and hard, and won't + give a poor old man enough for his breakfast—and then suddenly we're + old ourselves, and what fun that is! Oh! Yes, your father will be old one + day!” and suddenly, delighted with the thought, the old man slipped down + beneath his cushions and was fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + And Peter went out into the sunlight. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Peter looked very different at different times. When he was happy his + cheeks were flooded with colour, his eyes shone, and his mouth smiled. He + was happy now, and he forgot as he came out into the garden that he had + promised his aunt that he would go in and see his mother for a few + minutes. Old Curtis, wearing the enormous sun-hat that he always had + flapping about his head and his trousers tied below his knees with string + in the most ridiculous way, was sweeping the garden path. He never did + very much work, and the garden was in a shocking state of neglect, but he + told delightful stories. To-day, however, he was in a bad temper and would + pay no attention to Peter at all, and so Peter left him and went out into + the high road. + </p> + <p> + It was two miles across the common to Stephen's farm and it took the boy + nearly an hour, because the ground was uneven and there were walls to + climb, and also because he was thinking of what his grandfather had said. + Would his father one day be old and silly like his grandfather? Did every + one get old and silly like that? and, if so, what was the use of being + born at all? But what happened to all his father's strength? Where did it + all go to? In some curious undefined way he resented his grandfather's + remarks. He could have loved and admired his father immensely had he been + allowed to, but even if that were not permitted he could stand up for him + when he was attacked. What right had his silly old grandfather to talk + like that?... His father would one day be old? And Stephen, would he be + old, too? Did all strength go? + </p> + <p> + Peter was crossing a ploughed field, and the rich brown earth heaved in a + great circle against the sky and in the depth of its furrows there were + mysterious velvet shadows—the brown hedges stood back against the + sky line. The world was so fresh and clean and strong this morning that + the figure and voice of his grandfather hung unpleasantly about him and + depressed him. There were so many things that he wanted to know and so few + people to tell him, and he turned through the white gates of Stephen's + farm with a consciousness that since Christmas Eve the world had begun to + be a new place. + </p> + <p> + Stephen was sitting in the upstairs room scratching his head over his + accounts, whilst his old mother sat dozing, with her knitting fallen on to + her lap by the fire. The window was open, and all the sound and smells of + the farm came into the room. The room was an old one with brown oaken + rafters and whitewashed walls, a long oaken table down the middle of it, + and a view over the farmyard and the sweeping fields beyond it, lost at + last, in the distant purple hills. Peter was given a chair opposite the + old lady, who was nearly eighty, and wore a beautiful white cap, and she + woke up and talked incessantly, because she was very garrulous by nature + and didn't care in the least to whom she talked. Peter politely listened + to what she had to say, although he understood little of it, and his eyes + were watching for the moment when the accounts should be finished and + Stephen free. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said the old lady, “and it were good Mr. Tenement were the rector in + those days, I remember, and he gave us a roaring discourse many's the + Sunday. Church is not what it was, with all this singing and what not and + the clothes the young women wear—I remember...” + </p> + <p> + But Stephen had closed his books with a bang and given his figures up in + despair. “I don't know how it is, boy,” he said, “but they're at something + different every time yer look at 'em—they're one too many for me, + that's certain.” + </p> + <p> + One of Stephen's eyes was still nearly closed, and both eyes were black + and blue, and his right cheek had a bad bruise on it, but Peter thought it + was wiser not to allude to the encounter. The farm was exceedingly + interesting, and then there was dinner, and it was not until the meal had + been cleared away that Peter remembered that he wanted to ask some + questions, and then Stephen interrupted him with: + </p> + <p> + “Like to go to Zachary Tan's with me this afternoon, boy? I've got to be + lookin' in.” + </p> + <p> + Peter jumped to his feet with excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Steve! This afternoon—this <i>very</i> afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + It was the most exciting thing possible. Zachary Tan's was the curiosity + shop of Treliss and famous even twenty years ago throughout the south + country. It is still there, I believe, although Zachary himself is dead + and with him has departed most of the atmosphere of the place, and it is + now smart and prosperous, although in those days it was dark and dingy + enough. No one knew whence Zachary had come, and he was one of the + mysteries of a place that deals, even now, in mysteries. He had arrived as + a young man with a basket over his back thirty years before Peter saw the + light, when Treliss was a little fishing village and Mr. Bannister, + Junior, had not cast his enterprising eye over The Man at Arms. Zachary + had beads and silks, and little silver images in his basket, and he had + stayed there in a little room over the shop, and things had prospered with + him. The inhabitants of the place had never trusted him, but they were + always interested. “Thiccy Zachary be a poor trade,” they had said at + first, “poor trade” signifying anything or anybody not entirely approved + of—but they had hung about his shop, had bought his silks and little + ornaments, and had talked to him sometimes with eyes open and mouth agape + at the things that he could tell them. And then people had come from Truro + and Pendragon and even Bodmin and, finally, Exeter, because they had heard + of the things that he had for sale. No one knew where he found his + treasures, for he was always in his shop, smiling and amiable, but + sometimes gentlemen would come from London, and he had strange friends + like Mr. Andreas Morelli, concerning whose life a book has already been + written. Zachary Tan's shop became at last the word in Treliss for all + that was strange and unusual—the strongest link with London and + other curious places. He had a little back room behind his shop, where he + would welcome his friends, give them something to drink and talk about the + world. He was always so friendly that people thought that he must wish for + things in return, but he never asked for anything, nor did he speak about + himself at all. As for his portrait, he had a pale face, a big beak nose, + very black hair that hung over his forehead and was always untidy, a blue + velvet jacket, black trousers, green slippers, and small feet. + </p> + <p> + He also wore two rings and blew his long nose in silk handkerchiefs of the + most wonderful colours. All these things may seem of the slenderest + importance, but they are not insignificant if one considers their effect + upon Peter. Zachary was the most romantic figure that he had yet + encountered; to walk through the shop with its gold and its silver, its + dust and its jewels, into the dark little room beyond; to hear this + wonderful person talk, to meet men who lived in London, to listen by the + light of flickering candles and with one's eyes fixed upon portraits of + ladies dancing in the slenderest attire, this was indeed Life, and Life + such as The Bending Mule, Scaw House, and even Stephen's farm itself could + not offer. + </p> + <p> + Peter often wondered why Stephen and Zachary were friends, because they + seemed to have little enough in common, but Stephen was a silent man, who + liked all kinds of company, and Peter noticed that Zachary was always very + polite and obliging to Stephen. + </p> + <p> + Stephen was very silent going across the Common and down the high road + into the town, but Peter knew him too well by this time to interrupt his + thoughts. He was thinking perhaps about his accounts that would not come + right or about the fight and Burstead his enemy. + </p> + <p> + Everybody had their troubles that they thought about and every one had + their secrets, the things that they kept to themselves—even Aunt + Jessie and old Curtis the gardener—one must either be as clever as + Zachary Tan or as foolish as Dicky the Idiot to know very much about + people. Zachary, Peter had noticed, was one of the persons who always + listened to everything that Dicky had to say, and treated him with the + greatest seriousness, even when he seemed to be talking about the wildest + things—and it was a great many years after this that Peter + discovered that it was only the wisest people who knew how very important + fools were. Zachary's shop was at the very bottom of Poppero Street, the + steep and cobbled street that goes straight down to the little wooden + jetty where the fishing boats lie, and you could see the sea like a square + handkerchief between the houses on either side. Many of the houses in + Poppero Street are built a little below the level of the pathway, and you + must go down steps to reach the door. Zachary's shop was like this, and it + had a green door with a bright brass knocker. There were always many + things jumbled together in the window—candlesticks, china shepherds + and shepherdesses, rings and necklaces, cups and saucers, little brass + figures, coins, snuff-boxes, match-boxes, charms, and old blue china + plates, and at the back a complete suit of armour that had been there ever + since Zachary had first opened his shop. + </p> + <p> + Of course, inside there were a thousand and one things of the most + exciting kind, but Stephen, an enormous figure in the low-roofed shop, + brushed past the pale-faced youth whom Zachary now hired to assist with + the customers and passed into the dark room beyond, Peter close at his + heels. + </p> + <p> + There were two silver candlesticks lighted on the mantelpiece, and there + were two more in the centre of the green baize table and round the fire + were seated four men. One of them Zachary himself, another was pleasant + little Mr. Bannister, host of The Man at Arms, another was old Frosted + Moses, sucking as usual at his great pipe, and the fourth was a stranger. + </p> + <p> + Zachary rose and came forward smiling. “Ah, Mr. Brant, delighted to see + you, I'm sure. Brought the boy with you? Excellent, excellent. Mr. + Bannister and Mr. Tathero (old Moses' society name) you know, of course; + this is Mr. Emilio Zanti, a friend of mine from London.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger, who was an enormous fat man with a bald head and an eager + smile rose and shook hands with Stephen, he also shook hands with Peter as + though it had been the ambition of his life to meet that small and rather + defiant person. + </p> + <p> + He also embarrassed Peter very much by addressing him as though he were + grown up, and listening courteously to everything that he had to say. + Peter decided that he did not like him—but “a gentleman from London” + was always an exciting introduction. The boy was able very quickly to + obliterate himself by sitting down somewhere in a corner and remaining + absolutely silent and perhaps that was the reason that he was admitted to + so many elderly gatherings—he was never in the way. He slipped + quickly into a chair, hidden in the shadow of the wall, but close to the + elbow of “the gentleman from London,” whose face he watched with the + greatest curiosity. Stephen was silent, and Frosted Moses very rarely said + anything at all, so that the conversation speedily became a dialogue + between Zachary and the foreign gentleman, with occasional appeals to Mr. + Brant for his unbiassed opinion. Peter's whole memory of the incident was + vague and uncertain, although in after years he often tried very hard to + recall it all to mind. He was excited by the mere atmosphere of the place, + by the silver candlesticks, the dancing ladies on the walls, Zachary's + blue coat, and the sense of all the wonderful things in the shop beyond. + He had no instinct that it was all important beyond the knowledge that it + roused a great many things in him that the rest of his life left untouched + and anything to do with “London,” a city, as he knew from Tom Jones and + David Copperfield, of extraordinary excitement and adventure, was an + event. He watched Mr. Emilio Zanti closely, and he decided that his smile + was not real, and that it must be very unpleasant to have a bald head. He + also noticed that he said things in a funny way: like “ze beautiful + country zat you 'ave 'ere with its sea and its woods” and “I 'ave the + greatest re-spect for ze Englishman”—also his hands were very fat + and he wore rings like Zachary. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes Peter fancied that his words meant a great deal more than they + seemed to mean. He laughed when there was really nothing to laugh at and + he tried to make Stephen talk, but Stephen was very silent. On the whole + the conversation was dull, Peter thought, and once he nodded and was very + nearly asleep, and fancied that the gentleman from London was spreading + like a balloon and filling all the room. There was no mention of London at + all. + </p> + <p> + Peter wondered for what purpose Stephen had come there, because he sat + looking at the fire with his brown hands spread out over his great knees, + thinking apparently all his own thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly there came a moment. The London gentleman, Mr. Emilio Zanti, + turned round quite quickly and said, like a shot out of a gun: “And what + does our little friend think of it?” + </p> + <p> + Peter did not know to what he was referring, and looked embarrassed. He + was also conscious that Zachary was watching him keenly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, 'e does not understand, our little friend. But with life, what is it + that you will do when you are grown up, my boy?” and he put his fat hand + on Peter's knee. Peter disliked him more than ever, but he answered: + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—I haven't settled yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it is early days,” said Mr. Zanti, nodding his head, “there is much + time, of course. But what is the thing that our little friend would care, + most of all, to do?” + </p> + <p> + “To go to school,” said Peter, without any hesitation, and both Zachary + and Mr. Zanti laughed a great deal more than was in the least necessary. + </p> + <p> + “And then—afterwards?” said Mr. Zanti. + </p> + <p> + “To go to London,” said Peter, stiffly, feeling in some undefined way that + they were laughing at him and that something was going on that he did not + understand. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! that is good,” said Mr. Emilio, slapping his knees and rocking in his + chair with merriment. “Ho! that is very good. He knows a thing or two, our + young friend here. Ho, yes! don't you mistake!” For a little while he + could not speak for laughing, and the tears rolled down his fat cheeks. + “And what is it that you will do when you are there, my friend?” he said + at last. + </p> + <p> + “I will have adventures,” said Peter, growing a little bolder at the + thought of London and its golden streets. And then, suddenly, when he + heard this, curious Mr. Zanti grew very grave indeed, and his eyes were + very large, and he put a finger mysteriously to his nose. Then he leant + right over Peter and almost whispered in his ear. + </p> + <p> + “And you shall—of course you shall. You shall come to London and + 'ave adventures—'eaps and 'eaps and 'eaps. Oh, yes, bless my soul, + shan't he, Mr. Tan? Dear me, yes—London, my young friend, is the + most wonderful place. In one week, if you are clever, you 'ave made + thousands of pounds—thousands and thousands. Is it not so, Mr. Tan? + When you are just a little bit older, a few years—then you shall + come. And you ask for your friend, Mr. Emilio Zanti—because I like + you. We will be friends, is not that so?” + </p> + <p> + And he held out his large fat hand and grasped Peter's small and rather + damp one. Then he bent even closer, still holding Peter's hand: “Do you + know one thing?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Peter, husky with awe. + </p> + <p> + “It is this, that when you think of Mr. Zanti and of London and of + adventures, you will look in a looking-glass—any looking-glass, and + you will see—what you will see,” and he nodded all over his fat + face. + </p> + <p> + Peter was entirely overcome by this last astonishing statement, and was + very relieved to hear numbers of clocks in the curiosity shop strike five + o'clock. He got off his chair, said good-bye very politely indeed, and + hurried up the dark street. + </p> + <p> + For the moment even his beloved Stephen was forgotten, and + looking-glasses, the face of Mr. Emilio Zanti, London streets, and + Zachary's silver candlesticks were mingled confusedly in his brain. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + And indeed throughout the dreary supper Peter's brain was in a whirl. It + often happened that supper passed without a word of conversation from + first to last. His father very rarely said anything, Peter never said + anything at all, and if Aunt Jessie did venture on a little conversation + she received so slender an encouragement that she always forsook the + attempt after a very short time. It was a miserable meal. + </p> + <p> + It was cold beef and beetroot and blanc-mange with a very, very little + strawberry jam round the edges of the glass dish, and there was a hard red + cheese and little stiff woolly biscuits. + </p> + <p> + But old grandfather Westcott was always hungry, and his querulous + complaints were as regular an accompaniment to the evening meal as the + ticking of the marble clock. But his beef had to be cut up for him into + very tiny pieces and that gave Aunt Jessie a great deal of work, so that + his appeals for a second helping were considered abominable selfishness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear, just a leetle piece of beef” (this from the very heart of + the cushions). “Just the leetlest piece of beef for a poor old man—such + a leetle piece he had, and he's had such a hunger.” No answer to this and + at last a strange noise from the cushions like the sound of dogs + quarrelling. At last again, “Oh, just the leetlest piece of beef for a + poor old man—” and then whimpering and “poor old man” repeated at + intervals that lengthened gradually into sleep. + </p> + <p> + At last the meal was over, the things had been cleared away, and Peter was + bending over a sum in preparation for lessons on Monday. Such a sum—add + this and this and this and this and then divide it by that and multiply + the result by this!... and the figures (bad ill-written figures) crept + over the page and there were smudgy finger marks, and always between every + other line “London, looking-glasses, and fat Mr. Zanti laughing until the + tears ran down his face.” Such a strange world where all these things + could be so curiously confused, all of them, one supposed, having their + purpose and meaning—even grandfather—and even 2469 X 2312 X + 6201, and ever so many more until they ran races round the page and up and + down and in and out. + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly into the middle of the silence his father's voice: + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing there?” + </p> + <p> + “Sums, father—for Monday.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't go back on Monday” (and this without the <i>Cornish Times</i> + moving an inch). + </p> + <p> + “Not go back?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You are going away to school—to Devonshire—on Tuesday + week.” + </p> + <p> + And Peter's pencil fell clattering on to the paper, and the answer to that + sum is still an open question. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + IN WHICH “DAWSON'S,” AS THE GATE OF LIFE, IS PROVED A DISAPPOINTMENT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + It was, of course, very strange that this should come so swiftly after the + meeting with the London gentleman—it was almost as though he had + known about it, because it was a first step towards that London that he + had so confidently promised. To Peter school meant the immediate supply of + the two things that he wanted more than anything in the world—Friendship + and Knowledge; not knowledge of the tiresome kind, Knowledge that had to + do with the Kings of Israel and the capital of Italy, but rather the + experience that other gentlemen of his own age had already gathered during + their journey through the world. Stephen, Zachary, Moses, Dicky, Mrs. + Trussit, old Curtis, even Aunt Jessie—all these people had + knowledge, of course, but they would not give it you—they would not + talk to you as though they were at your stage of the journey, they could + not exchange opinions with you, they could not share in your wild + surmises, they could not sympathise with your hatred of addition, + multiplication, and subtraction. The fellow victims at old Parlow's might + have been expected to do these things, but they were too young, too + uninterested, too unenterprising. One wanted real boys—boys with + excitement and sympathy... <i>real</i> boys. + </p> + <p> + He had wanted it, far, far more terribly than any one had known. He had + sat, sometimes, in the dark, in his bedroom, and thought about it until he + had very nearly cried, because he wanted it so badly, and now it had + suddenly come out of the clouds... bang! + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + That last week went with a rattling speed and provided a number of most + interesting situations. In the first place there was the joy—a + simple but delightful one—on Monday morning, of thinking of those + “others” who were entering, with laggard foot, into old Parlow's study—that + study with the shining map of Europe on the wall, a bust of Julius Cæsar + (conquered Britain? B.C.), and the worn red carpet. They would all be + there. They would wonder where he was, and on discovering that he would + never come again, Willie Daffoll, of recent tragic memory, would be + pleased because now he would be chief and leader. Well, let him!... Yes, + that was all very pleasant to think of. + </p> + <p> + There was further the thought that school might not, after all, be exactly + what Peter imagined it. The pictures in his mind were evolved from his + reading of “David Copperfield.” There would be people like Steerforth and + dear Traddles, there would be a master who played the flute, there would + be rebellions and riots—would there? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Trussit was of little value on this occasion: + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Trussit, were you ever at school?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Master Peter, I was never at school. My good mother, who died at the + ripe old age of ninety-two with all her faculties, gave me a liberal and + handsome education with her own hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it will be like 'David Copperfield'?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Trussit was ignorant of the work in question. “Of course, Master + Peter. How can you ask such a thing? They are all like that, I believe. + But, there, run away now. It's time for me to be looking after your + mother's supper,” &c. &c. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Trussit obviously knew nothing whatever about it, although Peter + heard her once murmuring “Poor lamb” as she gave him mixed biscuits out of + her tin. + </p> + <p> + Stephen also was of little use, and he didn't seem especially glad when he + heard about it. + </p> + <p> + “And it's a good school, do you think?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Peter valiantly, “one of the very best. It's in + Devonshire, and I leave by the eight o'clock train” (this very + importantly). + </p> + <p> + The fact of the matter was that Peter was so greatly excited by it all + that abandoning even Stephen was a minor sorrow. It was a dreadful pity of + course, but Peter intended to write most wonderful letters, and there + would be the joyful meeting when the holidays came round, and he would be + a more sensible person for Stephen to have for a friend after he'd seen + the world. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Stephen—I shall write every week—every Friday I expect. + That will be a good day to choose.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that'll be a good day. Well, 'ere's the end of yer as yer are. + It'll be another Peter coming back, maybe. Up along they'll change yer.” + </p> + <p> + “But never me and you, Steve. I shall love you always.” + </p> + <p> + The man seized him almost fiercely by the shoulders and looked him in the + face. “Promise me that, boy,” he said, “promise me that. Yer most all I've + got now. But I'm a fool to ask yer—of course yer'll change. I'm an + ignorant fool.” + </p> + <p> + They were standing in the middle of one of Stephen's brown ploughed + fields, and the cold, sharp day was drawing to a close as the mist stole + up from the ground and the dim sun sank behind the hedgerows. + </p> + <p> + Peter in the school years that followed always had this picture of Stephen + standing in the middle of his field—Stephen's rough, red brown + clothes, his beard that curled a little, his brown corduroys that smelt of + sheep and hay, the shining brass buttons of his coat, his broad back and + large brown hands, his mild blue eyes and nose suddenly square at the end + where it ought to have been round—this Stephen Brant raised from the + very heart of the land, something as strong and primitive as the oaks and + corn and running stream that made his background. + </p> + <p> + Stephen suddenly caught up Peter and kissed him so that the boy cried out. + Then he turned abruptly and left him, and Peter did not see him again. + </p> + <p> + He said his farewells to the town, tenderly and gravely—the cobbled + streets, the dear market-place, and the Tower, The Bending Mule (here + there were farewells to be said to Mr. and Mrs. Figgis and old Moses); the + wooden jetty, and the fishing-boats—then the beach and the caves and + the sea.... + </p> + <p> + Last of all, the Grey Hill. Peter climbed it on the last afternoon of all. + He was quite alone, and the world was very still; he could not hear the + sea at all. At last he was at the top and leant his back against the + Giant's Finger. Looking round there are the hills that guard Truro, there + are the woods where the rabbits are, there is the sea, and a wonderful + view of Treliss rising into a peak which is The Man at Arms—and the + smoke of the town mingled with the grey uncertain clouds, and the clouds + mingled with the sea, and the only certain and assured thing was the + strength of the Giant's Finger. That at least he could feel cold and hard + against his hands. He felt curiously solemn and grave, and even a little + tearful—and he stole down, through the dusk, softly as though his + finger were on his lips. + </p> + <p> + And then after this a multitude of hurrying sensations with their climax + in a very, very early morning, when one dressed with a candle, when one's + box was corded and one's attic looked strangely bare, when there was a + surprising amount to eat at breakfast, when one stole downstairs softly. + He had said good-bye to his mother on the previous evening, and she had + kissed him, and he had felt uncomfortable and shy. + </p> + <p> + Then there were Mrs. Trussit and his aunt to see him off, there was a cab + and, most wonderful of all, there was his father coming in the cab. That + was a dreadful thing and the journey to the station seemed endless because + of it. His father was perfectly silent, and any thrill that Peter might + have snatched from the engines, the porters, the whistles, and his own + especial carriage were negatived by this paralysing occurrence. He would + have liked to have said something himself, but he could only think of + things that were quite impossible like “How funny Mrs. Trussit's nose is + early in the morning,” “I wonder what old Parlow's doing.” + </p> + <p> + It was terrible. + </p> + <p> + He was in his carriage—they were hurrying, every one was hurrying. + </p> + <p> + His father suddenly spoke. + </p> + <p> + “The guard will see to you. You change at Exeter. Your aunt has given you + sandwiches.” A little pause, and then: “You've got pluck. You stood that + beating well.” Then the stern face passed, and the grave awful figure + faded slowly down the platform. + </p> + <p> + Peter felt suddenly, utterly, completely miserable, and alone. Two tears + rolled slowly down his cheeks. He blew his nose, and the train started. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + And so this first run into liberty begins with tears and a choke in the + throat and a sudden panting desire to be back in the dark passages of Scaw + House. Nor did the fleeting swiftness of the new country please him. + Suddenly one was leaving behind all those known paths and views, so dimly + commonplace in the having of them, so rosily romantic in the tragic + wanting of them! + </p> + <p> + How curious that Mrs. Trussit, his aunt, and his father should appear now + pathetically affectionate in their farewells of him! They were not—to + that he could swear—and yet back he would run did Honour and Destiny + allow him. Above all, how he would have run now to Stephen. + </p> + <p> + He felt like a sharp wound the horrible selfishness and indifference of + his parting when Stephen's beard had been pressed so roughly against his + face that it had hurt him—and he had had nothing to say. He would + write that very night if They—the unknown Gods to whose kingdom he + journeyed—would allow him. This comforted him a little and the + spirit of adventure stirred in him anew. He wiped his eyes for the last + time with the crumpled ball of his handkerchief, sniffed three times + defiantly, and settled to a summary of the passing country, cows, and + hills and hedges, presently the pleasing bustle of Truro station, and then + again the cows and hills and hedges. On parting from Cornwall he + discovered a new sensation, and was surprised that he should feel it. He + did not know, as a definite fact, the exact moment when that merging of + Cornwall into Devon came, and yet, strangely in his spirit, he was + conscious of it. Now he was in a foreign country, and it was almost as + though his own land had cast him out so that the sharp appealing farewell + to the Grey Hill, Treliss, and the sea was even more poignant than his + farewell to his friends had been. Once more, at the thought of all the + ways that he loved Cornwall, the choking sob was in his throat and the hot + tears were in his eyes, and his hands were clenched. And then he + remembered that London was not in Cornwall, and if he were ever going to + get there at all he must not mind this parting. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil are you crying about?” came suddenly from the other side + of the carriage. He looked up, and saw that there was an old gentleman + sitting in the opposite corner. He had a red fat face and beautiful white + hair. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not crying,” said Peter, rather defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, you are—or you were. Supposing you share my lunch and see + whether that will make things any better.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much, but I have some sandwiches,” said Peter, feeling for + the paper packet and finding it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, supposing you come over here and eat yours with me. And if you + could manage to help me with any of mine I should be greatly indebted. I + can't bear having my meals alone, you know.” + </p> + <p> + How can one possibly resist it when the Olympians come down so amiably + from their heights and offer us their hospitality? Moreover the Old + Gentleman had, from his bag, produced the most wonderfully shaped parcels. + There was certainly a meal, and Aunt Jessie's sandwiches would assuredly + be thick and probably no mustard! + </p> + <p> + So Peter slipped across and sat next to the Old Gentleman, and even shared + a rug. He ultimately shared a great many other things, like chicken and + tongue, apples and pears and plum cake. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said the Old Gentleman, “you are going to school and probably + for the first time—and therefore your legs are as weak as pins, you + have a cold pain in the middle of your chest, and you have an intense + desire to see your mother again.” + </p> + <p> + Peter admitted that this was true, although it wasn't his mother whom he + wished to see so much as a friend of his called Stephen, and, one or two + places like the Grey Hill and The Bending Mule. All this interested the + Old Gentleman very much. + </p> + <p> + “You, too, were at school?” Peter inquired politely. + </p> + <p> + “I was,” said the Old Gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “And was it like David Copperfield?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Parts of it—the nice parts. School was the best, the very best time + of my life, my boy, and so you'll find it.” + </p> + <p> + This was immensely reassuring, and Peter felt very much cheered. “You will + make all the friends of your life there. You will learn to be a man. Dear + me!” The Old Gentleman coughed. “I don't know what I would have done + without school. You must have courage, you know,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “I heard some one say once,” said Peter, “that courage is the most + important thing to have. It isn't life that matters, but courage, this man + said.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul,” the Old Gentleman said, “how old are you, boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Twelve—nearly thirteen,” answered Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the more you see of boys the better. You might be forty by the way + you talk. You want games and fellows of your own age, that's what you + want. Why I never heard of such a thing, talking about life at your age.” + </p> + <p> + Peter felt that he had done something very wrong, although he hadn't the + least idea of his crime, so he turned the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “I should like very much,” he said, “to hear about your school if you + wouldn't mind.” + </p> + <p> + Then the Old Gentleman began in the most wonderful way, and to hear him + talk you would imagine that school was the paradise to which all good boys + were sent—a deliriously delightful place, with a shop full of + sweets, games without end, friends galore, and a little work now and then + to prevent one's being bored. + </p> + <p> + Peter listened most attentively with his head against the Old Gentleman's + very warm coat, and then the warmth and the movement of the train caused + the voice to swim further and further away into distance. + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul!” Peter heard as though it had been whispered at the end of + the train. + </p> + <p> + “Here's Exeter, young man. Your father said you were to change here.” + </p> + <p> + A rubbing of eyes, and behold a stout guard in front of the door and no + sign of the Old Gentleman whatever, but when he felt for his ticket in his + side pocket he found also a glittering sovereign that had certainly not + been there when he went asleep. + </p> + <p> + All this was very encouraging, and Peter followed the guard across the + Exeter platform hopefully and expectantly. Right down the platform, on a + side line, was a little train that reminded Peter of the Treliss to Truro + one, so helpless and incapable did it look. The guard put him and his + luggage into a carriage and then left him with a last word as to Salton + being his destination. He waited here a very long time and nothing + happened. He must have slept again, because when he next looked out of the + window the platform was full of people. + </p> + <p> + He realised with terror that they were, many of them, boys—boys with + friends and boys without. He watched them with a great feeling of + desolation and homesickness as they flung themselves into carriages and + shouted at one another. + </p> + <p> + A small boy with a very red face and a round fat body, attended by a tall, + thin lady in black, got into the carriage, and behaving as if Peter + weren't there at all, leaned out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “All right, mater. That's all right. I'll tell 'em about the socks—old + Mother Gill will look after that.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't forget to send me a post card to-night, Will, dear, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, mater, that's all right. I say, don't you bother to wait if you want + to be off.” + </p> + <p> + “No, dear, I'd like to wait. Don't forget to give father's letter to Mr. + Raggett.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I say it's rotten for you waiting about, really. Give my love + to Floss!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps I had better go. This train seems to be late. Good-bye, + dearest boy.” + </p> + <p> + An interval, during which the stout boy leaned out of the window and was + embraced. Soon his bowler hat was flung wildly on to the rack and he was + leaning out of the window, screaming: + </p> + <p> + “Cocker! I say, Cocker! Cocker! Oh! dash it, he's going in there. Cocker! + Cocker! Hullo, Bisket! going strong? Cocker! Oh! there he is! Hullo, old + man! Thought I should miss you. Come on in here! Thought I'd never get rid + of the mater. They do hang about!” + </p> + <p> + A small boy with his hat on one side got into the carriage, stepped on + Peter's feet without apologising, and then the two gentlemen sat down at + the other end of the carriage and exchanged experiences. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of hols.?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pretty rotten! Got nothing for Christmas at all except a measly knife + or two—governor played it awfully low down.” + </p> + <p> + “I rather scored because my sister had a ripping writing case sent to her, + and I gave her a rotten old book in exchange, and she jolly well had to.” + </p> + <p> + And so it continued. To Peter it was completely unintelligible. The boys + at old Parlow's had never talked like this. He was suddenly flung into a + foreign country. The dismay in his heart grew as he remembered that he was + going into this life entirely alone and without a friend in the world. He + felt that he would, had it been possible, gladly have exchanged this + dreadful plunge for a beating from his father. + </p> + <p> + At any rate, after that there were friends to whom one might go—after + this?... + </p> + <p> + As the train dragged slowly and painfully along the dreariness and the + loneliness increased. The dusk fell, and they stopped, as it seemed, every + other minute, and always Peter thought that it must be Salton and prepared + to get out. The two boys in his carriage paid no attention to him + whatever, and their voices continued incessantly, and always the little + train jolted along sleepily wandering through the dark country and + carrying him to unknown terrors. But he set his teeth hard and remembered + what the Old Gentleman had told him. He would fight it out and see it + through. + </p> + <p> + “'Tisn't Life that matters, but the Courage—” + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly the train stopped, the two boys flung themselves at the + window, and the porter outside, like a magician who kept a rabbit in a + bag, suddenly shouted “Salton!” After that there were mixed impressions. + He stood alone on the dark, windy platform whilst dark figures passed and + repassed him. Then a tall, thin Somebody said “Are you Westcott?” and + Peter said “Yes,” and he was conveyed to a large wagonette already crowded + with boys. Then there was a great deal of squeezing, a great deal of + noise, and some one in authority said from somewhere, “Less noise, + please.” + </p> + <p> + The wagonette started in a jolting uncertain way, and then they seemed to + go on for ever and ever between dark sweet-smelling hedges with black + trees that swept their heads, and the faint blue of the evening sky on the + horizon. Every one was very quiet now, and Peter fell asleep once more and + dreamed of the Old Gentleman, plum cake, and Stephen. + </p> + <p> + A sudden pause—the sound of an iron gate being swung back, and Peter + was awake again to see that they were driving up to a dark heavy building + that looked like a hospital or a prison. + </p> + <p> + “The new boys please follow me,” and he found himself, still struggling + with sleep, blinded by the sudden light, following, with some ten others, + a long and thin gentleman who wore a pince-nez. His strongest feeling was + that he was very cold and that he hated everybody and everything. He heard + many voices somewhere in the distance, doors were being continually opened + and shut, and little winds blew down the dismal passages. They were + suddenly in a study lined with books and a stout rubicund gentleman with a + gold watch chain and a habit (as Peter at once discovered) of whistling + through his teeth was writing at a table. + </p> + <p> + He turned round when he heard them enter and watched them for a moment as + they stood by the door. + </p> + <p> + “Well, boys” (his voice came from somewhere near his watch chain), “come + and shake hands. How are you all?” + </p> + <p> + Some eager boy in the front row, with a pleasant smile and a shrill piping + voice said, “Very well, thank you, sir,” and Peter immediately hated him. + </p> + <p> + Then they shook hands and their names were written in a book. The stout + gentleman said, “Well, boys, here you all are. Your first term, you know—very + important. Work and play—work and play. Work first and play + afterwards, and then we'll be friends. Oh, yes! Supper at nine. Prayers at + nine-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + They were all bundled out, and the tall man with pince-nez said: “Now, + boys, you have an hour before supper,” and left them without another word + in a long dark passage. The passage was hung with greatcoats and down each + side of it were play-boxes. At the other end, mistily and vaguely, figures + passed. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down on one of the play-boxes and saw, to his disgust, that the + eager boy with the piping voice sat down also. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” said the piping boy, “don't you like school awfully?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I hate it,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say! What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Peter! Oh! but your other name. The fellows will rag you most awfully if + you tell them your Christian name.” + </p> + <p> + “Westcott, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine's Cheeseman. I'm going to like everybody here and get on. I say, + shall we be chums?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say! Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I don't like you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say!” + </p> + <p> + “In another minute I'll break your neck.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I say!” The piping boy sprang up from the play-box and stood away. + “All right, you needn't be ratty about it! I'll tell the fellows you said + your name was Peter! They'll give it you.” + </p> + <p> + And the piping boy moved down the passage whistling casually. + </p> + <p> + After this, silence, and only all the greatcoats swaying a little in the + draught and bulging out and then thinning again as though there were two + persons inside them. Peter sat quite motionless for a long time with his + face in his hands. He was very tired and very cold and very hungry. + </p> + <p> + A crowd advanced towards him—five or six boys, and one large fat boy + was holding the piping one by the ear. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say! Let me go! Let me go! I'll do your boots up, really I will. + I'll do whatever you like! Oh! I say! There's a new boy. He says his name + is Peter!” + </p> + <p> + So did the wretched piping one endeavour to divert attention from his own + person. The fat boy, accompanied by a complacent satellite, approached + Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, you. What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tisn't. It's Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Peter Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Peter Westcott, stand up when you're spoken to by your betters. + I say, hack him up, you fellows.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was “hacked” up. + </p> + <p> + “Now, what do you mean by not speaking when you're spoken to?” + </p> + <p> + Peter stood square and faced him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you won't speak, won't you? See if this will do it.” + </p> + <p> + Peter's arm and ear were twisted; he was also hit in the mouth. + </p> + <p> + He was still silent. + </p> + <p> + Some one in the back of the crowd said, “Oh, come on, you chaps—let's + leave this kid, the other fellow's more fun.” + </p> + <p> + And they passed on bearing the piping one with them. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down again; he was feeling sick and his head ached. He buried + his head in the greatcoat that hung above him, and cried quite silently + for a very long time. + </p> + <p> + A bell rang, and boys ran past him, and he ran with them. He found that it + was supper and that he was sitting with the other new boys at the bottom + of the table, but he could not eat and his head was swimming. Then there + were prayers and, as he knelt on the hard floor with his head against the + form, some one stuck a pin into the soft part of his leg and gave him + great pain. + </p> + <p> + Then at last, and all this time he had spoken to no one, upstairs to bed. + A tall, thin woman in shining black was at the head of the stairs—she + read out to the new boys the numbers of their dormitories in a harsh, + metallic voice. Peter went to his, and found it a long room with twenty + beds, twenty washing basins, and twenty chairs. + </p> + <p> + One last incident. + </p> + <p> + He slept and was dreaming. He was climbing the Grey Hill and Stephen was + following him, calling on him. He remembered in his dream that he had not + written Stephen the letter that he had promised, and he turned back down + the hill. Then suddenly the ground began to toss under his feet, he cried + for Stephen, he was flung into the air, he was falling.... + </p> + <p> + He woke and found that he was lying on the floor amongst the tumbled + sheets and blankets. In the distance he could hear stifled laughter. The + terror of that awful wakening was still upon him, and he thought for a + moment that he would die because his heart would never beat again. + </p> + <p> + Then slowly he gathered his clothes together and tried to arrange them on + the bed. He was dreadfully cold and his toes stuck out at the end of the + bed. He could not cover them. + </p> + <p> + But, tired as he was, he dared not fall asleep again, lest there should + come once more that dreadful wakening. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + DAWSON'S, THE GATE INTO HELL + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + A letter from Peter to Stephen: + </p> + <p> + <i>Dear, dear Steve, </i> + </p> + <p> + There's a noise going on and boys are throwing paper and things and + there's another boy jogging my elbows so that I can't hold my pen. Dear + Steve, I hope that you are very, very happy as I am. I am very happy here. + I am in the bottom form because my sums are so awful and my master beat me + for them yesterday but he is nothing to father. I was top in the essay. I + like football—I have a friend who is called Galion (I don't think + that is the right way to spell it. He says that it is like a + treasure-ship). He is a nice boy and Mrs. Trussit was his father's + housekeeper once; his father writes stories. There is a boy I hate called + Cheeseman, and one called Pollock. Please give my love to Mrs. Brant, the + cows, Mollie and the pigs, Mr. and Mrs. Figgis, Mr. Tan and all my + friends. Dear Steve, I love you very, very, very much. I am very happy. + </p> + <p> + Your loving friend, + </p> + <p> + Peter Westcott. + </p> + <p> + A letter from Stephen to Peter: + </p> + <p> + <i>Dear Mr. Peter, </i> + </p> + <p> + I have thought every day of you and I was mighty glad to get your bit of a + letter fearing that, maybe, thiccy place in Devon might have driven your + old friends out of your head. I am no hand with a pen and it is taking me + a time to write this so I will just say that I'm right glad you're happy + and that I'll greet the day I see you again, and that's it's poor trade + here without you. + </p> + <p> + I am always, your friend, + </p> + <p> + Stephen Brant. + </p> + <p> + But Peter had lied in his letter. He was not in any way happy at all. He + had lied because he knew that it would have hurt Stephen if he had told + him the truth—and the truth was something that must be met with + clenched teeth and shoulders set back. + </p> + <p> + Taking him at the end of the first week one finds simple bewilderment and + also a conviction that silence is the best policy. He was placed in the + lowest form because of his ignorance of Latin and Mathematics, and here + every one was younger and weaker. During school hours there was + comparative peace, and he sat with perplexed brow and inky fingers, or was + sent down to the bottom for inattention. It was not inattention but rather + a complete incapacity for grasping the system on which everything worked. + Meanwhile in this first week he had earned a reputation and made three + friends, and although he did not know it that was not a bad beginning. + </p> + <p> + On the day after his arrival Peter, after midday dinner, standing + desolately in the playground and feeling certain that he ought to be + playing football somewhere but completely ignorant as to the place where + lists commonly hung, saw another new boy and hailed him. This boy he had + noticed before—he was shapeless of body, with big, round, + good-tempered eyes, and he moved more slowly than any one whom Peter had + ever seen. Nothing stirred him; he did not mind it when his ears were + pulled or his arms twisted, but only said slowly, “Oh, drop it!” To this + wonderful boy Peter made approach. + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me where the lists are for football? I ought to have been + playing yesterday only I didn't know where to look.” + </p> + <p> + The slow boy smiled. “I'm going to look myself,” he said, “come on.” + </p> + <p> + And then two things happened. First sauntering down the playground there + came a boy whom Peter had noticed on that first morning in school—some + one very little older than Peter and not very much bigger, but with a + grace, a dignity, an air that was very wonderful indeed. He was a dark boy + with his hair carelessly tossed over his forehead; he was very clean and + he had beautiful hands. To Peter's rough and clumsy figure he seemed + everything that a boy should be, and, in his mind, he had called him + “Steerforth.” As this boy approached there suddenly burst into view a + discordant crowd with some one in their midst. They were shouting and + laughing, and Peter could hear that some one was crying. The crowd + separated and formed a ring and danced shouting round a very small and + chubby boy who was standing crying quite desperately, with his head buried + in his arm. Every now and then the infant was knocked by one boy in the + ring into another boy's arms, and so was tossed from side to side. + </p> + <p> + The hopeless sound of the chubby one's crying caused Peter suddenly to go + red hot somewhere inside his chest, and like a bullet from a gun he was + into the middle of the circle. “You beasts! You beasts,” he sobbed + hysterically. He began to hit wildly, with his head down, at any one near + him, and very soon there was a glorious mêlée. The crowd roared with + laughter as they flung the two small boys against one another, then + suddenly one of the circle got a wild blow in the eye from Peter's fist + and went staggering back, another was kicked in the shins, a third was + badly winded. Peter had lost all sense of place or time, of reason or + sanity; he was wild with excitement, and the pent-up emotions of the last + five days found magnificent overwhelming freedom. He did not know whether + he were hit or no, once he was down and in an instant up again—once + a face was close to his and he drove hard at the mouth—but he was + small and his arms and legs were short. Indeed it would have gone badly + with him had there not been heard, in all the roar of battle, the mystic + whisper “Binns,” and in an instant, as the snow flies before the sun, so + had that gallant crowd disappeared. Only the small cause of the + disturbance and Peter remained. The tall form of a master passed slowly + down the playground, but it appeared that he had seen nothing, and he did + not speak. The small boy was gazing at Peter with wide-opened eyes, large + in a white face on which were many tear stains. Peter, who was conscious + now that blood was pouring from a cut in his cheek, that one of his teeth + was missing and that one of his eyes was fast closing, was about to speak + to him when he was aware that his “Steerforth” had sprung from nowhere and + was advancing gracefully to meet him. Peter's heart beat very fast. + </p> + <p> + The boy smiled at him and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I say, shake hands. You've got pluck—my eye! I never saw such a + rag!” + </p> + <p> + Peter shook hands and was speechless. + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine's Cardillac. It isn't spelt as it's spoken, you know. + C-a-r-d-i-l-l-a-c. I'm in White's—what do you say to places next + each other at table?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather.” Peter's face was crimson. “Thanks most awfully.” He stammered in + his eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Right you are—see you after chapel.” The boy moved away. + </p> + <p> + Peter said something to the infant whom he had delivered, and was + considering where he might most unobtrusively wash when he was once more + conscious of some one at his elbow. It was the slow boy who was smiling at + him. + </p> + <p> + “I say, you're a sight. You'd better wash, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was just thinking of that only I didn't quite know where to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Come with me—I'll get round Mother Gill all right. She likes me. + You've got some cheek. Prester and Banks Mi, and all sorts of fellows were + in that crowd. You landed Prester nicely.” He chuckled. “What's your + name?” + </p> + <p> + “Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine's Galleon.” + </p> + <p> + “Galleon?” Peter's eyes shone. “I say, you didn't ever have a housekeeper + called Mrs. Trussit?” + </p> + <p> + “Trussit? Yes, rather, of course I remember, when I was awfully small.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, she's ours now! Then it must be your father who writes books!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rather. He's most awfully famous!” + </p> + <p> + Peter stopped still, his mouth open with excitement. + </p> + <p> + Of all the amazing things! What doesn't life give you if you trust it! + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + But before it became a question of individuals there is the place to be + considered. This Dawson's of twenty years ago does not exist now nor, let + us pray the Fates, are there others like it. It is not only with + bitterness that a boy whom Dawson's had formed would look back on it but + also with a dim, confused wonder that he had escaped with a straight soul + and a straight body from that Place. There were many, very many indeed, + who did not escape, and it would indeed have been better for them all had + they died before they were old enough to test its hospitality. If any of + those into whose hands this story of Peter may fall were, by the design of + God, themselves trained by the place of which I speak, they will + understand that all were not as fortunate as Peter—and for those + others there should be sympathy.... + </p> + <p> + To Peter indeed it all came very slowly because he had known so little + before. He had not been a week in the place before there were very many + things that he was told—there were other things that he saw for + himself. + </p> + <p> + There is, for instance, at the end of the third week, the incident of + Ferris, the Captain of the School. He was as a God in Peter's eyes, he was + greater, more wonderful than Stephen, than any one in the world. His word + was law.... + </p> + <p> + One late afternoon Peter cleaned plates for him in his study, and Ferris + watched him. Ferris was kind and talked about many things out of his great + wisdom, and then he asked Peter whether he would always like to be his + fag, and Peter, delighted, said “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Then Ferris smiled and spoke, dropping his voice. Three weeks earlier + Peter would not have understood, but now he understood quite well and he + went very white and broke from the room, leaving the plates where they + were—and Cheeseman became Ferris' fag— + </p> + <p> + This was all very puzzling and perplexing to Peter. + </p> + <p> + But after that first evening when he had hidden his head in the greatcoat + and cried, he had shown no sign of fear and he soon found that, on that + side of Life, things became easy. He was speedily left alone, and indeed + he must have been, in spite of his small size, something of a figure even + then. + </p> + <p> + His head was so very firm on his shoulders, his grey eyes were so very + straight, and his lip curled in a disagreeable way when he was displeased; + he was something of the bulldog, and even at this early period the First + and Second forms showed signs of meek surrender to his leadership. But he + was, of course, not happy—he was entirely miserable. He would be + happier later on when he had been able to arrange all these puzzling + certainties so different from those dazzling imaginations that he had + painted. How strange of him to have been so glad to leave Stephen and the + others—even old Curtis! What could he have thought was coming! + </p> + <p> + He remembered as though it had been another life that Christmas Eve, the + fight, the beating, the carols.... + </p> + <p> + And yet, with it all, with the dreariness and greyness and fierceness and + dirtiness of it all, he would not change it for those earlier things—this + was growing, this was growing up! + </p> + <p> + He was certainly happier after his meeting with Cardillac—“Cards” as + he was always called. Here was a hero indeed! Not to displace, of course, + Stephen, who remained as a stained-glass window remains, to be looked at + and treasured and remembered—but here was a living wonder! Every + movement that Cards made was astounding, and not only Peter felt it. Even + the masters seemed to suggest that he was different from the rest and + watched him admiringly. Cards was only fourteen, but he had seen the + world. He had been with his mother (his father was dead) about Europe, he + knew London, he had been to the theatres; school, he gave them all to + understand, was an interim in the social round. He took Peter's worship + very easily and went for walks with him and talked in a wonderful way. He + admired Peter's strength. + </p> + <p> + Peter found that Galleon—Bobby Galleon—was disappointing, not + very interesting. He had never read his father's books, and he couldn't + tell Peter very much about the great man; he was proud of him but rather + reserved. He had not many ideas about anything and indeed when he went for + a walk with Peter was usually very silent, although always in a good + temper. Cards thought Galleon very dull and never spoke to him if he could + avoid doing so, and Peter was sometimes quite angry with Galleon because + he would “turn up so” when one might have had Cards to oneself. + </p> + <p> + Peter's main feeling about it all when half term arrived was that one must + just stand with one's back to the wall if one was to avoid being hurt. He + did not now plunge into broils to help other people; he found that it did + not in reality help them and that it only meant that he got kicked as well + as the other boy. One's life was a diligent watchfulness with the end in + view of avoiding the enemy. The enemy was to be found in any shape and + form; there was no security by night or day, but on the whole life was + safer if one spoke as little as possible and stuck to the wall. There were + Devils—most certainly Devils—roaming the world, and as he + watched the Torture and the Terror and then the very dreadful submission, + he vowed with clenched lips that he would never Submit...and so gradually + he was learning the truth of that which Frosted Moses had spoken... + </p> + <p> + Cornwall, meanwhile—the Grey Hill, Scaw House, the hills above Truro—remained + to him during these weeks, securely hidden. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + There remains to be chronicled of that first term only the Comber Fight + and, a little conversation, one windy day, with Galleon. The small boy, by + name Beech Minimus, whom Peter had defended on that earlier occasion, had + attached himself with unswerving fidelity to his preserver. He was round + and fat, and on his arrival had had red cheeks and sparkling eyes—now + he was pale and there were lines under his eyes; he started if any one + spoke to him, and was always eager to hide when possible. Peter was very + sorry for him, but, after a month of the term had passed he had, himself, + acquired the indifference of those that stand with their backs to the + wall. Beech would go on any kind of errand for him and would willingly + have died for him had it been required of him—he did indeed during + the hours that he was left in peace in his dormitory, picture to himself + wonderful scenes in which he saved Peter from horrible deaths and for his + own part perished. + </p> + <p> + It may have been that he clung to Peter partly because there was more + safety in his neighbourhood, for amongst the lower school boys at any + rate, very considerable fear of Peter was to be noticed, but Beech's large + eyes raised to the other boy's face or his eager smile as he did something + that Peter required of him, spoke devotion. + </p> + <p> + Beech Minimus was forced, however, for the good of his soul, to suffer + especial torture between the hours of eight and nine in the evening. It + was the custom that the Lower School should retire from preparation at + eight o'clock, it being supposed that at that hour the Lower School went + to bed. But Authority, blinded by trustful good nature and being engaged + at that hour with its wine and dinner, left the issue to chance and the + Gods, and human nature being what it is, the Lower School triumphed in + freedom. There was a large, empty class room at the back of the building + where much noise might safely be made, and in this place and at this hour + followed the nightly torture of Beech and his minute companions—that + torture named by the Gods, “Discipline,” by the Authorities, “Boys will be + Boys,” by the Parent, “Learning to be a Man,” and by the Lower School “A + Rag.” Beech and his companions had not as yet a name for it. Peter was, as + a rule, left to his own thoughts and spent the hours amongst the + greatcoats in the passage reading David Copperfield or talking in whispers + to Bobby Galleon. But nevertheless he was not really indifferent, he was + horribly conscious even in his sleep, of Beech's shrill “Oh! Comber, + don't! Please, Comber, oh!” and Beech being in the same dormitory as + himself he noticed, almost against his will, that shivering little mortal + as he crept into bed and cowered beneath the sheets wondering whether + before morning he would be tossed in sheets or would find his bed drenched + in water or would be beaten with hair brushes. Peter's philosophy of + standing it in silence and hitting back if he were himself attacked was + scarcely satisfactory in Beech's case, and, again and again, his attention + would be dragged away from his book to that other room where some small + boys were learning lessons in life. + </p> + <p> + The head of this pleasant sport was one Comber, a large, pale-faced boy, + some years older than his place in the school justified, but of a crass + stupidity, a greedy stomach and a vicious cruelty. Peter had already met + him in football and had annoyed him by collaring him violently on one + occasion, it being the boy's habit, owing to his size and reputation, to + run down the field in the Lower School game, unattacked. Peter's hatred of + him grew more intense week by week; some days after Mid-Term, it had + swollen into a passion. He finally told Bobby Galleon one day at luncheon + that on that very evening he was going to defy this Comber. Galleon + besought him not to do this, pointing out Comber's greater strength and + the natural tendency of the Lower School to follow their leader blindly. + Peter said nothing in reply but watched, when eight o'clock had struck and + the Lower School had assembled in the class room, for his moment. It was a + somewhat piteous spectacle. Comber and some half a dozen friends in the + middle of the room, and forty boys ranging in years from eight to twelve, + waiting with white faces and propitiatory smiles, eager to assist in the + Torture if they only might themselves be spared. + </p> + <p> + “Now you chaps,” this from Comber—“we'll have a Gauntlet. I votes we + make young Beech run first.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Come on, Beech—you've jolly well got to.” + </p> + <p> + “Buck up, you funk!” from those relieved that they were themselves, for + the instant, safe. + </p> + <p> + Peter was sitting on a bench at the back of the room—he stood on the + bench and shouted, “You're a beast. Comber.” + </p> + <p> + There was immediate silence—every one turned first to Comber, and + then back to Peter. Comber paused in the preparation of the string whip + that he was making, and his face was crimson. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's you, you young skunk, is it? Bring him here some of you + fellows.” + </p> + <p> + Eager movements were made in his direction, but Peter, still standing on + his bench, shouted: “I claim a fight.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence again—a silence now of incredulity and amazement. + But there was nothing to be done; if any one claimed a fight, by all the + rules and traditions of Dawson's he must have it. But that Westcott, a new + boy and in the bottom form should challenge Comber! Slowly, and as it were + against their will, hearts beat a little faster, faces brightened. Of + course Westcott would be most hopelessly beaten, but might not this prove + the beginning of the end of their tyrant? + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Comber between his teeth: “All right, you young devil, I'll + give you such a hiding as you damned well won't forget. Then we'll treat + you properly afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + A ring was made, and there was silence, so that the prefects might not be + attracted, because fighting in the Lower School was forbidden. Coats were + taken off and Peter faced Comber with the sensation of attacking a + mountain. Peter knew nothing about fighting at all, but Comber had long + subsisted on an easy reputation and he was a coward at heart. There swung + into Peter's brain the picture of The Bending Mule, the crowding faces, + the swinging lamp, Stephen with the sledge-hammer blow...it was the first + time for weeks that he had thought of Treliss. + </p> + <p> + He was indifferent—he did not care; things could not be worse, and + he did not mind what happened to him, and Comber minded very much indeed, + and he had not been hit in the face for a long time. His arms went round + like windmills, and the things that he would like to have done were to + pull Peter's hair from its roots and to bite him on the arm. As the fight + proceeded and he knew that his face was bleeding and that the end of his + nose had no sensation in it at all he kicked with his feet and was + conscious of cries that he was not playing the game. Infuriated that his + recent supporters should so easily desert him, he now flung himself upon + Peter, who at once gave way beneath the bigger boy's weight. Comber then + began to bite and tear and scratch, uttering shrill screams of rage and + kicking on the floor with his feet. He was at once pulled away, assured by + those dearest friends who had so recently and merrily assisted him in his + “rags” that he was not playing the game and was no sportsman. He was + moreover a ludicrous sight, his trousers being torn, one blue-black eye + staring from a confused outline of dust and blood, his hair amazingly on + end. + </p> + <p> + There were also many cries of “Shame, Comber,” “Dirty game,” and even + “Well played young Westcott!” + </p> + <p> + He knew as he wept bitter tears into his blood-stained hands that his + reign was at an end. + </p> + <p> + There were indeed, for the time at any rate, no more “rags,” and Peter + might, an he would, have reigned magnificently over the Lower School. But + he was as silent and aloof as ever, and was considered “a sidey devil, but + jolly plucky, by Gad.” + </p> + <p> + And for himself he got at any rate the more continued companionship of + Cards, who languidly, and, perhaps a younger Sir Willoughby Patterne “with + a leg,” admired his muscle. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + Finally, towards the end of the term, Peter and Bobby Galleon may be seen + sitting on a high hill. It is a Sunday afternoon in spring, and far away + there is a thin line of faintly blue hills. Nearer to view there are grey + heights more sharply outlined and rough, like drawing paper—painted + with a green wood, a red-roofed farm, a black church spire, and a brown + ploughed field. Immediately below them a green hedge hanging over a + running stream that has caught the blue of the sky. Above them vast + swollen clouds flooding slowly with the faint yellow of the coming sunset, + hanging stationary above the stream and seeming to have flung to earth + some patches of their colour in the first primroses below the hedge. A + rabbit watches, his head out of his hole. + </p> + <p> + The boys' voices cut the air. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Bobby, don't you ever wonder about things—you never seem to + want to ask questions.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't suppose I do. I'm awfully stupid. Father says so.” + </p> + <p> + “It's funny your being stupid when your father's so clever.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind my being stupid?” + </p> + <p> + “No—only I'd like you to want to know things—things like what + people are like inside—their thinking part I mean, not their real + insides. People like Mother Gill and old Binns and Prester Ma: and then + what one's going to do when one's grown up—you never want to know + that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it'll just come I suppose. Of course, I shan't be clever like the + governor.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't think you will.” + </p> + <p> + Once again: “Do you mind my being so stupid, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “No—I'm awfully stupid too. But I like to wonder about things. There + was once a man I met at home with rings and things who lived in + London....” Peter stops, Galleon wouldn't be interested in that. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, you know, you've got Cards—he's an awfully clever chap.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he's wonderful,” Peter sighs, “and he's seen such a lot of things.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you know I don't think Cards really cares for you as much as I + do.” This is an approach to sentiment, and Peter brushes it hastily aside: + </p> + <p> + “I like you both awfully. But I say, won't it be splendid to be grown up + in London?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—lots of fellows don't like it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's nothing,” Peter says slowly, “to do with its not being splendid!” + </p> + <p> + And the rabbit, tired of listening to such tiresome stuff, thinks that + they must be very young boys indeed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + A LOOKING-GLASS, A SILVER MATCH-BOX, A GLASS OF WHISKY, AND—VOX + POPULI + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter, thirteen to sixteen!—and left, so it appears, very much the + same, as far as actual possessions go, at the end of it as at the + poverty-struck commencement. Friendship, Honour, Glory—how these + things came and went with him during these years might have a book to + themselves were it not that our business is with a wider stage and more + lasting issues—and there is but little room for a full-fledged + chronicle. Though Dawson's—and to take the history of Miss Gill only—of + her love affair with the curate, of her final desperate appeal to him and + of his ultimate confession that he was married already—provides a + story quite sufficient for three excellent volumes. Or there is the + history of Benbow, that bucolic gentleman into whose study we led Peter a + chapter or two ago, Head for this year or two of Dawson's—soon to be + head of nothing but the dung-heap and there to crow only dismally—with + a childlike Mrs. Benbow, led unwittingly to Dawson's as a lamb to the + slaughter-house—later to flee, crying, back to her hearth and home, + her life smashed to the tiniest pieces and no brain nor strength to put it + together again. Or there is the natural and interesting progression, on + the part of any child, behind whose back those iron gates of Dawson's have + swung, from innocence to knowledge, from knowledge to practice, from + practice to miserable Submission, Concealment, and a merry prospective + Hell—this is a diverting study with which it would be easy to fill + these pages.... + </p> + <p> + But the theme is Peter's education, and Dawson's is only an incident to + that history—an incident that may be taken by the percipient reader, + for a most admirable Symbol—even an early rehearsal of a Comedy + entitled “How to Learn to be a Man, or The World as a Prancing Ground.”... + </p> + <p> + But with Peter, if you take him from that first asking Mrs. Trussit + (swinging his short legs from the table and diving into the mixed biscuit + tin). “Is it, Mrs. Trussit, like David Copperfield?”... to his meeting of + her again, he still rather short-legged but no longer caring over much for + mixed biscuits, in his sixteenth year, with Dawson's over and done with—“No, + Mrs. Trussit, not in the least like,” and grimly said in addition, the + changes, alterations and general growing-up Development may be said to be + inside him rather than out, and there they are vital enough. + </p> + <p> + With those three and a half years it is a case of Things sticking out, + like hillocks in a flat country, and it is retrospection rather than + impressions at the time that show what mattered and what did not. But, on + the whole, the vital things at Dawson's are pretty plain to the eye and + must be squeezed into a chapter as best they can. + </p> + <p> + Treliss, as it appeared in the holidays, seemed to Peter to change very + little. His relations with his father were curiously passive during this + time, and suggested, in their hint of future developments, something + ominous and uneasy. They scarcely ever spoke to one another, and it was + Peter's object to avoid the house as often as possible, but in his + father's silence now (Peter himself being older and intuitively sharper as + to the reason of things) he saw active dislike, and even, at times, a + suggested fear. Outwardly they—his father, his grandfather, his + aunt, Mrs. Trussit—had changed not at all; his grandfather the same + old creature of grey hairs and cushions and rugs, his father broad and + square and white in the face with his black hair carefully brushed, his + aunt with her mittens and trembling hands and silly voice, Mrs. Trussit + with her black silk gown and stout prosperous face—Oh! they were all + there, but he fancied—and this might easily be imagination—that + they, like the portraits of the old Westcotts about the walls, watched + him, as he grew, knowing that ever, as the months passed, the day came + nearer when father and son must come to terms. And beyond this he had, + even at this early time, a consciousness that it was round his mother's + room that the whole matter hung—his mother whom he saw once or twice + a week for a very little time in the morning, when that old terror of the + white silent room would creep upon him and hold him tongue-tied. + </p> + <p> + And yet, with it all, he knew, as every holiday came, more clearly, that + again and again they, his mother and himself, were on the verge of speech + or action. He could see it in her eyes, her beautiful grey eyes that moved + him so curiously. There were days when he was on the edge of a rush of + questions, and then something held him back—perhaps the unconscious + certainty that his mother's answers would precipitate his relations with + his father—and he was not, as yet, ready. + </p> + <p> + Anyhow a grim place, Scaw House, grimmer with every return to it, and not + a brightly coloured interlude to Dawson's, grim enough in its own + conditions. The silence that was gradually growing with Peter—the + fixed assurance, whether at home or at school, that life was easier if one + said nothing—might have found an outlet in Stephen's company, but + here again there was no cheerful chronicle. + </p> + <p> + Each holiday showed Peter less of Stephen than the last had done, and he + was afraid to ask himself why this was. Perhaps in reality he did not + know, but at any rate he was sure that the change was in Stephen. He cared + for Stephen as devotedly as ever, and, indeed, in that perhaps he needed + him more than ever and saw him so little, his affection was even stronger + than it had been. But Stephen had changed, not, Peter knew, in any + affection towards himself, but in his own habits and person. Burstead—his + old enemy—had taken a farm near his own farm, in order, so they said + at The Bending Mule, that he might flaunt Mrs. Burstead (once Stephen's + sweetheart) in Stephen's face. + </p> + <p> + They also said that Burstead beat his wife and ill-used her horribly, and + that she would give all her soul now that she was Stephen Brant's wife, + but that she was a weak, silly young woman, poor thing. They said that + Stephen knew all this, and that he could hear her crying at nights, and + that it was sending him off his head—and that he was drinking. And + they shook their heads, down at The Bending Mule, and foreboded ill. + Moreover, that old lady, Mrs. Brant, had died during Peter's first year at + Dawson's, and Stephen was alone now. He had changed in his appearance, his + beard tangled and untidy, his clothes unbrushed and his eyes wild and + bloodshot, and once Peter had ventured up to Stephen's farm and had + climbed the stairs and had opened the door and had seen Stephen (although + it was early evening) sitting all naked on his bed, very drunk and + shouting wildly—and he had not recognised Peter. But the boy knew + when he met him again, sober this time, by the sad look in his eyes, that + Stephen must go his way alone now, lead him where it would.... A boy of + fifteen could not help. + </p> + <p> + And so those holidays were more and more lonely, as the days passed and + Peter's heart was very heavy. He did not go often to The Bending Mule now + because Stephen was not there. He went once or twice to Zachary Tan's + shop, but he did not see Mr. Zanti again nor any one who spoke of London. + He had not, however, forgotten Mr. Zanti's talk of looking-glasses. As he + grew and his mind distinguished more clearly between fact and fancy, he + saw that it was foolish to suppose that one saw anything in + looking-glasses but the immediate view. Tables and chairs, walls and + windows, dust and fire-places, there was the furniture of a looking-glass. + Nevertheless during his first year at school he had, on occasions, climbed + to his dormitory, seen that he was alone and then gazed into his glass and + thought of London ... London in his young brain, being a place of romantic + fog, pantomime, oranges, fat, chivalrous old gentlemen, Queen Victoria and + Punch and Judy. Nothing had happened—of course nothing had happened—it + was only very cold and unpleasant up there all alone, and, at the end of + it, a silly thing to do. + </p> + <p> + And then one night something did happen. He woke suddenly and heard in the + distance beyond the deep breathing of twenty-four sleepers, a clock strike + three. He turned and lay on his back; he was very sleepy and he did not + know why he had wakened. The long high room was dark, but directly + opposite him beyond the end of his bed, the light seemed to shine full on + to the face of his looking-glass. As he sat up in bed and looked at it + seemed to stand out like a sheet of silver. + </p> + <p> + He gripped the sides of the bed and stared. He rubbed his eyes. He could + see no reflection in the glass at all but only this shining expanse, and + then, as he looked at it, that too seemed to pass away, and in its place + at first confusedly, like smoke across the face of the glass, and then, + settling into shape and form, there appeared the interior of a room—a + small low-roofed dark room. There was a large fire burning, and in front + of it, kneeling on the floor, with their backs to Peter, were two men, and + they were thrusting papers into the fire. The glass seemed to stretch and + broaden out so that the whole of the room was visible, and suddenly Peter + saw a little window high in the top of the wall, and behind that window + was a face that watched the two men. + </p> + <p> + He wanted to warn them—he suddenly cried out aloud “Look out!” and + with that he was wide awake and saw that his glass could be only dimly + discerned in the grey of the advancing morning—and yet he had heard + that clock strike three!... So much for confusing dreams, and so vivid was + it that in the morning he remembered the face at the window and knew that + he would recognise it again if he saw it. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + But out of the three years there stand his relations with Cards and young + Galleon, a symbol of so much that was to come to him later. As he grew in + position in the school Cards saw him continually. Cards undoubtedly + admired his stocky, determined strength, his grey eyes, his brusque + speech, his ability at games. He did not pretend also that he was not + flattered by Peter's attentions. Curiously, for so young a boy, he had a + satirical irony that showed him the world very much in the light that he + was always afterwards to see it. To Cards the world was a show, a Vanity + Fair—a place where manner, <i>savoir-faire</i>, dignity, humour and + ease, mattered everything; he saw also that there was nothing by which + people are so easily deceived. + </p> + <p> + Peter had none of these things; he would always be rough, he would never + be elegant, and afterwards, in life, Cards did not suppose that he would + see very much of Peter, their lives would be along different paths; but + now, more genuinely perhaps than ever again, Cards was to admire that + honest bedrock of feeling, of sentiment, of criticism, of love and anger, + that gave Peter his immense value. + </p> + <p> + “There is a fellow here,” wrote Cards to his mother, “whom I like very + much. He's got a most awful lot of stuff in him although he doesn't say + much and he looks like nothing on earth sometimes. He's very good at + football, although he's only been here a year. His name is Westcott—Peter + Westcott. I expect I'll bring him back one holiday.” + </p> + <p> + But, of course, he never did. Peter, when it came to actuality, wouldn't + look right at home. It was during Peter's second year that these things + were happening, and, all this time, Peter was climbing slowly to a very + real popularity. Cards was leaving at the end of this second year—had + he stayed until the end of the third his superficialities would have been + most severely tested. + </p> + <p> + To him Peter gave all that whole-hearted love and devotion that only + Stephen had known before. He gave it with a very considerable sense of + humour and with no sentiment at all. He saw Cards quite clearly, he + watched his poses and his elaborate pretences, and he laughed at him + sometimes and called him names. + </p> + <p> + Cards' pride was, on several occasions, distinctly hurt by this laughter, + but his certain conviction of his own superiority always comforted him. + Nor was Peter ever sentimental in his attitude. He never told Cards that + he cared for him, and he even hung back a little when Cards was in a + demonstrative mood and wanted to be told that he was “wonderful.” Cards + sometimes wondered whether Peter cared for him at all and whether he + wasn't really fonder of that “stupid ass Galleon” who never had a word to + say for himself. Peter's grey eyes would have told Cards a great deal if + he had cared to examine them, but he did not know anything about eyes. + Peter noticed, a little against his will, that as he advanced up the + school so Cards cared increasingly about him. He grasped this discovery + philosophically; after all, there were many fellows who took their colour + from the world's opinion, and it was natural enough that they should. He + himself regarded his growing popularity as a thing of no importance + whatever; it did not touch him anywhere at all because he despised and + hated the place. “When the time does come,” he said once to Cards, “and + one is allowed to do things, I'll stop a lot of this filth.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have your work cut out,” Cards told him. “What does it all matter + to us? Let 'em wallow—and they'll only hate you.” + </p> + <p> + Cards added this because he knew that Peter had a curious passion for + being liked. Cards wanted to be admired, but to be liked!... what was the + gain? But that second year was, in spite of it all, the best time that + Peter had ever had. There was warmth of a kind in their appreciation of + him. He was only fifteen and small for his age, but his uncompromising + attitude about things, his silence, his football, gave him a surprising + importance—but even now it was respect rather than popularity. He + was growing more like a bull-dog than ever, his hair was stiff and short, + rather shaggy eyebrows, a square jaw, his short legs rather far apart, a + broad back and thick strong arms. + </p> + <p> + Now that Stephen had slipped so sadly into the background he built up his + life about Cards. He put everything into that room—not the old room + that had held Stephen, but a new shining place that gained some added + brilliance from the fact that its guest realised so little the honour that + was done him. He would lie awake at night and think about Cards, of the + things that he would do for him, of the way that he would serve him, of + the guardian that he would be. + </p> + <p> + And then, as that summer term, at the end of the second year, wore on the + pain of Cards' departure grew daily more terrible. He didn't know, as the + days advanced, how he would be able to bear that place without Cards. + There would be no life, no interest, and all the disorganisation, the + immorality, the cruelty would oppress him as they had never oppressed him + before. Besides next year he would be a person of some importance—he + would probably be Captain of the Football and a Monitor...everything would + be terribly hard. Of course there was old Bobby Galleon, who was a very + good chap and really fond of Peter, but there was no excitement about <i>that</i> + relationship. Bobby was quite ready to play servant to Peter's master, and + Peter could never respect any one very much who did that. Beside Cards, so + brilliant, so handsome, with such an “air,” old Bobby really didn't come + off very well. + </p> + <p> + Bobby also at times was inclined to be a little sentimental. He used to + ask Peter whether he liked him—whether he would miss him if he died—and + he used to tell Peter that he would very gladly die for him. There were + things that one didn't—if one had self-respect—say. + </p> + <p> + That year the summer was of a blazing heat. Every morning saw a sky of + steely blue, the corn stood like a golden band about the hills, and little + clouds like the softest feathers were blown by the Gods about the world. A + mist clung about the distant hills and clothed them in purple grey. As the + term grew to its close Peter felt that the world was a prison of coloured + steel, and that Dawson's was a true Hell...he would escape from it with + Cards. And then when he saw that such an escape would be running away and + a confession of defeat—he turned back and held his will in command. + </p> + <p> + Cards looked upon his approaching departure as a great deliverance. He was + to be a man immediately; not for him that absurdly dilatory condition of + pimples and hobbledehoy boots that mark a transition period. Dawson's had + been the most insignificant sojourn in the tent of the enemy, and the + world, it was implied, had lamented his enforced absence. But, as the end + of term flung its shadows in front of it in the form of examinations, and + that especial quality of excited expectancy hovering about the corridors, + Cards felt, for the first time in his existence, a genuine emotion. He + minded, curiously, leaving Peter. He felt, although in this he wrongly + anticipated the gods, that he would never see him again, and he calculated + perhaps at the little piece of real affection and friendship that stood + out from the Continental Tour that he wished Life to be, like a palm tree + on the limitless desert. And yet it was characteristic of them both that + on the last day when, seated under a hedge at the top of the playing + fields, the school buildings a grey mist below them and the air tensely + rigid with heat, they said good-bye to one another, it was Cards who found + all the words. + </p> + <p> + Peter had nothing to say at all; he only clutched at tufts of grass, + lugged them from the earth and flung them before him. But Cards, as usual, + rose to the occasion. + </p> + <p> + “You know, Peter, it's been most splendid knowing you here. I don't think + I'd ever have got through Dawson's if it hadn't been for you. It's a hell + of a place and I suppose if the mater hadn't been abroad so much I should + never have stayed on. But it's no use making a fuss. Besides, it's only + for a little while—one will have forgotten all about it in a year's + time.” + </p> + <p> + Peter smiled. “You will, I shan't.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course you will. And you must come and stay with us often. My + mother's most awfully anxious to know you. Won't it be splendid going out + to join her in Italy? It'll be a bit hot this time of year I expect.” + </p> + <p> + Peter seemed to struggle with his words. “I say—Cards—you + won't—altogether—forget me?” + </p> + <p> + “Forget you! Why, good Lord, I'll be always writing. I'll have such lots + to tell you. I've never liked any one in all my life (this said with a + great sense of age) as I've liked you!” + </p> + <p> + He stood up and fumbled in his coat. Peter always remembered him, his dark + slim body against the sky, his hair tumbled about his forehead, the grace + and ease with which his body was balanced, the trick that he had of + swaying a little from the hips. He felt in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I say—I've got something for you. I bought it down in the town the + other day and I made them put your name on it.” He produced it, wrapped in + tissue paper, out of his pocket, and Peter took it without a word. It was + a silver match-box with “Peter Westcott from his friend Cardillac,” and + the month and the year printed on it. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks most awfully,” Peter said gruffly. “Jolly decent of you. Good-bye + old man.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands and avoided each other's eyes, and Cardillac had a sudden + desire to fling the Grand Tour and the rest of it to the dogs and to come + back for another year to Dawson's. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must get back, got to be in library at four,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to stop here a bit,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + He watched Cards walk slowly down the hill and then he flung himself on + his face and pursued with a vacant eye the efforts of an ant to climb a + swaying blade of grass ... he was there for a long time. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + And so he entered into his third year at Dawson's with a dogged + determination to get through with it as well as possible and not to miss + Cards more than he could help. He did, as an actual fact, miss Cards + terribly. There were so many places, so many things that were connected + with him, but he found, as a kind of reward, that Bobby Galleon was more + of a friend than before. Now that Cards had departed Galleon came a little + out of his shell. He anticipated, obviously with very considerable + enjoyment, that year when he would have Peter all to himself. Bobby + Galleon's virtue was, at any rate, that one was not conscious of him, and + during the time of Peter's popularity he was useful without being in the + very least evident. When that year was over and he had seen the last + shining twinkle of Cards' charms and fascinations he looked at Peter a + little wistfully, “Peter, old man, next year will be topping....” and + Peter, the pleasant warmth of popularity about him, felt that there was a + great deal to be said for Galleon after all. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But with the first week of that third year trouble began. Things lifted + between the terms, into so different an air; at the end of the summer with + Peter's authority in prospect and his splendid popularity (confined by no + jailer-like insistence on rules) around him that immediate year seemed + simple enough. But in the holidays that preceded the autumn term something + had occurred; Peter returned in the mists and damp of September with every + eye upon him. Although only fifteen and a half he was a Monitor and + Captain of the Football ... far too young for both these posts, with + fellows of a great size and a greater age in the school, but Barbour (his + nose providing, daily, a more lively guide to his festal evenings) was + seized by Peter's silence and imperturbability in the midst of danger, + “That kid's got guts” (this a vinous confidence amongst friends) “and will + pull the place up—gettin' a bit slack, yer know—Young? Lord + bless yer, no—wonderful for his age and Captain of the Football—that's + always popular.” + </p> + <p> + So upon Peter the burden of “pulling things up” descended. How far Cards + might have helped him here it is difficult to say. Cards had, in his + apparently casual contempt of that school world, a remarkably competent + sense of the direction in which straws were blowing. That most certainly + Peter had not, being inclined, at this stage of things, to go straight for + the thing that he saw and to leave the outskirts of the subject to look + after themselves. And here Bobby Galleon was of no use to him, being as + blundering and near-sighted and simple as a boy could very well be. + Moreover his implicit trust in the perfection of that hero, Peter, did not + help clarity of vision. He was never aware of the causes of things and + only dimly noticed effects, but he was unflinchingly faithful. + </p> + <p> + “The primrose path” was, of course, open to Peter. He was popular enough, + at the beginning of that Autumn term, to do anything, and, had he followed + the “closed-eyes” policy of his predecessor, smiling pleasantly upon all + crime and even gently with his own authority “lending a hand,” all would + have been well. There were boys with strangely simple names, simple for + such criminals—Barton, Jerrard, Watson, West, Underbill—who + were old-established hands at their own especial games, and they saw no + reason at all for disturbance. “Young Westcott had better not come + meddling here,” they muttered darkly, having discerned already a tendency + on his part to show disapproval. Nothing happened during the first term—no + concrete incident—but Peter had stepped, by the end of it, from an + exultant popularity to an actual distrust and suspicion. The football + season had not been very successful and Peter had not the graces and charm + of a leader. He distrusted the revelation of enthusiasm because he was + himself so enthusiastic and his silence was mistaken for coldness. He + hated the criminals with the simple names and showed them that he hated + them and they in their turn, skilfully and with some very genuine humour, + persuaded the school that he cut a very poor figure. + </p> + <p> + At the absurd concert that closed the Autumn term (Mr. Barbour, red-nosed + and bulging shirt-front, hilariously in the chair) Peter knew that he had + lost his throne. He had Bobby—there was no one else—and in a + sudden bitterness and scorn at the fickle colour of that esteem that he + had valued so highly he almost wished that he were altogether alone.... + Bobby only accentuated things. + </p> + <p> + Nothing to go home to—nothing to come back to. The Christmas + holidays over he returned to the Easter term with an eager determination + to improve matters. + </p> + <p> + It was geniality that he lacked: he knew that that was the matter with + him, and he felt a kind of despair about it because he seemed to return at + the end of every holiday from Cornwall with that old conviction in his + head that the easiest way to get through the world was to stand with your + back to the wall and say nothing ... and if these fellows, who thought him + so pleasant last year, thought him pleasant no longer, well, then he must + put up with it. He had not changed—there he was, as ever. + </p> + <p> + But the Easter term was a chronicle of mistakes. He could not be genial to + people who defied and mocked him; he found, dangerously, that they could + all be afraid of him. When his face was white and his voice very quiet and + his whole body tense like a bow, then they feared him—the biggest + and strongest of those criminals obeyed. He was sixteen now and he could + when he liked rule them all, and gradually, as the term advanced, he used + his strength more and more and was more and more alone. Days would come + when he would hate his loneliness and would rush out of it with friendly + advances and always he would be beaten back into his reserve again. Had + only Cards been there!... But what side would Cards have taken? Perhaps + Peter was fortunate in that the test was not demanded. Poor Bobby simply + did not understand it at all. Peter! the most splendid fellow in the + world! What were they all up to? But that point of view did not help + matters. No other monitor spoke to Peter now if he could help it, and even + the masters, judging that where there was smoke there must be fire, passed + him coldly. That Easter term, in the late winds and rains of March, closed + hideously. The Easter holidays, although perhaps he did not realise it, + were a deliberate backing for the ordeal that was, he knew, to come. + </p> + <p> + He faced it on his return almost humorously, prepared, with a + self-consciousness that was unusual in him, for all the worst things, and + it is true enough that they were as bad as they could be. Bobby Galleon + shared in it all, of course, but he had never been a popular person and he + did not miss anything so long as there was Peter. Once he said, as Cards + had said before: + </p> + <p> + “Leave 'em alone, Peter. After all, we can't do anything. They're too many + for us, and, most important thing of all, they aren't worth it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much,” said Peter, “things have got to be different.” + </p> + <p> + Things were not different. They <i>were</i> too many for him, but he + struggled on. The more open bullying he stopped, and there were other + things that he drove into dark corners. But they remained there—in + those corners. There were so many dark places at Dawson's, and it began to + get on his brain so that he heard whispers and suspicions and marked the + trail of the beast at every minute of the day. He could find nothing now + in the open—they were too clever for him. The Captain of the Citadel—Ellershaw—was + as he knew the worst fellow in the school, but there was nothing to be + done, nothing unless something were caught in the open. As the term + advanced the whispers grew and he felt that there were plots in the air. + He was obeyed, Ellershaw and some of the others were politer than they had + ever been, and for many weeks now there had been no disturbance—then + suddenly the storm broke. + </p> + <p> + One hot afternoon he was sitting in his study alone, trying to read. + Things seemed to him that day at their very worst, there was no place to + which he might turn. People were playing cricket beyond his window. Some + fly buzzed on his window pane, the sunlight was golden about his room and + little ladders of dust twisted and curved against the glare—the + house was very still. Then suddenly, from a neighbouring study, there were + sounds. At first they did not penetrate his day dream, then they caught + his ear and he put his book down and listened. The sounds were muffled; + there was laughter and then some one cried out. + </p> + <p> + He knew that it was Jerrard's study and he hated Jerrard more than any one + in the school. The fellow was a huge stupid oaf, low down in the middle + fourth, but the best bowler that the school had; yes, he hated him. He + opened his study door and listened. The passage was deserted, and, for a + moment, there was no sound save some one shouting down in the cricket + field and the buzzing of the fly on the pane. Then he heard voices from + behind Jerrard's door. + </p> + <p> + “No, I say—Jerrard—don't give me any more—please ... + please don't.” + </p> + <p> + “There I say—hold his mouth open; that's right, pour it down. We'll + have him singing in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh I say—” there were sounds of a struggle and then silence again. + At last there began the most horrible laughter that Peter had ever known; + weak, silly, giggling, and little excited cries. + </p> + <p> + Then Jerrard's voice: “There, that will do; he's merry enough now.” + </p> + <p> + Peter waited for no more, but strode across the passage and flung open the + door. Some chairs were overturned; Jerrard and a friend, hearing the door + open, had turned round. Leaning against the table, very flushed, his eyes + shining, his hair covered with dust, waving his arms and singing in a + quivering voice, was a small boy, very drunk. A glass and a whisky bottle + were on the table. + </p> + <p> + “You damned hound!” Peter was trembling from head to foot. “You shall get + kicked out for this.” + </p> + <p> + Peter closed the door quietly behind him, and went back to his study. Here + at last was the moment for which he had been waiting. Jerrard should be + expelled if he, Peter, died in the attempt. Jerrard was the school's best + bowler; he was immensely popular ... it would, indeed, be a matter of life + and death. On that same evening he called a meeting of the Monitors; they + were bound to meet if one of their number had anything of sufficient + importance to declare, but they came reluctantly and showed Peter that + they resented his action. When they heard what Peter had to say their + attitude was even more mutinous. Jerrard, the school's best bowler, was + their one thought. The end of the term was at hand, and the great match of + the year against Radford, a neighbouring school, approached. Without + Jerrard Dawson's would be hopelessly defeated. If Barbour heard of the + incident Jerrard would be expelled; Barbour might be reluctant to act, but + act he must. They were not, by an absurd and ancient rule, allowed to + punish any grave offence without reporting it to the head-master. If, + therefore, they took any action at all, it must be reported, Jerrard would + be expelled, a boon companion and the great cricket match of the year, + would be lost. And all this through that interfering prig of a Westcott! + Any ordinary fellow would have shut his eyes to the whole affair. After + all what is there to make a fuss about in having a rag with a kid? What + are kids for? Thus the conclave sourly regarding Peter who watched them in + turn, and sat sternly, ominously militant. They approached him with + courtesy; Ellershaw showed him what this might mean to the school were it + persisted in. After all, Jerrard was, in all probability, sorry enough ... + it was a rotten thing to do—he should apologise to them. No, Peter + would have none of it, they must 'act; it must be reported to the Head. He + would, if necessary, report it himself. + </p> + <p> + Then they turned and cursed him, asking him whom he thought that he was, + warned him about the way that the school would take his interference when + the school knew, advised him for his own good to drop the matter; Peter + was unmoved. + </p> + <p> + Barbour was informed; Jerrard was expelled—the school was beaten in + the cricket match by an innings. + </p> + <p> + Then the storm broke. Peter moved, with Bobby Galleon, through a cloud of + enemies. It was a hostility that cut like a knife, silent, motionless, but + so bitter that every boy from Ellershaw to the tiniest infant at the + bottom of the first took it as the <i>motif</i> of his day. That beast + Westcott was the song that rang through the last fortnight. + </p> + <p> + Bobby Galleon was cowed by it; he did not mind his own ostracism, and he + was proud that he could give practical effect to his devotion for his + friend, but deep down in his loyalty, there was an unconfessed suspicion + as to whether Peter, after all, hadn't been a little unwise and + interfering—what was the good of making all this trouble? He even + wondered whether Peter didn't rather enjoy it? + </p> + <p> + And Peter, for the first time in his school life, was happy. There was + something after all in being up against all these people. He was a general + fighting against tremendous odds. He would show them next year that they + must obey. + </p> + <p> + On the last afternoon of the term he sat alone in his study. Bobby was + with the matron, packing. He was conscious, as he sat there, of the sound + of many feet shuffling. There were many whispers beyond his door, and yet + a great silence. + </p> + <p> + He waited for a little, and then he opened his door and looked out. As he + did so the bell for roll-call rang through the building, and he knew that + it was his roll. + </p> + <p> + Afternoon roll-call was always taken in the gymnasium, a large empty room + beyond the study passage, and it was the custom for boys to come up as + their name was about to be called and thus to pass on. + </p> + <p> + But to-day he saw that the whole of the school was gathered there, along + the dusky passage and packed, in a silent motionless throng, into the + gymnasium. + </p> + <p> + He knew that they were all there with a purpose, and suddenly as he + realised the insult that they intended, that spirit of exultation came + upon him again. Ah! it was worth while, this battle! + </p> + <p> + They made way in silence as he passed quietly to the other end of the + gymnasium and stood, a little above them, on the steps that led to the + gallery. He started the roll-call with the head of the school and the + sixth form ... there was no answer to any name; only perfect silence and + every eye fixed upon him. For a wild moment he wished to burst out upon + them, to crash their heads together, to hurt—then his self-control + returned. Very quietly and clearly he read through the school list, a + faint smile on his lips. Bobby Galleon was the only boy, out of three + hundred, who answered. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished he called out as was the custom, “Roll is over,” then + for a brief instant, with the list in his hand, smiling, he faced them + all. Every eye was upon him—Ellershaw, West, Barton smiling a + little, some faces nervous, some excited, all bitterly, intensely hostile + ... and he must return next year! + </p> + <p> + He came down from the steps and walked very slowly to the door, and then + as his fingers touched the handle there was a sound—a whisper, very + soft and then louder; it grew about his ear like a shot ... the whole + school, motionless as before, was hissing him. + </p> + <p> + There was no word spoken, and he closed the door behind him. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + That same night he walked, before chapel, with Bobby to the top of the + playing fields. The night was dark and heavy, with no moon nor stars—but + there was a cool wind that touched his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've been a pretty good failure, Bobby. You've stuck to me like a + brick. I shall never forget it.... But you know never in all my life have + I been as happy as I was this afternoon. The devils! I'll have 'em under + next year.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not the way—” Bobby tried timorously to explain. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, it is.... Anyhow it's my way. I wonder what there is about me + that makes people hate me so.” + </p> + <p> + “People don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they do. At home, here—it's all the same. I'm always having to + fight about something, always coming up against things.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it's your destiny,” said Bobby. “You always say it's to teach + you pluck.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what an old chap I knew in Cornwall said. But why can't I be let + alone? How I loved that bit last year when the fellows liked me—only + the decent things never last.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll be all right later,” Bobby answered, thinking that he had never + seen anything finer than the way Peter had taken that afternoon. “In a + way,” he went on, “you fellows are lucky to get a chance of standing up + against that sort of thing; it's damned good practice. Nobody ever thinks + I'm worth while.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Peter, throwing a clod of dark, scented earth into the air + and losing sight of it in the black wall about him—“Here's to next + year's battle!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <h3> + PRIDE OF LIFE + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter never saw Dawson's again. When the summer holidays had run some + three weeks a letter arrived stating, quite simply and tersely that, owing + to the non-payment by evading parents of bills long overdue and to many + other depressing and unavoidable circumstances Mr. Barbour and that House + of Cards, his school, had fallen to pieces. There at any rate was an end + to that disastrous accumulation of brick and mortar, and the harm that, + living, it had wrought upon the souls and bodies of its victims its dying + could not excuse. No tears were shed for Dawson's. + </p> + <p> + Peter, at the news, knew that now his battle never could be won. That + battle at any rate must be left behind him with his defeat written large + upon the plain of it, and this made in some unrealised way the penalty of + the future months harder to bear. He had, behind him, defeat. Look at it + as he might, he had been a failure at Dawson's—he had not done the + things that he had been put there to do—and yet through the disaster + he knew that in so far as he had refused to bend to the storm so far there + had been victory; of that at any rate he was sure. + </p> + <p> + So he turned resolutely from the past and faced the future. It was as + though suddenly Dawson's had never existed—a dream, a fantasy, a + delirium—something that had left no external things behind it and + had only in the effect that it had worked upon himself spiritually made + its mark. He faced his House.... + </p> + <p> + Scaw House had seemed to him, during these last three years, merely an + interlude at Dawson's. There had been hurried holidays that had been spent + in recovering from and preparing for the term and the House had scarcely, + and only very quietly, raised its head to disturb him. He had not been + disturbed—he had had other things to think about—and now he + was very greatly disturbed indeed; that was the first difference that he + consciously realised. The disturbance lay, of course, partly in the + presence of his father and in the sense that he had had growing upon him, + during the last two years, that their relationship, the one to the other, + would, suddenly, one fine day, spring into acute emotion. They were + approaching one another gradually as in a room whose walls were slowly + closing. “Face to face—and then body to body—at last, soul to + soul!” + </p> + <p> + He did not, he thought, actively hate his father; his father did not + actively hate him, but hate might spring up at any moment between them, + and Peter, although he was only sixteen, was no longer a child. But the + feeling of apprehension that Scaw House gave him was caused by wider + influences than his father. Three years at Dawson's had given Peter an + acute sense of expecting things, it might be defined as “the glance over + the shoulder to see who followed”—some one was always following at + Scaw House. He saw in this how closely life was bound together, because + every little moment at Dawson's contributed to his present active fear. + Dawson's explained Scaw House to Peter. And yet this was all morbidity and + Peter, square, broad-shouldered, had no scrap of morbidity in his clean + body. He did not await the future with the shaking candle of the suddenly + awakened coward, but rather with the planted feet and the bared teeth of + the bull-dog.... + </p> + <p> + He watched the faces of his father, his aunt and Mrs. Trussit. He observed + the frightened dreams of his grandfather, the way that old Curtis the + gardener would suddenly cease his fugitive digging and glance with furtive + eyes at the windows of the house; about them were the dark shadows of the + long passages, the sharp note of some banging door in a distant room, the + wail of that endless wind beyond the walls. He felt too that Mrs. Trussit + and his aunt were furtively watching him. He never caught them in anything + tangible but he knew that, when his back was turned, their eyes followed + him—questioning, wondering. + </p> + <p> + Something must be done or he could not answer for his control. If he were + not to return to Dawson's, what then? + </p> + <p> + It was his seventeenth birthday one hot day towards the end of August, and + at breakfast his father, without looking up from his paper, said: + </p> + <p> + “I have made arrangements for you with Mr. Aitchinson to enter his office + next week. You'll have to work—you've been idling long enough.” + </p> + <p> + The windows were wide open, the lawn was burning in the sun, bees carried + the scent of the flowers with them into the air that hung like shining + metal about the earth, a cart rattled as though it were a giant clattering + his pleasure at the day down the road. It was a wonderful day and + somewhere streams were flowing under dark protecting trees, and the grass + was thick in cool hollows and the woods were so dense that no blue sky + reached the moss, but only the softest twilight ... and old Aitchinson, + the town's solicitor, with his nutcracker face, his snuffling nose, his + false teeth—and the tightly-closed office, the piles of paper, the + ink, the silly view from the dusty windows of Treliss High Street—and + life always in the future to be like that until he died. + </p> + <p> + But Peter showed no emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, father—What day do I go?” + </p> + <p> + “Monday—nine o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing more was said. At any rate Aitchinson and his red tape and his + moral dust would fill the day—no time then to dwell on these dark + passages and Mrs. Trussit's frightened eyes and the startled jump of the + marble clock in the dining-room just before it struck the hour.... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + And so for weeks it proved. Aitchinson demanded no serious consideration. + He was a hideous little man with eyes like pins, shaggy eyebrows, a nose + that swelled at the end and was pinched by the sharpest of pince-nez, + cheeks that hung white and loose except when he was hungry or angry, and + then they were tight and red, a little body rather dandily dressed with a + flowered waistcoat, a white stock, a skirted coat and pepper-and-salt + trousers—and last of all, tiny feet, of which he was inordinately + proud and with which, like Agag, he always walked delicately. He had a + high falsetto voice, fingers that were always picking, like eager hens, at + the buttons on his waistcoat or the little waxed moustache above his + mouth, and hair that occupied its time in covering a bald patch that + always escaped every design upon it. So much for Mr. Aitchinson. Let him + be flattered sufficiently and Peter saw that his way would be easy. The + wizened little creature had, moreover, a certain admiration for Peter's + strength and broad shoulders and used sometimes in the middle of the + morning's work to ask Peter how much he weighed, whether he'd ever + considered taking up prize-fighting as a profession, and how much he + measured across the chest. + </p> + <p> + There were two other youths, articled like Peter, stupid sons of honest + Treliss householders, with high collars, faces that shone with soap and + hair that glistened with oil, languid voices and a perpetual fund of small + talk about the ladies of the town, moral and otherwise. Peter did not like + them and they did not like Peter. One day, because he was tired and + unhappy, he knocked their heads together, and they plotted to destroy him, + but they were afraid, and secretly admired what they called his coarse + habits. + </p> + <p> + The Summer stole away and Autumn crept into its place, and at the end of + October something occurred. Something suddenly happened at Scaw House that + made action imperative, and filled his brain all day so that Aitchinson's + office and his work there was only a dream and the people in it were + shadows. He had heard his mother crying from behind her closed door.... + </p> + <p> + He had been coming, on a wet autumnal afternoon, down the dark stairs from + his attic and suddenly at the other end of the long passage there had been + this sound, so sudden and so pitiful coming upon that dreary stillness + that he had stopped with his hands clenched and his face white and his + heart beating like a knock on a door. Instantly all those many little + moments that he had had in that white room with that heavy-scented air + crowded upon him and he remembered the smile that she had always given him + and the way that her hair lay so tragically about the pillow. He had + always been frightened and eager to escape; he felt suddenly so deeply + ashamed that the crimson flooded his face there in the dark passage. She + had wanted him all these years and he had allowed those other people to + prevent him from going to her. What had been happening to her in that + room? The sound of her crying came to him as though beseeching him to come + and help her. He put his hands to his ears and went desperately into the + dark wet garden. He knew now when he thought of it, that his behaviour to + his mother had been, during these months since he had left Dawson's, an + unconscious cowardice. Whilst he had been yet at school those little five + minutes' visits to his mother's room might have been excused, but during + these last months there had been, with regard to her, in his conscience, + if he had cared to examine it, sharp accusation. + </p> + <p> + The defence that she did not really want to see him, that his presence + might bring on some bad attack, might excite her, was no real defence. He + had postponed an interview with her from day to day because he realised + that that interview would strike into flame all the slumbering relations + that that household held. It would fling them all, as though from a + preconcerted signal, into war.... + </p> + <p> + But now there could be only one thought in his mind. He must see his + mother—if he could still help her he must be at her service. There + was no one whom he could ask about her. Mrs. Trussit now never spoke to + him (and indeed never spoke to any one if she could help it), and went up + and down the stairs in her rustling black and flat white face and jingling + keys as though she was no human being at all but only a walking automaton + that you wound up in the morning and put away in the cupboard at night—Mrs. + Trussit was of no use. + </p> + <p> + There remained Stephen, and this decided Peter to break through that + barrier that there was between them and to find out why it had ever + existed. He had not seen Stephen that summer at all—no one saw + Stephen—only at The Bending Mule they shook their heads over him and + spoke of the wild devil that had come upon him because the woman he loved + was being tortured to death by her husband only a mile away. He was + drinking, they said, and his farm was going to ruin, and he would speak to + nobody—and they shook their heads. It was not through cowardice that + Peter had avoided him, but since those three years at Dawson's he had been + lonely and silent himself, and Stephen had never sent for him as he would + have done, Peter thought, if he had wanted him. Now the time had come when + he could stand alone no longer.... + </p> + <p> + He slipped away one night after supper, leaving that quiet room with his + aunt playing Patience at the table, his old grandfather mumbling in his + sleep, his father like a stone, staring at his paper but not, Peter was + sure, reading any of it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Trussit, silent before the fire in her room, his aunt not seeing the + cards that she laid upon the table, his father not reading his paper—for + what were they all listening? + </p> + <p> + It was a fierce night and the wind rushed up the high road as though it + would tear Peter off his feet and fling him into the sea, but he walked + sturdily, no cap on his head and the wind streaming through his hair. Some + way along the road he found a child crying in a ditch. He loved children, + and, picking the small boy up, he found that he had been sent for beer to + the Cap and Feathers, at the turn of the road, and been blown by the wind + into the ditch and was almost dead with terror. At first at the sight of + Peter the child had cried out, but at the touch of his warm hand and at + the sound of his laugh he had been suddenly comforted, and trotted down + the road with his hand in Peter's and his tears dried. + </p> + <p> + Peter's way with the children of the place was sharp and entirely lacking + in sentiment—“Little idiot, to fall into the ditch like that—not + much of the man about you, young Thomas.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't Thomas,” said the small boy with a chuckle, “I be Jan Proteroe, and + I beant afeart only gert beast come out of hedge down along with eyes and + a tail—gum!” + </p> + <p> + He would have told Peter a great deal more but he was suddenly frightened + again by the dark hedges and began to whimper, so Peter picked him up and + carried him to his cottage at the end of the road and kissed him and + pushed him in at the lighted door. He was cheered by the little incident + and felt less lonely. At the thought of making Stephen once more his + friend his heart warmed. Stephen had been wanting him, perhaps, all this + time to come to him but had been afraid that he might be interfering if he + asked him—and how glad they would be to see one another! + </p> + <p> + After all, they needed one another. They had both had hard times, they + were both lonely and no distance nor circumstances could lessen that early + bond that there had been between them. Happier than he had been for many + weeks, he struck off the road and started across the fields, stumbling + over the rough soil and plunging sometimes into ditches and pools of + water. The rain had begun to fall and the whispering hiss that it made as + it struck the earth drowned the more distant noise of the sea that + solemnly broke beyond the bending fields. Stephen's farm stood away from + all other houses, and Peter as he pressed forward seemed to be leaving all + civilisation behind him. He was cold and his boots were heavy with thick + wet mud and his hair was soaked. + </p> + <p> + Beyond the fields was a wood through which he must pass before he reached + Stephen's farm, and as the trees closed about him and he heard the rain + driving through the bare branches the world seemed to be full of + chattering noises. The confidence that he had had in Stephen's reception + of him suddenly deserted him and a cold miserable unhappiness crept about + him in this wet, heaving world of wind and rain and bare naked trees. Like + a great cry there seemed to come suddenly to him through the wood his + mother's voice appealing for help, so that he nearly turned, running back. + It was a hard, cruel place this world—and all the little ditches and + hollows of the wood were running with brown, stealthy water. + </p> + <p> + He broke through it at last and saw at the bottom of the hill Stephen's + house, and he saw that there were no lights in the windows. He stood on + the breast of the little hill for a moment and thought that he would turn + back, but it was raining now with great heaviness and the wind at his back + seemed to beat him down the hill. Suddenly seized with terror at the wood + behind him, he ran stumbling down the slope. He undid the gate and pitched + into the yard, plunging into great pools of water and seeing on every side + of him the uncertain shapes of the barns and sheds and opposite him the + great dark front of the house, so black in its unfriendliness, sharing in + the night's rough hostility. + </p> + <p> + He shouted “Stephen,” but his voice was drowned by the storm and the gate + behind him, creaking on its hinges, answered him with shrill cries. He + found the little wicket that led into the garden, and, stepping over the + heavy wet grass, he banged loudly with the knocker on the door and called + again “Stephen.” The noise echoed through the house and then the silence + seemed to be redoubled. Then pushing the great knocker, he found to his + surprise that the door was unfastened and swung back before him. He felt + his way into the dark hall and struck a match. He shouted “Stephen” once + more and his voice came echoing back to him. The place seemed to be + entirely deserted—the walls were wet with damp, there were no + carpets on the floor, a window at the end of the passage showed its + uncurtained square. + </p> + <p> + He passed into the kitchen, and here he found two candles and lighted + them. Here also he found signs of life. On the bare deal table was a + half-finished meal—a loaf of bread, cheese, butter, an empty whisky + bottle lying on its side. Near these things there was a table, and on the + floor, beside an overturned chair, there was a gun. Peter picked it up and + saw that it was unloaded. There was something terribly desolate about + these things; the room was very bare, a grandfather clock ticked solemnly + in the corner, there were a few plates and cups on the dresser, an old + calendar hung from a dusty nail and, blown by the wind from the cracked + window, tip-tapped like a stealthy footstep against the wall. But Peter + felt curiously certain that Stephen was going to return; something held + him in his chair and he sat there, with his hands on the deal table, + facing the clock and listening. The wind howled beyond the house, the rain + lashed the panes, and suddenly—so suddenly that his heart leapt to + his mouth—there was a scratching on the door. He went to the door + and opened it and found outside a wretched sheep-dog, so starved that the + bones showed through the skin, and so weak that he could scarcely drag + himself along. Peter let him in and the animal came up to him and looked + up in his eyes and, very faintly, wagged his tail. Peter gave him the + bread, which the dog devoured, and then they both remained silent, without + moving, the dog's head between Peter's knees. + </p> + <p> + The boy must have slept, because he woke suddenly to all the clocks in the + house striking midnight, and in the silence the house seemed to be full of + clocks. They came running down the stairs and up and down the passages and + then, with a whir and a clatter, ceased as instantly as they had begun. + </p> + <p> + The house was silent again—the storm had died down—and then + the dog that had been sleeping suddenly raised its head and barked. + Somewhere in the distance a door was banged to, and then Peter heard a + voice, a tremendous voice, singing. + </p> + <p> + There were heavy steps along the passage, then the kitchen door was banged + open and Stephen stood in the doorway. Stephen's shirt was open at the + neck, his hair waved wildly over his forehead, he stood, enormous, with + his legs apart, his eyes shining, blood coming from a cut in his cheek, + and in one of his hands was a thick cudgel. Standing there in the doorway, + he might have been some ancient Hercules, some mighty Achilles. + </p> + <p> + He saw Peter, recognised him, but continued a kind of triumphal hymn that + he was singing. + </p> + <p> + “Ho, Master Peter, I've beat him! I've battered his bloody carcass! I came + along and I looked in at the winder and I saw 'im a ill-treatin' of 'er. + </p> + <p> + “I left the winder, I broke the glass, I was down upon 'im, the dirty + 'ound, and”—(chorus)—“I've battered 'is bloody carcass! Praise + be the Lord, I got 'im one between the eyes—” + </p> + <p> + “Praise be, I 'it him square in the jaw and the blood came a-pourin' out + of his mouth and down 'e went, and— + </p> + <p> + (Chorus) “I've battered 'is bloody carcass— + </p> + <p> + “There she was, cryin' in the corner of the room, my lovely girl, and + there 'e was, blast 'is bones, with 'is 'and on her lovely 'air, and— + </p> + <p> + (Chorus) “I've battered 'is bloody carcass. + </p> + <p> + “I got 'im one on the neck and I got 'im one between 'is lovely eyes and I + got 'im one on 'is lovely nose, and 'e went down straight afore me, and— + </p> + <p> + (Chorus) “I've battered 'is bloody carcass!” + </p> + <p> + Peter knew that it must be Mr. Samuel Burstead to whom Stephen was + referring, and he too, as he listened, was suddenly filled with a sense of + glory and exultation. Here after all was a way out of all trouble, all + this half-seen, half-imagined terror of the past weeks. Here too was an + end to all Stephen's morbid condition, sitting alone by himself, drinking, + seeing no one—now that he'd got Burstead between the eyes life would + be a vigorous, decent thing once more. + </p> + <p> + Stephen stopped his hymn and came and put his arm round Peter's neck. + “Well, boy, to think of you coming round this evening. All these months + I've been sittin' 'ere thinking of you—but I've been in a nasty, + black state, Master Peter, doing nothing but just brood. And the devils + got thicker and thicker about me and I was just going off my head thinking + of my girl in the 'ands of that beast up along. At last to-night I + suddenly says, 'Stephen, my fine feller, you've 'ad enough of this,' I + says. 'You go up and 'ave a good knock at 'im,' I says, 'and to-morrer + marnin' you just go off to another bit o' country and start doin' + something different.' Up I got and I caught hold of this stick here and + out up along I walked. Sure enough there 'e was, through the winder, + bullyin' her and she crying. So I just jumped through the winder and was + up on to 'im. Lord, you should 'ave seen 'im jump. + </p> + <p> + “'Fair fight, Sam Burstead,' I says. + </p> + <p> + “'Yer bloody pirate!' says 'e. + </p> + <p> + “'Pirate, is it?' says I, landing him one—and at that first feel of + my 'and along o' 'is cheek all these devils that I've been sufferin' from + just turned tail and fled. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, I give it 'im! Lord, I give it 'im! + </p> + <p> + “He's living, I reckon, but that's about all 'e is doing. And then, + without a word to 'er, I come away, and here I am, a free man ... and + to-morrer marning I go out to tramp the world a bit—and to come back + one day when she wants me.” + </p> + <p> + And then in Peter there suddenly leapt to life a sense of battle, of + glorious combat and conflict. + </p> + <p> + As he stood there in the bare kitchen—he and Stephen there under the + light of the jumping candle—with the rain beating on the panes, the + trees of the wood bending to the wind, he was seized, exalted, transformed + with a sense of the vigour, the adventure, the surprising energy of life. + </p> + <p> + “Stephen! Stephen!” he cried. “It's glorious! By God! I wish I'd been + there!” + </p> + <p> + Stephen caught him by the arm and held him. The old dog came from under + the table and wagged his tail. + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul,” said Stephen, looking at him, “all these weeks I've been + forgetting him. I've been in a kind of dream, boy—a kind o' dream. + Why didn't I 'it 'im before? Lord, why didn't I 'it 'im before!” + </p> + <p> + Peter at the word thought of his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he thought, with clenched teeth, “I'll go for them!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <h3> + PETER AND HIS MOTHER + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + He had returned over the heavy fields, singing to a round-faced moon. In + the morning, when he woke after a night of glorious fantastic dreams, and + saw the sun beating very brightly across his carpet and birds singing + beyond his window, he felt still that same exultation. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him, as he sat on his bed, with the sun striking his face, + that last night he had been brought into touch with a vigour that + challenged all the mists and vapours by which he had felt himself + surrounded. That was the way that now he would face them. + </p> + <p> + Looking back afterwards, he was to see that that evening with Stephen + flung him on to all the events that so rapidly followed. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, above all the sensation of the evening there was also a + triumphant recognition of the fact that Stephen had now been restored to + him. He might never see him again, but they were friends once more, he + could not be lonely now as he had been.... + </p> + <p> + And then, coming out of the town into the dark street and the starlight, + he thought that he recognised a square form walking before him. He puzzled + his brain to recall the connection and then, as he passed Zachary Tan's + shop, the figure turned in and showed, for a moment, his face. + </p> + <p> + It was that strange man from London, Mr. Emilio Zanti.... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + It seemed to Peter that now at Scaw House the sense of expectation that + had been with them all during the last weeks was charged with suspense—at + supper that night his aunt burst suddenly into tears and left the room. + Shortly afterwards his father also, without a word, got up from the table + and went upstairs.... + </p> + <p> + Peter was left alone with his grandfather. The old man, sunk beneath his + pile of cushions, his brown skinny hand clenching and unclenching above + the rugs, was muttering to himself. In Peter himself, as he stood there by + the fire, looking down on the old man, there was tremendous pity. He had + never felt so tenderly towards his grandfather before; it was, perhaps, + because he had himself grown up all in a day. Last night had proved that + one was grown up indeed, although one was but seventeen. But it proved to + him still more that the time had come for him to deal with the situation + all about him, to discover the thing that was occupying them all so + deeply. + </p> + <p> + Peter bent down to the cushions. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” + </p> + <p> + He could hear, faintly, beneath the rugs something about “hell” and “fire” + and “poor old man.” + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” but still only “Poor old + man ... poor old man ... nobody loves him ... nobody loves him ... to hell + with the lot of 'em ... let 'em grizzle in hell fire ... oh! such nasty + pains for a poor old man.” + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” + </p> + <p> + The old brown hand suddenly stopped clenching and unclenching, and out + from the cushions the old brown head with its few hairs and its parchment + face poked like a withered jack-in-the-box. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, boy, you here?” + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” + </p> + <p> + The old man's fingers, sharp like pins, drew Peter close to him. + </p> + <p> + “Boy, I'm terribly frightened. I've been having such dreams. I thought I + was dead—in a coffin....” + </p> + <p> + But Peter whispered in his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather—tell me—what's the matter with every one here?” + </p> + <p> + The old man's eyes were suddenly sharp, like needles. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, he wants to know that, does he? He's found out something at last, has + he? <i>I</i> know what they were about. They've been at it in here, boy, + too. Oh, yes! for weeks and weeks—killing your mother, that's what + my son's been doing ... frightening her to death.... He's cruel, my son. I + had the Devil once, and now he's got hold of me and that's why I'm here. + Mind you, boy,” and the old man's ringers clutched him very tightly—“if + you don't get the better of the Devil you'll be just like me one of these + days. So'll he be, my son, one day. Just like me—and then it'll be + your turn, my boy. Oh, they Westcotts!... Oh! my pains! Oh! my pains!... + Oh! I'm a poor old man!—poor old man!” + </p> + <p> + His head sunk beneath the cushions again and his muttering died away like + a kettle when the lid has been put on to it. + </p> + <p> + Peter had been kneeling so as to catch his grandfather's words. Now he + drew himself up and with frowning brows faced the room. Had he but known + it he was at that moment exactly like his father. + </p> + <p> + He went slowly up to his attic. + </p> + <p> + His little book-case had gained in the last two years—there were now + three of Henry Galleon's novels there. Bobby had given him one, “Henry + Lessingham,” shining bravely in its red and gold; he had bought another, + “The Downs,” second hand, and it was rather tattered and well thumbed. + Another, “The Roads,” was a shilling paper copy. He had read these three + again and again until he knew them by heart, almost word by word. He took + down “Henry Lessingham” now and opened it at a page that was turned down. + It is Book III, chapter VI, and there is this passage: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>But, concerning the Traveller who would enter the House of + Courage there are many lands that must be passed on the road + before he rest there. There is, first, the Land of Lacking All + Things—that is hard to cross. There is, Secondly, the Land of + Having All Things. There is the Traveller's Fortitude most hardly + tested. There is, Thirdly, The Land of Losing All Those Things + that One Hath Possessed. That is a hard country indeed for the + memory of the pleasantness of those earlier joys redoubleth the + agony of lacking them. But at the end there is a Land of ice and + snow that few travellers have compassed, and that is the Land of + Knowing What One Hath Missed.... The Bird was in the hand and one + let it go ... that is the hardest agony of all the journey ... but + if these lands be encountered and surpassed then doth the Traveller + at length possess his soul and is master of it ... this is the + Meaning and Purpose of Life.</i> +</pre> + <p> + Peter read on through those pages where Lessingham, having found these + words in some old book, takes courage after his many misadventures and + starts again life—an old man, seventy years of age, but full of hope + ... and then there is his wonderful death in the Plague City, closing it + all like a Triumph. + </p> + <p> + The night had come down upon the house. Over the moor some twinkling light + broke the black darkness and his candle blew in the wind. Everything was + very still and as he clutched his book in his hand he knew that he was + frightened. His grandfather's words had filled him with terror. He felt + not only that his father was cruel and had been torturing his mother for + many years because he loved to hurt, but he felt also that it was + something in the blood, and that it would come upon him also, in later + years, and that he might not be able to beat it down. He could understand + definite things when they were tangible before his eyes but here was + something that one could not catch hold of, something.... + </p> + <p> + After all, he was very young—But he remembered, with bated breath, + times at school when he had suddenly wanted to twist arms, to break + things, to hurt, when suddenly a fierce hot pleasure had come upon him, + when a boy had had his leg broken at football. + </p> + <p> + Dropping the book, shuddering, he fell upon his knees and prayed to what + God he knew not.... “Then doth the Traveller at length possess his soul + and is master of it ... this is the meaning and purpose of life.” + </p> + <p> + At last he rose from his knees, physically tired, as though it had been + some physical struggle. But he was quiet again ... the terror had left + him, but he knew now with what beasts he had got to wrestle.... + </p> + <p> + At supper that night he watched his father. Curiously, after his struggle + of the afternoon, all terror had left him and he felt as though he was of + his father's age and strength. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the meal he spoke: + </p> + <p> + “How is mother to-night, father?” + </p> + <p> + He had never asked about his mother before, but his voice was quite even + and steady. His aunt dropped her knife clattering on to her plate. + </p> + <p> + His father answered him: + </p> + <p> + “Why do you wish to know?” + </p> + <p> + “It is natural, isn't it? I am afraid that she is not so well.” + </p> + <p> + “She is as well as can be expected.” + </p> + <p> + They said no more, but once his father suddenly looked at him, as though + he had noticed some new note in his voice. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + On the next afternoon his father went into Truro. A doctor came + occasionally to the house—a little man like a beaver—but Peter + felt that he was under his father's hand and he despised him. + </p> + <p> + It was a clear Autumn afternoon with a scent of burning leaves in the air + and heavy massive white clouds were piled in ramparts beyond the brown + hills. It was so still a day that the sea seemed to be murmuring just + beyond the garden-wall. The house was very silent; Mrs. Trussit was in the + housekeeper's room, his grandfather was sleeping in the dining-room. The + voices of some children laughing in the road came to him so clearly that + it seemed to Peter impossible that his father ... and, at that, he knew + instantly that his chance had come. He must see his mother now—there + might not be another opportunity for many weeks. + </p> + <p> + He left his room and stood at the head of the stairs listening. There was + no sound. + </p> + <p> + He stole down very softly and then waited again at the end of the long + passage. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall drove him down + the passage. He listened again outside his mother's door—there was + no sound from within and very slowly he turned the handle. + </p> + <p> + As the door opened his senses were invaded by that air of medicine and + flowers that he had remembered as a very small boy—he seemed to be + surrounded by it and great white vases on the mantelpiece filled his eyes, + and the white curtains at the window blew in the breeze of the opening + door. + </p> + <p> + His aunt was sitting, with her eternal sewing, by the fire and she rose as + he entered. She gave a little startled cry, like a twittering bird, as she + saw that it was he and she came towards him with her hand out. He did not + look at the bed at all, but bent his eyes gravely upon his aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Please, aunt—you must leave us—I want to speak to my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “No—Peter—how could you? I daren't—I mustn't—your + father—your mother is asleep,” and then, from behind them, there + came a very soft voice— + </p> + <p> + “No—let us be alone—please, Jessie.” + </p> + <p> + Peter did not, even then, turn round to the bed, but fixed his eyes on his + aunt. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor—” she gasped, and then, with frightened eyes, she picked + up her sewing and crept out. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned round and faced the bed, and was suddenly smitten with + great shyness at the sight of that white, tired face, and the black hair + about the pillow. + </p> + <p> + “Well, mother,” he said, stupidly. + </p> + <p> + But she smiled back at him, and although her voice was very small and + faint, she spoke cheerfully and as though this were an ordinary event. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you've come to see me at last, Peter,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I mustn't stay long,” he answered, gruffly, as he moved awkwardly towards + the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Bring your chair close up to the bed—so—like that. You have + never come to sit in here before. Peter, do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother.” He turned his eyes away and looked on to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “You have come in before because you have been told to. To-day you were + not told—why did you come?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.... Father's in Truro.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” He thought he caught, for an instant, a strange note in her + voice. “But he will not be back yet.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause—a vast golden cloud hung like some mountain + boulder beyond the window and some of its golden light seemed to steal + over the white room. + </p> + <p> + “Is it bad for you talking to me?” at last he said, gruffly, “ought I to + go away?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she clutched his strong brown hand with her thin wasted fingers, + with so convulsive a grasp that his heart began to beat furiously. + </p> + <p> + “No—don't go—not until it is time for your father to come + back. Isn't it strange that after all these years this is the first time + that we should have a talk. Oh! so many times I've wanted you to come—and + when you <i>did</i> come—when you were very little—you were + always so frightened that you would not let me touch you—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>They</i> frightened me....” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I know—but now, at last, we've got a little time together—and + we must talk—quickly. I want you to tell me everything—everything—everything.... + First, let me look at you....” + </p> + <p> + She took his head between her pale, slender hands and looked at him. “Oh, + you are like him!—your father—wonderfully like.” She lay back + on the pillows with a little sigh. “You are very strong.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am going to be strong for you now. I am going to look after you. + They shan't keep us apart any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Peter, dear,” she shook her head almost gaily at him. “It's too + late.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm dying—at last it's come, after all these years when I've + wanted it so much. But now I'm not sorry—now that we've had this + talk—at last. Oh! Peter dear, I've wanted you so dreadfully and I + was never strong enough to say that you must come ... and they said that + you were noisy and it would be bad for me. But I believe if you had come + earlier I might have lived.” + </p> + <p> + “But you mustn't die—you mustn't die—I'll see that they have + another doctor from Truro. This silly old fool here doesn't know what he's + about—I'll go myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! how strong your hands are, Peter! How splendidly strong! No, no one + can do anything now. But oh! I am happy at last...” She stroked his cheek + with her hand—the golden light from the great cloud filled the room + and touched the white vases with its colour. + </p> + <p> + “But quick, quick—tell me. There are so many things and there is so + little time. I want to know everything—your school? Here when you + were little?—all of it—” + </p> + <p> + But he was gripping the bed with his hands, his chest was heaving. + Suddenly he broke down and burying his head in the bed-clothes began to + sob as though his heart would break. “Oh! now ... after all this time ... + you've wanted me ... and I never came ... and now to find you like this!” + </p> + <p> + She stroked his hair very softly and waited until the sobs ceased. He sat + up and fiercely brushed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I won't be a fool—any more. It shan't be too late. I'll make you + live. We'll never leave one another again.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear boy, it can't be like that. Think how splendid it is that we have + had this time now. Think what it might have been if I had gone and we had + never known one another. But tell me, Peter, what are you going to do with + your life afterwards—what are you going to be?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to write books”—he stared at the golden cloud—“to be a + novelist. I daresay I can't—I don't know—but I'd rather do + that than anything.... Father wants me to be a solicitor. I'm with + Aitchinson now—I shall never be a good one.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned almost fiercely away from the window. + </p> + <p> + “But never mind about me, mother. It's you I want to hear about. I'm going + to take this on now. It's my responsibility. I want to know about you.” + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing to know, dear. I've been ill for a great many years now. + It's more nerves than anything, I suppose. I think I've never had the + courage to stand up against it—a stronger woman would have got the + better of it, I expect. But I wasn't always like this,” she added laughing + a little far away ghost of a laugh—“Go and look in that drawer—there, + in that cupboard—amongst my handkerchiefs—there where those + old fans are—you'll find some old programmes there—Those old + yellow papers....” + </p> + <p> + He brought them to her, three old yellow programmes of a “Concert Given at + the Town Hall, Truro.” “There, do you see? Miss Minnie Trenowth, In the + Gloaming—There, I sang in those days. Oh! Truro was fun when I was a + girl! There was always something going on! You see I wasn't always on my + back!” + </p> + <p> + He crushed the papers in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “But, mother! If you were like that then—what's made you like this + now?” + </p> + <p> + “It's nerves, dear—I've been stupid about it.” + </p> + <p> + “And father, how has he treated you these years?” + </p> + <p> + “Your father has always been very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, tell me the truth! I <i>must</i> know. Has he been kind to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear—always.” + </p> + <p> + But her voice was very faint and that look that Peter had noticed before + was again in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Mother—you must tell me. That's not true.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Peter. He's done his best. I have been annoying, sometimes—foolish.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, I know. I know because I know father and I know myself. I'm like + him—I've just found it out. I've got those same things in me, and + they'll do for me if I don't get the better of them. Grandfather told me—he + was the same. All the Westcotts—” + </p> + <p> + He bent over the bed and took her hand and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, dear—I know—father has been frightening you all this + time—terrifying you. And you were all alone. If only I had been + there—if only there had been some one—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was very faint. “Yes ... he has frightened me all these years. + At first I used to think that he didn't mean it. I was a bright, merry + sort of a girl then—careless and knowing nothing about the world. + And then I began to see—that he liked it—that it gave him + pleasure to have something there that he could hurt. And then I began to + be frightened. It was very lonely here for a girl who had had a gay time, + and he usen't to like my going to Truro—and at last he even stopped + my seeing people in Treliss. And then I began to be really frightened—and + used to wake in the night and see him standing by the door watching me. + Then I thought that when you were born that would draw us together, but it + didn't, and I was always ill after that. He would do things—Oh!” her + hand pressed her mouth. “Peter, dear, you mustn't think about it, only + when I am dead I don't want you to think that I was quite a fool—if + they tell you so. I don't want you to think it was all his fault either + because it wasn't—I was silly and didn't understand sometimes ... + but it's killed me, that dreadful waiting for him to do something, I never + knew what it would be, and sometimes it was nothing ... but I knew that he + liked to hurt ... and it was the expectation.” + </p> + <p> + In that white room, now flaming with the fires of the setting sun, Peter + caught his mother to his breast and held her there and her white hands + clutched his knees. + </p> + <p> + Then his eyes, softened and he turned to her and arranged her head on the + pillow and drew the sheets closely about her. + </p> + <p> + “I must go now. It has been bad for you this talking, but it had to be. + I'm never, never going to leave you again—you shall not be alone any + more—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Peter! I'm so happy! I have never been so happy... but it all comes + of being a coward. If I had only been brave—never be afraid of + anybody or anything. Promise me, Peter—” + </p> + <p> + “Except of myself,” he answered, kissing her. + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me again.... And again...” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow...” he looked back at her, smiling. He saw her, for an instant, + as he left the room, with her cheek against the pillow and her black hair + like a cloud about her; the twilight was already in the room. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, as he stood in the dining-room, the door opened and his + father came in. + </p> + <p> + “You have been with your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You have done her much harm. She is dying.” + </p> + <p> + “I know everything,” Peter answered, looking him in the face. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + He would never, until his own end had come, forget that evening. The + golden sunset gave place to a cold and windy night, and the dark clouds + rolled up along the grey sky, hiding and then revealing the thin and + pallid moon. + </p> + <p> + Peter stayed there in the dining-room, waiting. His grandfather slept in + his chair. Once his aunt came crying into the room and wandered aimlessly + about. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt, how is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear! oh, dear! Whatever shall I do? She is going ... she is + going.... I can do nothing!” + </p> + <p> + Her thin body in the dusk flitted like a ghost about the room and then she + was gone. The doctor's pony cart came rattling up to the door. The fussy + little man got out and stamped in the hall, and then disappeared upstairs. + There was a long pause during which there was no sound. + </p> + <p> + Then the door was opened and his aunt was there. + </p> + <p> + “You must come at once ... she wants you.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor, his father, and Mrs. Trussit were there in the room, but he + was only conscious of the great white bed with the candles about it and + the white vases, like eyes, watching him. + </p> + <p> + As he entered the room there was a faint cry, “Peter.” He had crossed to + her, and her arms were about his shoulders and her mouth was pressed + against his; she fell back, with a little sigh, dead. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + In the darkened dining-room, later, his father stood in the doorway with a + candle in his hand, and above it his white face and short black hair shone + as though carved from marble. + </p> + <p> + Peter came from the window towards him. His father said: “You killed her + by going to her.” + </p> + <p> + Peter answered: “All these years you have been killing her!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <h3> + THE THREE WESTCOTTS + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The day crept, strangely and mysteriously, to its close. Peter, dulled by + misery, sat opposite his grandfather in the dining-room without moving, + conscious of the heavy twilight that the dark blinds flung about the room, + feeling the silence that was only accentuated by the old man's uneasy + “clack-clack” in his sleep and the clock's regular ticking. The + unhappiness that had been gradually growing about him since his last term + at Dawson's, was now all about him with the strength and horrible + appearance of some unholy giant. It was indeed with some consciousness of + Things that were flinging their shadows on the horizon and were not as yet + fully visible to him that he sat there. That evening at Stephen's farm, + realised only faintly at the time, hung before him now as a vivid + induction or prologue to the later terrors. He was doomed—so he felt + in that darkened and mysterious room—to a terrible time and horrors + were creeping upon him from every side. “Clack-clack” went his grandfather + beneath the rugs, as the cactus plant rattled in the window and the + silence through the stairs and passages of the house crept in folds about + the room. + </p> + <p> + Peter shivered; the coals fell from a dull gold into grey and crumbling + ashes. He shut everything in the surrounding world from his mind and + thought of his dead mother. There indeed there was strangeness enough, for + it seemed now that that wonderful afternoon had filled also all the + earlier years of his life. It seemed to him now that there had never been + a time when he had not known her and talked with her, and yet with this + was also a consciousness of all the joys that he had missed because he had + not known her before. As he thought of it the hard irretrievable fact of + those earlier empty years struck him physically with a sharp agonising + pain—toothache, and no possible way of healing it. The irony of her + proximity, of her desire for him as he, all unwittingly, had in reality + desired her, hit him like a blow. The picture of her waiting, told that he + did not wish to come, looking so sadly and lonely in that white room, + whilst he, on the other side of that door, had not the courage to burst + through those others and go to her, broke suddenly the hard dry passivity + that had held him during so many weeks. + </p> + <p> + He was very young, he was very tired, he was very lonely. He sobbed with + his hands pressed against his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Then his tears were quickly dried. There was this other thing to be + considered—his father. He hated his father. He was terrified, as he + sat there, at the fury with which he hated him. The sudden assurance of + his hatred reminded him of the thing that his grandfather had said about + the Westcotts ... was that true? and was this intensity of emotion that + filled all the veins in his body a sign that he too was a Westcott? and + were his father and grandfather mirrors of his own future years?... He did + not know. That was another question.... + </p> + <p> + He wondered what they were about in the room where his mother lay and it + was curious that the house could remain silent during so many long hours. + It seemed held by the command of some strong power, and his mind, + overstrained and abnormal, waited for some outbreak of noise—many + noises, clattering, banging, whistling through the house. But his + grandfather slept on, no step was on the stairs, the room was very dark + and evening fell beyond the long windows and over the sea. + </p> + <p> + His youth made of a day eternity—there was no end nor term to his + love, to his hatred, to his loneliness, to his utter misery ... and also + he was afraid. He would have given his world for Stephen, but Stephen was + already off on his travels. + </p> + <p> + Very softly and stealthily the door opened and, holding a quivering + candle, with her finger to her mouth, there appeared his aunt. He looked + at her coldly as she came across the room towards him. He had never felt + any affection for her because she had always seemed to him weak and + useless—a frightened, miserable, vacillating, negative person—even + when he had been a very small boy he had despised her. Her eyes were red + and swollen with crying, her grey and scanty hair had fallen about her + collar, her old black blouse was unbuttoned at the top showing her bony + neck and her thin crooked hands were trembling in the candle-light. Her + eyes were large and frightened and her back was bent as though she was + cowering from a blow. She had never taken very much notice of her nephew—of + late she had been afraid of him; he was surprised now that she should come + to speak to him. + </p> + <p> + “Peter,” she said in a whisper, looking back over her shoulder at the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, staring at her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Peter!” she said again and began to cry—a whimpering noise and + her hands shaking so that the candle rocked in its stick. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said more softly, “you'd better put that candle down.” + </p> + <p> + She put it on the table and then stood beside him, crying pitifully, + jerking out little sentences—“I can't bear it.... I don't know what + to do.... I can't bear it.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from his chair and made her sit down on it and then he stood by + her and waited until she should recover a little. He felt suddenly + strangely tender towards her; she was his mother's sister, she had known + his mother all her life and perhaps in her weak silly way she had loved + her. + </p> + <p> + “No, aunt, don't cry.... It will be all right. I too am very unhappy. I + have missed so much. If I had only known earlier—” + </p> + <p> + The poor woman flung little distracted glances at the old man asleep on + the other side of the fire-place— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, I had to come and talk to some one.... I was so frightened + upstairs. Your father's there with your mother. He sits looking at her ... + and she was always so quiet and good and never did him any harm or indeed + any one ... and now he sits looking at her—but she's happy now—he + will be coming downstairs at any moment and I am afraid of what he'll do + if he sees me talking to you like this. But I feel as though I must talk a + little ... it's so quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, aunt. There's no one to be frightened of. I am very + unhappy too. I'd like to talk about her to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no—your poor mother—I mustn't say anything. They'll be + down upon me if I say anything. They're very sharp. He's sitting up with + her now.” + </p> + <p> + Peter drew another chair up close to her and took her thin hand in his. + She allowed him to do what he would and seemed to have no active knowledge + of her surroundings. + </p> + <p> + “We'll talk about her,” he said, “often. You shall tell me all about her + early life. I want to know everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I'm going away. Directly after the funeral. Directly after the + funeral I'm going away.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly this frightened him. Was he to be left here entirely alone with + his father and grandfather? + </p> + <p> + “You're going away?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—your Uncle Jeremy will come for the funeral. I shall go + away with him afterwards. I don't like your Aunt Agatha, but they always + said I could come to them when your mother died. I don't like your Aunt + Agatha but she means to be kind. Oh! I couldn't stay here after all that + has happened. I was only staying for your mother's sake and I'm sure I've + never gone to bed without wondering what would happen before the morning—Oh, + yes, your Uncle Jeremy's coming and I shall go away with him after the + funeral. I don't like your Aunt Agatha but I couldn't stay after all that + has happened.” + </p> + <p> + All this was said in a hurried frightened whisper. The poor lady shook + from head to foot and the little bracelets on her trembling wrists jangled + together. + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall be all alone here,” Peter said suddenly, staring at the + candle that was guttering in the breeze that came from behind the heavy + blinds. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear,” said his aunt, “I'm sure Uncle Jeremy will be kind if you have + to leave here, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I have to leave here?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + His aunt sunk her voice very low indeed—so low that it seemed to + come from the heart of the cactus plant by the window. + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't got your mother now, you know. He'll want to have somebody....” + </p> + <p> + But she said nothing more—only gazed at the old man opposite her + with staring eyes, and cried in a little desolate whimper and jangled her + bracelets until at last Peter crept softly, miserably to bed. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The day of the funeral was a day of high wind and a furious sea. The + Westcotts lived in the parish of the strange wild clergyman whose church + looked over the sea; strange and wild in the eyes of Treliss because he + was a giant in size and had a long flowing beard, because he kept a + perfect menagerie of animals in his little house by the church, and + because he talked in such an odd wild way about God being in the sea and + the earth rather than in the hearts of the Treliss citizens—all + these things odd enough and sometimes, early in the morning, he might be + seen, mother-naked, going down the path to the sea to bathe, which was + hardly decent considering his great size and the immediate neighbourhood + of the high road. To those who remonstrated he had said that he was not + ashamed of his body and that God was worshipped the better for there being + no clothing to keep the wind away ... all mad enough, and there were never + many parishioners in the little hill church of a Sunday. However, it was + in the little windy churchyard that Mrs. Westcott was buried and it was up + the steep and stony road to the little church that the hearse and its + nodding plumes, followed by the two old and decrepit hackney carriages, + slowly climbed. + </p> + <p> + Peter's impressions of the day were vague and uncertain. There were things + that always remained in his memory but strangely his general conviction + was that his mother had had nothing to do with it. The black coffin + conveyed nothing to him of her presence: he saw her as he had seen her on + that day when he had talked to her, and now she was, as Stephen was, + somewhere away. That was his impression, that she had escaped.... + </p> + <p> + Putting on his black clothes in the morning brought Dawson's back to his + mind, and especially Bobby Galleon and Cards. He had not thought of them + since the day of his return—first Stephen and then his mother had + driven them from his mind. But now, with the old school black clothing + upon him, he stood for a long time by his window, wondering, sorrowfully + enough, where they were and what they were doing, whether they had + forgotten him, whether he would ever see them again. He seemed to be + surrounded by a wall of loneliness—some one was cutting everything + off from him ... from maliciousness! For pleasure!... Oh! if one only knew + about that God! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Agatha had arrived the night before. Uncle + Jeremy was big and stout and he wore clothes that were very black and + extremely bright. His face was crimson in colour and his eyes, large and + bulging, wore a look of perpetual surprise. He was bald and an enormous + gold watch chain crossed his stomach like a bridge. He had obviously never + cared for either of his sisters and he always shouted when he spoke. Aunt + Agatha was round and fat and comfortable, wore gold-rimmed spectacles and + a black silk dress, and obviously considered that Uncle Jeremy had made + the world. + </p> + <p> + Peter watched his father's attitude to these visitors. He realised that he + had never seen his father with any stranger or visitor—no one came + to the house and he had never been into the town with his father. With + this realisation came a knowledge of other things—of things half + heard at the office, of half looks in the street, of a deliberate + avoidance of his father's name—the Westcotts of Scaw House! There + were clouds about the name. + </p> + <p> + But his father, in contact with Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Agatha, was + strangely impressive. His square, thick-set body clothed in black—his + dark eyes, his short stiff hair, his high white forehead, his long + beautiful hands—this was no ordinary man, moving so silently with a + reserve that seemed nobly fitting on this sad occasion. The dark figure + filled the house, touching in its restrained grief, admirable in its + dignity, a fine spirit against the common clay of Uncle Jeremy and Aunt + Agatha. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Westcott was courteous but sparing of words—a strong man, you + would say, bowed down with a grief that demanded, in its intensity, + silence. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Jeremy hated and feared his brother-in-law. His hatred he concealed + with difficulty but his fear was betrayed by his loud and nervous laugh. + He was obviously interested in Peter and stared at him, throughout + breakfast, with his large, surprised eyes. Peter felt that this interest + was a speculation as to his future and it made him uncomfortable ... he + hated his uncle but the black suit that the stout gentleman wore on the + day of the funeral was so black, so tight and so shiny that he was an + occasion for laughter rather than hatred. + </p> + <p> + The black coffin was brought down the long stairs, through the hall and + into the desolate garden. The sight of it roused no emotion in Peter—<i>that</i> + was not his mother. The two aunts, Uncle Jeremy and his father rode in the + first carriage; Peter and Mrs. Trussit in the second. Mrs. Trussit's + bonnet and black silk dress were very fine and she wept bitterly + throughout the journey. + </p> + <p> + Peter only dismally wished that he could arrange his knees so that they + would not rub against her black silk. He did not think of his mother at + all but only of the great age of the cab, of the furious wind that + whistled about the road, and the roar that the sea, grey and furious far + below them, flung against their windows. + </p> + <p> + He would have liked to talk to her but her sobbing seemed to surround her + with a barrier. It was all inexpressibly dreary with the driving wind, the + rustling of the black silk dress, the jolting and clattering of the old + carriage. But he had no desire to cry—he was too miserable for that. + </p> + <p> + On the hill in the little churchyard, a tempest of wind swept across the + graves. From the bending ground the cliff fell sheer to the sea and + behold! it was a tossing, furious carpet of white and grey. The wind blew + the spray up to the graveyard and stung the faces of the mourners and in + the roar of the waves it was hard to hear the voice of the preacher. It + was a picture that they made out there in the graveyard. Poor Aunt Jessie, + trembling and shaking, Mrs. Trussit, stout and stiff with her handkerchief + to her eyes, Uncle Jeremy with his legs apart, his face redder than ever, + obviously wishing the thing over, Aunt Agatha concerned for her clothes in + the streaming wind, Mr. Westcott unmoved by the storm, cold, stern, of a + piece with the grey stone at the gravehead—all these figures + interesting enough. But towering above them and dominating the scene was + the clergyman—his great beard streaming, his surplice blowing behind + him in a cloud, his great voice dominating the tumult, to Peter he was a + part of the day—the storm, the earth, the flying, scudding clouds. + All big things there, and somewhere sailing with those clouds, on the + storm, the spirit of his mother ... that little black coffin standing, + surely, for nothing that mattered. + </p> + <p> + But, strangely enough, when the black box had been lowered, at the sharp + rattling of the sods upon the lid, his sorrow leapt to his eyes. Suddenly + the sense of his loss drove down upon him. The place, the people were + swept away—he could hear her voice again, see her thin white hands + ... he wanted her so badly ... if he could only have his chance again ... + he could have flung himself there upon the coffin, not caring whether he + lived or died... his whole being, soul and body, ached for her.... + </p> + <p> + He knew that it was all over; he broke away from them all and he never, + afterwards, could tell where it was that he wandered during the rest of + that day. At last, when it was dark, he crept back to the house, utterly, + absolutely exhausted in every part of his body ... worn out. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + On the following day Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Agatha departed and took Aunt + Jessie with them. She had the air of being led away into captivity and + seemed to be fastened to the buttons of Uncle Jeremy's tight black suit. + She said nothing further to Peter and showed no sense of having, at any + time, been confidential—she avoided him, he thought. + </p> + <p> + He of course returned to his office and tried to bury himself in the work + that he found there—but his attention wandered; he was overstrung, + excited abnormally, so that the whole world stood to him as a strange, + unnatural picture, something seen dimly and in exaggerated shapes through + coloured glass. That evening with Stephen shone upon him now with all the + vigour of colour of a real fact in a multitude of vague shadows. The + reality of that night was now of the utmost value. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile there were changes at Scaw House. Mrs. Trussit had vanished a + few days after the funeral, no one said anything about her departure and + Peter did not see her go. He was vaguely sorry because she represented in + his memory all the earlier years, and because her absence left the house + even darker and more gloomy than it had been before. The cook, a stout and + slatternly person, given, Peter thought, to excessive drinking, shared, + with a small and noisy maid, the duties of the house—they were most + inefficiently performed. + </p> + <p> + But, with this clearing of the platform, the hatred between Peter and his + father became a definite and terrible thing. It expressed itself silently. + At present they very rarely spoke and except on Sundays met only at + breakfast and in the evening. But the air was charged with the violence of + their relationship; the boy, growing in body so strangely like the man, + expressed a sullen and dogged defiance in his every movement ... the man + watched him as a snake might watch the bird held by its power. They stood, + as wrestlers stand before the moment for their meeting has arrived. The + house, always too large for their needs, seemed now to stretch into an + infinity of echoing passages and empty rooms; the many windows gathered + the dust thick upon their sills. The old grandfather stayed in his chair + by the fire—only at night he was wheeled out into his dreary bedroom + by the cook who, now, washed and tidied him with a vigour that called + forth shrill screams and oaths from her victim. He hated this woman with + the most bitter loathing and sometimes frightened her with the violence of + his curses. + </p> + <p> + Christmas came and went and there followed a number of those wonderful + crisp and shining days that a Cornish winter gives to its worshippers. + Treliss sparkled and glittered—the stones of the market-place held + the heat of the sun as though it had been midsummer and the Grey Tower + lifted its old head proudly to the blue sky—the sea was so warm that + bathing was possible and in the heart of the brown fields there was a + whisper of early spring. + </p> + <p> + But all of this touched Scaw House not at all. Grey and hard in its bundle + of dark trees it stood apart and refused the sun. Peter, in spite of + himself, rejoiced in this brave weather. As the days slipped past, + curiously aloof and reserved though he was, making no friends and seeking + for none, nevertheless he began to look about him and considered the + future. + </p> + <p> + All this had in it the element of suspense, of preparation. During these + weeks one day slipped into another. No incidents marked their preparation—but + up at Scaw House they were marching to no mean climax—every hour + hurried the issue—and Peter, meanwhile, as February came whistling + and storming upon the world, grew, with every chiming of the town clock, + more morose, more sullen, more silent ... there were times when he thought + of ending it all. An instant and he would be free of all his troubles—but + after all that was the weakling's way; he had not altogether forgotten + those words spoken so long ago by old Moses.... So much for the pause. + Suddenly, one dark February afternoon the curtain was rung up outside + Zachary Tan's shop and Peter was whirled into the centre of the stage. + </p> + <p> + Peter had not seen Zachary Tan for a long time. He had grown into a morbid + way of avoiding everybody and would slink up side streets or go round on + leaving the office by the sea road. When he did meet people who had once + been kind to him he said as little as possible to them and left them + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + But on this afternoon Zachary was not to be denied. He was standing at the + door of his shop and shouted to Peter: + </p> + <p> + “Come away in, Mr. Peter. I haven't see you this long time. There's an old + acquaintance of yours inside and a cup of tea for you.” + </p> + <p> + The wind was whistling up the street, the first drops of a rain storm + starred the pavement, and there was a pleasant glow behind Mr. Tan's + window-panes. But there was something stronger yet that drove Peter into + the shop. He knew with some strange knowledge who that old acquaintance + was ... he felt no surprise when he saw in the little back room, laughing + with all his white teeth shining in a row, the stout and cheerful figure + of Mr. Emilio Zanti. Peter was a very different person now from that + little boy who had once followed Stephen's broad figure into that little + green room and stared at Mr. Zanti's cheerful countenance, but it all + seemed a very little time ago. Outside in the shop there was the same suit + of armour—on the shelves, the silver candlesticks, the old coins, + the little Indian images, the pieces of tapestry—within the little + room the same sense of mystery, the same intimate seclusion from the outer + world.... On the other occasion of seeing him Mr. Zanti had been dimmed by + a small boy's wonder. Now Peter was old enough to see him very clearly + indeed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti seemed fat only because his clothes were so tight. He was bigly + made and his legs and arms were round, bolster fashion—huge thighs + and small ankles, thick arms and slender wrists. His clothes were so tight + that they seemed in a jolly kind of way to protest. “Oh! come now, must + you really put us on to anything quite so big? We shall burst in a minute—we + really shall.” + </p> + <p> + The face was large and flat and shining like a sun, with a small nose like + a door knocker and a large mouth, the very essence of good-humoured + surprise. The cheeks and the chin were soft and rounded and looked as + though they might be very fat one day—a double chin just peeped + round the corner. + </p> + <p> + He was a little bald on the top of his head and round this bald patch his + black hair clustered protectingly. He gave you the impression that every + part of his body was anxious that every other part of his body should have + a good time. His suit was a very bright blue and his waistcoat had little + brass buttons that met a friend with all the twinkling geniality of good + wishes and numberless little hospitalities. + </p> + <p> + He had in his blue silk tie a pearl so large and so white that + sophisticated citizens might have doubted that it was a pearl at all—but + Peter swallowed Mr. Zanti whole, pearl and suit and all. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it is ze little friend—my friend—'ow are you, young + gentleman? It is a real delight to be with you again.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti swung Peter's hand up and down as he would a pump handle and + laughed as though it were all the best joke in the world. Curiously enough + Peter did not resent this rapturous greeting. It moved him strongly. It + was such a long time now since any one had shown any interest in him or + expressed any pleasure at the sight of him that he was foolishly moved by + Mr. Zanti's warmth. + </p> + <p> + He blushed and stammered something but his eyes were shining and his lip + trembling. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti fixed his gaze on the boy. “Oh! but you have grown—yes, + indeed. You were a little slip before—but now—not so 'igh no—not + 'igh—but broad, strong. Oh! ze arms and legs—there's a back!” + </p> + <p> + Zachary interrupted his enthusiasm with some general remark, and they had + a pleasant little tea-party. Every now and again the shop bell tinkled and + Zachary went out to attend to it, and then Mr. Zanti drew near to Peter as + though he were going to confide in him but he never said anything, only + laughed. + </p> + <p> + Once he mentioned Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “You know where he is?” Peter broke in with an eager whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, ha—that would be telling,” and Mr. Zanti winked his eye. + </p> + <p> + Peter's heart warmed under the friendliness of it all. There was very much + of the boy still in him and he began to look back upon the days that he + had spent with no other company than his own thoughts as cold and + friendless. Zachary Tan had been always ready to receive him warmly. Why + had he passed him so churlishly by and refused his outstretched hand? But + there was more in it than that. Mr. Zanti attracted him most compellingly. + The gaily-dressed genial man spoke to him of all the glitter and adventure + of the outside world. Back, crowding upon him, came all those adventurous + thoughts and desires that he had known before in Mr. Zanti's company—but + tinged now by that grey threatening background of Scaw House and its + melancholy inhabitants! What would he not give to escape? Perhaps Mr. + Zanti!... The little green room began to extend its narrow walls and to + include in its boundaries flashing rivers, shining cities, wide and + bounteous plains. Beyond the shop—dark now with its treasures + mysteriously gleaming—the steep little street held up its lamps to + be transformed into yellow flame, and at its foot by the wooden jetty, as + the night fell, the sea crept ever more secretly with its white fingers + gleaming below the shingles of the beach. + </p> + <p> + Here was wonder and glory enough with the wind tearing and beating outside + the windows, blowing the young flowers of the lamps up and down inside + their glass houses and screaming down the chimneys for sheer zest of + life.... But here it all had its centre in this little room “with Mr. + Emilio Zanti's chuckling for no reason at all and spreading his broad fat + hand over Peter Westcott's knee. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Peter, and 'ave you been to London in all these years? Or + perhaps you 'ave forgotten that you ever wanted to go there?” + </p> + <p> + No, Peter was still of the same mind but Treliss and a few miles up and + down the road were as much of the world as he'd had the pleasure of seeing—except + for school in Devonshire— + </p> + <p> + “And you'd still go, my leetle friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I want to go—I hate being in an office here.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is it zat you will do when you are there?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, in a flash, illuminating the little room, shining over the whole + world, Peter knew what it was that he would do. + </p> + <p> + “I will write.” + </p> + <p> + “Write what?” + </p> + <p> + “Stories.” + </p> + <p> + With that word muttered, his head hanging, his cheeks flushing, as though + it were something of which he was most mightily ashamed, he knew what it + was he had been wanting all these months. The desire had been there, the + impulse had been there ... now with the spoken word the blind faltering + impulse was changed into definite certainty. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti thought it a tremendous joke. He roared, shouted with riotous + laughter. “Oh, ze boy—he will be the death of me—'I will write + stories'—Oh yes, so easy, so very simple. 'I will write stories'—Oh + yes.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter was very solemn. He did not like his great intention to be + laughed at. + </p> + <p> + “I mean it,” he said rather gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, that's of course—but that is enough. Oh dear, yes ... well, + my friend, I like you. You are very strong, you are brave I can see—you + have a fine spirit. One thing you lack—with all you English it is + the same.” + </p> + <p> + He paused interrogatively but Peter did not seem to wish to know what this + quality was. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is ze Humour—you do not see how funny life is—always—always + funny. Death, murder, robberies, violences—always funny—you + are. Oh! so solemn and per'aps you will be annoyed, think it tiresome, + because I laugh—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Peter gravely, “I like your laughing.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That is well.” Suddenly he jerked his body forward and stared into + Peter's face. + </p> + <p> + “Well!... Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + Peter hung back, his face white. He was only conscious that Zachary, quiet + and smiling in the background, watched him intently. + </p> + <p> + “What!... with you ... to London!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes ... wiz me—what of your father? Will he be furious, hey?” + </p> + <p> + “He won't like it—” Peter continued slowly. “But I don't care. I'll + leave him—But I should have no money—nothing!” + </p> + <p> + “An', no matter—I will take you to London for nothing and then—if + you like it—you may work for me. Two pounds a week—you would + be useful.” + </p> + <p> + “What should I do?” + </p> + <p> + “I have a bookshop—you would look after ze books and also ze + customers.” This seemed to amuse Mr. Zanti very much. “Two pounds a week + is a lot of money for ze work—and you will have time—ho yes—much + time for your stories.” + </p> + <p> + Peter's eyes burned. London—a bookshop—freedom. Oh! wonderful + world! His heart was beating so that words would not come. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he murmured. “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's well!” Mr. Zanti clapped him on the shoulder. “There is no + need for you to say now. On ze Wednesday in Easter week I go—before + then you will tell me. We shall get on together, I know it. If you will + 'ave a leetle more of ze Humour you will be a very pleasant boy—and + useful—Ho, yes!” + </p> + <p> + To Peter then the shop was not visible—a mist hung about his eyes. + “Much time for your stories”... said Mr. Zanti, and he shouted with + laughter as his big form hung before Peter. The large white hand with the + flashing rings enclosed Peter's. + </p> + <p> + For a moment the hands were on his shoulders and in his nostrils was the + pungent scent of the hair-oil that Mr. Zanti affected—afterwards + silence. + </p> + <p> + Peter said farewell to Zachary and promised to come soon and see him + again. The little bell tinkled behind him and he was in the street. The + great wind caught him and blew him along the cobbles. The flying mountains + of cloud swept like galleons across the moor, and in Peter's heart was + overwhelming triumph ... the lights of London lit the black darkness of + the high sea road. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + The doors of Scaw House clanged behind him and at once he was aware that + his father had to be faced. Supper was eaten in silence. Peter watched his + father and his grandfather. Here were the three of them alone. What his + grandfather was his father would one day be, what his father was, he ... + yes, he must escape. He stared at the room's dreary furniture, he listened + to the driving rain and he was conscious that, from the other side of the + table, his father's eyes were upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” he said, “I want to go away.” His heart was thumping. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Westcott got up from his place at the table and stood, with his legs a + little apart, looking down at his son. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm doing no good here. That office is no use to me. I shall never be a + solicitor. I'm nearly eighteen and I shall never get on here. I remember + things... my mother...” his voice choked. + </p> + <p> + His father smiled. “And where do you want to go?” + </p> + <p> + “To London.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! and what will you do there?” + </p> + <p> + “I have a friend—he has a bookshop there. He will give me two pounds + a week at first so that I should be quite independent—” + </p> + <p> + “All very nice,” Mr. Westcott was grave again. “And so you are tired of + Treliss?” + </p> + <p> + “Not only Treliss—this house—everything. I hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no regret at leaving me?” + </p> + <p> + “You know—father—that...” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + Peter rose suddenly from the table—they faced one another. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to let me go. You have never cared in the least for me and you + do not want me here. I shall go mad if I stay in this place. I must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you must go? Well, that's plain enough at any rate—and when do + you propose leaving us?” + </p> + <p> + “After Easter—the Wednesday after Easter,” he said. “Oh, father, + please. Give me a chance. I can do things in London—I feel it. Here + I shall never do anything.” + </p> + <p> + Peter raised his eyes to his father's and then dropped them. Mr. Westcott + senior was not pleasant to look at. + </p> + <p> + “Let us have no more of this—you will stay here because I wish it. I + like to have you here—father and son—father and son.” + </p> + <p> + He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder—“Never mention this again + for your own sake—you will stay here until I wish you to go.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter broke free. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>will</i> go,” he shouted—“I <i>will</i> go—you <i>shall</i> + not keep me here. I have a right to my freedom—what have you ever + done for me that I should obey you? I want to leave you and never see you + again. I ...” And then his eyes fell—his legs were shaking. His + father was watching him, no movement in his short thick body—Peter's + voice faltered—“I <i>will</i> go,” he said sullenly, his eyes on the + ground. + </p> + <p> + His grandfather stirred in his sleep. “Oh, what a noise,” he muttered, + “with the rain and all.” + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Westcott removed with a careful hand the melodrama that his young + son had flung about the room. + </p> + <p> + “That's enough noise,” he said, “you will <i>not</i> go to London—nor + indeed anywhere else—and for your own peace of mind I should advise + you not to mention the subject again. The hour is a little early but I + recommend your bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + Peter went. He was trembling from head to foot. Why? He undressed and + prepared himself for battle. Battle it was to be, for the Wednesday in + Easter week would find him in the London train—of that there was to + be no question. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, with the candle blown out, and no moon across the floor, it was + quite certain that courage would be necessary. He was fighting more than + his father. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + He woke suddenly. A little wind, blowing through the open door flickered + the light of a candle that flung a dim circle about the floor. Within the + circle was his father—black clothes and white face, he was looking + with the candle held high, across the room to the bed. + </p> + <p> + He drew back the candle and closed the door softly behind him. His feet + made no sound as they passed away down the passage. + </p> + <p> + Peter lay quaking, wide eyed in his bed, until full morning and time for + getting up. + </p> + <p> + The opening, certainly, of a campaign. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + SUNLIGHT, LIMELIGHT, DAYLIGHT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Easter fell early that year; the last days of March held its festival and + the winds and rains of that blustering month attended the birth of its + primroses. + </p> + <p> + Young Peter spent his days in preparation for the swift coming of Easter + Wednesday and in varying moods of exultation, terror, industry and + idleness. He did not see Mr. Zanti during this period—that gentleman + was, he was informed, away on business—and it was characteristic of + him that he asked Zachary Tan no questions whether of the mysterious + bookshop, of London generally, or of any possible news about Stephen, the + latter a secret that he was convinced the dark little curiosity shop + somewhere contained. + </p> + <p> + But he had an amazing number of things to think about and the solicitor's + office was the barest background for his chasing thoughts. He spoke to no + one of his approaching freedom—but the thought of it hung in rich + and burning colour ever at the back of his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the changing developments at Scaw House were of a nature to + frighten any boy who was compelled to share in them. It could not be + denied that Mr. Westcott had altered very strangely since his wife's + death. The grim place with its deserted garden had never seen many callers + nor friendly faces but the man with the milk, the boy with the butcher's + meat, the old postman with the letters stayed now as brief a time over + their business as might be and hurried down the grass-grown paths with + eager haste. Since the departure of the invaluable Mrs. Trussit a new + order reigned—red-faced Mrs. Pascoe, her dress unfastened, her hair + astray, her shoes at heel, her speech thick and uncertain, was queen of + the kitchen, and indeed of other things had they but known all. But to + Peter there was more in this than the arrival of Mrs. Pascoe. With every + day his father was changing—changing so swiftly that when Peter's + mother had been buried only a month, that earlier Mr. Westcott, cold, + stern, reserved, terrible, seemed incredible; he was terrible now but with + how different a terror. + </p> + <p> + To Peter this new figure was a thing of the utmost horror. He had known + how to brace himself for that other authority—there had, at any + rate, been consistency and even a kind of chiselled magnificence in that + stiff brutality—now there was degradation, crawling devilry, things + unmentionable.... + </p> + <p> + This new terror broke upon him at supper two nights after he had first + spoken about London. The meal had not been passed, as usual, in silence. + His father had talked strangely to himself—his voice was thick, and + uncertain—his hand shook as he cut the bread. Mrs. Pascoe had come, + in the middle of the meal, to give food to the old grandfather who + displayed his usual trembling greed. She stood with arms akimbo, watching + them as they sat at table and smiling, her coarse face flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Pudding,” said Mr. Westcott. + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll be 'aving the pudding when it's ready,” says she. + </p> + <p> + “Damn” from Mr. Westcott but he sits still looking at the table-cloth and + his hand shaking. + </p> + <p> + To Peter this new thing was beyond all possibility horrible. This new + shaking creature— + </p> + <p> + “I didn't kill her, you know, Peter,” Mr. Westcott says quite smoothly, + when the cloth had been cleared and they are alone. And then suddenly, + “Stay where you are—I have stories to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Peter, white to the lips, was held in his place. He could not move or + speak. Then during the following two hours, his father, without moving + from his place, poured forth a stream of stories—foul, filthy, + horrible beyond all telling. He related them with no joy or humour or + bestial gloating over their obscenities—only with a staring eye and + his fingers twisting and untwisting on the table-cloth. At last Peter, his + head hanging, his cheeks flaming, crept to his attic. + </p> + <p> + At breakfast his father was again that other man—stern, immovable, a + rock-where was that trembling shadow of the night before? + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Pascoe—once more in her red-faced way, submissive—in + her place. + </p> + <p> + The most abiding impression with Peter, thinking of it afterwards in the + dark lanes that run towards the sea, when the evening was creeping along + the hill, was of a fiery eye gleaming from old grandfather Westcott's pile + of rugs. Was it imagined or was there indeed a triumph there—a + triumph that no age nor weakness could obscure? + </p> + <p> + And from the induction of that first terrible evening Peter stepped into a + blind terror that gave the promised deliverance of that approaching Easter + Wednesday an air of blind necessity. Also about the house the dust and + neglect crept and increased as though it had been, in its menace and evil + omen, a veritable beast of prey. Doors were off their hinges, windows + screamed to their clanging shutters, the grime lay, like sand, about the + sills and corners of the rooms. At night the house was astir with sound + but with no human voices. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + But it was only at night that Terror crept from its cupboard and leapt on + to Peter's shoulders. He defied it even then with set lips and the + beginning of a conception of the duties that Courage demands of its + worshippers. He would fight it, let it develop as it would—but, + during these weeks, in the sunlight, he thought nothing of it at all, but + only with eager eyes watched his father. + </p> + <p> + His reading had, in these latter years, been slender enough. It was seldom + that he had any money, there was no circulating library in Treliss at that + time and he knew no one who could lend him books. He fell back, perforce, + on the few that he had and especially on the three “Henry Galleons.” But + he had in his head—and he had known it without putting it into + words, for a very long time—“The Thousand and One Nights of Peter + Westcott, Esq.”—stories that would go on night after night before he + went to sleep, stories that were concerned with enormous families whose + genealogies had to be worked out on paper (here was incipient Realism)—or + again, stories concerning Treasure and Masses of it—banks of + diamonds, mountains of pearls, columns of rubies, white marble temples, + processions of white elephants, cloth of gold (here was incipient + Romance). Never, be it noticed, at this time, incipient Humour; life had + been too heavy a thing for that. + </p> + <p> + But these stories, formerly racing through his brain because they must, + because indeed they were there against his own will or any one else's, had + now a most definite place and purpose in their existence. They were there + now because they were to be trained, to be educated, to be developed, + until they were fit to appear in public. He had, even in these early days, + no false idea of the agonies and tortures of this gift of his. Was it not + in “Henry Lessingham”?... “and so with this task before him he knew that + words were of many orders and regiments and armies, and those that were + hard of purchase and difficult of discipline were the possessions of + value, for nothing that is light and easy in its production is of any + duration or lasting merit.” + </p> + <p> + And so, during these weeks, when he should have attended to the duties of + a solicitor his mind was hunting far away in those forests where very many + had hunted before him. And, behold, he was out for Fame.... + </p> + <p> + Spring was blown across the country by the wildest storms that the + sea-coast had known for very many years. For days the seas rose against + the rocks in a cursing fury—the battle of rock and wave gave pretty + spectacle to the surrounding country and suddenly the warriors, having + proved the mettle of their hardihood, turned once again to good + fellowship. But the wind and the rain had done their work. In the week + before Easter, with the first broadening sweep of the sun across the rich + brown earth and down into the depths of the twisting lanes the spring was + there—there in the sweet smell of the roots as they stirred towards + the light, there in the watery gleam of the grass as it caught diamonds + from the sun, but there, above all, in the primrose clump hidden in the + clefts of the little Cornish woods—so with a cry of delight Spring + had leapt from the shoulders of that roaring wind and danced across the + Cornish hills. + </p> + <p> + On Good Friday there was an incident. Peter was free of the office for the + day and had walked towards Truro. There was a little hill that stood above + the town. It was marked by a tree clump black against the blue sky—at + its side was a chalk pit, naked white—beyond was Truro huddled, with + the Fal a silver ribbon in the sun. Peter stood and watched and sat down + because he liked the view. He had walked a very long way and was tired and + it was an afternoon as hot as Summer. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly there was a cry: “Help, please—oh—help to get + Crumpet.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up and saw standing in front of him a little girl in a black hat + and a short black frock—she had red hair that the sun was + transforming into gold. Her face was white with terror, and tears were + making muddy marks on it and her hands were black with dirt. She was a + very little girl. She appealed to him between her sobs, and he understood + that Crumpet was a dog, that it had fallen some way down the chalk-pit and + that “Miss Jackson was reading her Bible under a tree.” + </p> + <p> + He jumped up immediately and went to find Crumpet. A little way down the + chalk-pit a fox-terrier puppy was balancing its fat body on a ledge of + chalk and looking piteously up and down. Peter clambered down, caught the + little struggling animal in his arms, and restored it to its mistress. And + now followed an immense deal of kissing and embracing. The dog was buried + in red hair and only once and again a wriggling paw might be observed—also + these exclamations—“Oh, the umpty-rumpty—was it nearly falling + down the great horrid pit, the darling—oh, the little darling, and + was it scratched, the pet? But it was a wicked little dog—yes, it + was, to go down that nasty place when it was told not to”—more + murmurings, and then the back was straightened, the red, gold hair flung + back, and a flushed face turned to the rather awkward Peter who stood at + attention. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—thanks, most awfully—oh, you darling” (this to the + puppy). “You see, Miss Jackson was reading her Bible aloud to herself, and + I can't stand that, neither can Crumpet, and she always forgets all about + us, and so we go away by ourselves—and reading the Bible makes her + sleep—she's asleep now—and then Crumpet wouldn't stay at heel + although I was telling him ever so hard, and he would go over the cliff—and + if you hadn't been there...” at the thought of the awful disaster the + puppy was again embraced. Apparently Crumpet was no sentimentalist, and + had had enough of feminine emotion—he wriggled out of his mistress' + arms, flopped to the ground, shook himself, and, advancing to Peter, smelt + his boots. + </p> + <p> + “He likes you. I'm so glad—he only does that to people he likes, and + he's very particular.” The small girl flung her hair back, smiled at + Peter, and sat down on the grass. + </p> + <p> + “It may be rather damp,” Peter said, feeling very old and cautious and + thinking that she really was the oddest child he'd even seen in his life. + “It's only March you know.” + </p> + <p> + “It's nothing to do with months, it's whether it's rained or not—and + it hasn't—sit down with me. Old Jackson won't be here for ages.” + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down. The puppy was a charming specimen of its kind—it had + enormous ears, huge flat feet, and a round fat body like a very small + barrel. It was very fond of Peter, and licked his cheek and his hands, and + finally dragged off his cap, imagined it a rabbit, and bit it with a great + deal of savagery and good-humour. + </p> + <p> + There followed conversation. + </p> + <p> + “I like you most awfully. I like your neck and your eyes and your hair—it's + stiff, like my father's. My name is Clare Elizabeth Rossiter. What's + yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Peter Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you live here?” + </p> + <p> + “No—a good long way away—by the sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm staying at Kenwyn—my uncle lives at Kenwyn, but I live in + London with father and mother and Aunt Grace—it's nice here. I think + you're such a nice boy. Will you come and see father and mother in + London?” + </p> + <p> + Peter smiled. It would not be the thing for some one in a bookshop to go + and call on the parents of any one who could afford Crumpet and Miss + Jackson, but the thought of London, the very name of it, sent his blood + tingling to his face. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we shall meet,” he said. “I'm going to London soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! are you? Oh! How nice! Then, of course, you will come to tea. Every + one comes to tea.” + </p> + <p> + Crumpet, tired of the rabbit, worn out with adventure and peril, struggled + into Peter's lap and slumbered with one ear lying back across his eyes. + The sun slipped down upon the town and touched the black cathedral with + flame, and turned the silver of the river into burning gold. On the bend + of the hill against the sky came a black gaunt figure. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Jackson!” Clare Elizabeth Rossiter leapt to her feet, clutched + Crumpet, held him upside down, and turned to go. + </p> + <p> + But for an instant she stayed, and Peter was rewarded with a very + wonderful smile. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad you were here—she generally sleeps longer, but perhaps + it was New Testament to-day, and that's more exciting. It is a pity, + because there were such lots of things—I like you most awfully.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a very dirty hand, and then her black stockings vanished over + the hill. + </p> + <p> + Peter turned, through a flaming sunset, towards his home ... the end of + the incident. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + But he came home, on that Good Friday evening with an idea that that + afternoon on the hill had given him. It was an idea that came to him from + the little piece of superstition that he carried about with him—every + Cornishman carries it. Treliss was always a place of many customs, and, + although now these ceremonies drag themselves along with all the mercenary + self-consciousness that America and cheap trips from Manchester have given + to the place, at this stage of Peter's history they were genuine and + honest enough. To see from the top of the Grey Hill, the rising of the sun + on Easter morning was one of them—a charm that brought the most + infallible good luck until next Easter Day came round again, and, good for + you, if you could watch that sunrise with the lad or lass of your choice, + for to pass round the Giant's Finger as the beams caught the stone made + the success of your union beyond all question. There was risk about it, + for if mists veiled the light or if clouds dimmed the rising then were + your prospects but gloomy—but a fine Easter morning had decided many + a wedding in Treliss. + </p> + <p> + Peter had known of this for many years, but, in earlier times, he had not + been at liberty, and of late there had been other things to think about. + But here was a fine chance! Was he not flinging himself into the world + under the very hazardous patronage of Mr. Zanti on Easter Wednesday, and + would he not therefore need every blessing that he could get? And who + knew, after all, whether these things were such nonsense? They were old + enough, these customs, and many wise people believed in them. Moreover, + one had not been brought up in the company of Frosted Moses and Dicky the + Fool without catching some of their fever! “There was a little star + rolling down hill like a button,” says Dicky, with his eyes staring....' + Well, and why not? + </p> + <p> + And indeed here was Peter at this stage of things, a mad I bundle of + contradictions—old as a judge when up against the Realities, young + as Crumpet the puppy when staring at Romance. Give him bread and you have + him of cast-iron—stern, cold, hard of muscle, grim frown, stiff + back, no smiles. Give him jam and you have credulity, simplicity, longing + for friendship, tenderness, devotion to a small girl in a black frock, a + heart big as the world. See him on Good Friday afternoon, laughing, + eagerly questioning, a boy—see him on Good Friday night, grim, legs + stiff, eyes cold as stones, a man—no easy thing for Mrs. Pascoe's + blowzy thunderings to conquer, but something vastly amusing apparently to + grandfather Westcott to watch. + </p> + <p> + He discovered that the sun rose about six o'clock, and therefore five + o'clock on Easter morning found him shivering, in the desolate garden with + his nose pressed to the little wooden gate. The High Road crossed the moor + at no great distance from him, but the faint grey light that hung like + gauze about him was not yet strong enough to reveal it. He would hear them + as they passed and they must all go up that road on the way to the hill. + In the garden there was darkness, and beyond it in the high shadow of the + house and the surrounding trees, blackness. He could smell the soil, and + his cheeks were wet with beads of moisture; very faintly the recurrent + boom of the sea came through the mist, dimmed as though by thick folds of + hanging carpet. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the dark trees by the house, moved by a secret wind, would + shudder. The little black gate slowly revealed its bars against the sky as + the grey shadows lightened. Then there were voices, coming through the + dark shut off, like the sea, by the mist—strange voices, not human, + but sharing with the soil and the trees the mysterious quality of the + night. The voices passed up the road—silence and then more voices. + </p> + <p> + Peter unlatched the gate and stole out to the road, stumbling over the + rough moorland path and clambering across the ditch to safer ground. + Figures were moving like shadows and voices fell echoing and re-echoing + like notes of music—this was dissociated from all human feeling, and + the mists curled up like smoke and faded into the air. Peter, in silence, + followed these shadows and knew that there were other shadows behind him. + It would not take long to climb the Grey Hill—they would be at the + top by half-past five. + </p> + <p> + There was a voice in his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Hallo! You—Westcott! Why, who would have thought it?” + </p> + <p> + He turned round and found at his side the peaked face of Willie Daffoll, + now a young man of eighteen, with an affection for bright ties and socks, + once the small child who had fought with Peter at old Parlow's years ago. + Peter had not seen very much of him during those years. They had met in + the streets of Treliss, had spoken a word or two, but no friendship or + intimacy. But this early hour, this mysterious dawn, bred confidence, and + Peter having grown, under the approaching glitter of London, more human, + during the last few weeks than he had been in all his life before, was + glad to talk to him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I've often wanted to go,” he said. “It brings good luck, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, fancy your believing that. I never thought you'd believe in rot + like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you going, then?” + </p> + <p> + The young man of ties and waistcoats dropped his voice. “Oh—a girl. + She's here somewhere—she said she'd come—thinks there's + something in it. Anyhow she wants it—she's stunning....” + </p> + <p> + A girl! Peter's mind flew absurdly back to a small child in a short black + frock. “Oh! Crumpet!” ... A girl! Young Daffoll had spoken as though it + were indeed something to get up at four in the morning for! Peter wanted + to hear more. Young Daffoll was quite ready to tell him. No names, of + course, but they were going to be married one day. His governor would be + furious, of course, and they might have to run away, but she was game for + anything. No, he'd only known her a fortnight, but it had been a matter of + love at first sight—extraordinary thing—he'd thought he'd been + head over ears before, but never anything like this—yes, as a matter + of fact she was in a flower-shop—Trunter's in the High Street—her + people had come down in the world—and so the golden picture unfolded + as the gauze curtains were drawn back from the world, and the shoulder of + the Grey Hill rose, like a cloud, before them. + </p> + <p> + Peter's heart beat faster as he listened to this story. Here was one of + his dreams translated into actual fact. Would he one day also have some + one for whom he would be ready to run to the end of the world, if furious + parents demanded it? She would have, he was sure, red-gold hair and a + wonderful smile. + </p> + <p> + They climbed the Grey Hill. There was with them now quite a company of + persons—still shadow-shapes, for the mists were thick about the + road, but soon all the butchers and bakers of the world—and, let it + be remembered, all the lovers, would be revealed. Now, as they climbed the + hill, silence fell—even young Daffoll was quiet; that, too, it + seemed, was part of the ceremony. + </p> + <p> + The hill top was swiftly gained. The Giant's Finger, black and straight, + like a needle, stood through the shadows. Beyond there would be the sea, + and that was where the sun would rise, at present darkness. They all sat + down on the stones that covered the summit—on either side of Peter + there were figures, but Daffoll had vanished—it seemed that he had + discovered his lady. + </p> + <p> + Peter, sitting meditating on the story that he had heard and feeling, + suddenly, lonely and deserted, was conscious of a small shoe that touched + his boot. It was, beyond argument, a friendly shoe—he could feel + that in the inviting tap that it gave to him. He was aware also that his + shoulder was touching another shoulder, and that that shoulder was soft + and warm. Finally his hand touched another hand—fingers were + intertwined. + </p> + <p> + There was much conversation out of the mist: + </p> + <p> + “Law, chrisy! Well, it's the last Easter morning for me—thiccy sun + hides himself right enough—it's poor trade sitting shivering your + toes.” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I care for the woman, mind ye, Mr. Tregothan, sir—with her + haverings talking—all I'm saying is that if she's to come wastin' my + time— + </p> + <p> + “Thiccy man sitting there stormin' like an old owl in a tree.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, get along with ye—No, I won't be sitting by ye—There's—” + </p> + <p> + Now the sea, like a young web stretched at the foot of the hill, stole out + of the darkness. On the horizon a thin line of dull yellow—wouldn't + it be a fine sunrise?—the figures on the hill were gathering shape + and form, and many of them now were standing, their bodies sharp against + the grey sky. + </p> + <p> + Peter had not turned; his eyes were staring out to sea, but his body was + pressed closely against the girl at his side. He did not turn nor look at + her—she was staring at him with wonder in her eyes and a smile on + her lips. She was a very common girl with black hair and over-red cheeks, + and she was one of the dairymaids from Tregothan Farm. She did not know + whom this strange young man might be, and it was not yet light enough to + see. She did not care—such things had happened often enough before, + and she leant her fat body against his shoulder. She could feel his heart + thumping and his hands were very hot, but she thought that it was strange + that he did not turn and look at her.... + </p> + <p> + There was a stir and murmur among the crowd on the hill for behold it + would be a fine sunrise! The dull yellow had brightened to gold and was + speeding like a herald across the grey. Black on the hill, gold on the + sky, a trembling whispering blue across the sea—in a moment there + would be the sun! What gods were there hiding, at that instant, on the + hill, watching, with scornful eyes this crowd of moderns? Hidden there + behind the stones, what mysteries? Screening with their delicate bodies + the faint colours of the true dawn, playing on their pipes tunes that + these citizens with their coarse voices and dull hearing could not + understand, what ancient watchers of the hill pass and repass! + </p> + <p> + Behold the butchers and bakers! Behold Mr. Winneren, hosier and outfitter, + young Robert Trefusis, farmer, Miss Bessie Waddell from the sweet-shop!... + These others fade away as the sun rises—the grey mists pass with + them. + </p> + <p> + The sun is about to leap above the rim of the sea. Peter turns and crushes + the poor dairymaid in his arms and stifles the little scream with the + first kiss of his life. His whole body burns in that kiss—and then, + as the sun streams across the sea he has sprung to his feet and vanishes + over the brow of the hill. + </p> + <p> + The dairymaid wipes her lips with the back of her hand. They have joined + hands and are already dancing round the Giant's Finger. It is black now, + but in a moment the flames of the sun will leap upon it, and good omens + will send them all singing down the hill. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + On Tuesday evening Peter slipped for a moment into Zachary Tan's shop and + told Mr. Zanti that he would be on the station platform at half-past seven + on the following morning. He could scarcely speak for excitement. He was + also filled with a penetrating sadness. Above all, he wished only to + exchange the briefest word with his future master. He did not understand + altogether but it was perhaps because Mr. Zanti and all his world belonged + to to-morrow.... Mr. Zanti's fat, jolly body, his laugh, his huge soft + hands ... Peter could not do more to this gentleman than remember that he + meant so much that he would be overwhelmed by him if he did not leave him + alone. So he darted in and gave his message and darted out again. The + little street was shining in the sun and the gentlest waves were lapping + the wooden jetty—Oh, this dear town! These houses, these cobbles—all + the smells and colours of the place—he was leaving it all so easily + on so perilous an adventure. Poor Peter was moved by so many things that + he could only gulp the tears back and hurry home. There was at any rate + work to be done there about which there could be no uncertain intention. + </p> + <p> + His father had been drinking all the afternoon. Mrs. Pascoe with red arms + akimbo, watched them as they ate their supper. + </p> + <p> + When the meal was finished Peter, standing by his father, his face very + white, said: + </p> + <p> + “I am going to London to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Westcott had aged a great deal during the last month. His hair was + touched with grey, there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were + sunken, his lip trembled. He was looking moodily at the cloth, crumbling + his bread. He did not hear Peter's remark, but continued his argument with + Mrs. Pascoe: + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't cooked, I tell you—you're growing as slack as Hell.” + </p> + <p> + “Your precious son 'as got something as 'e would like to say to yer,” + remarked that pleasant woman grimly. + </p> + <p> + Peter repeated his remark. His father grasped it but slowly—at last + he said: + </p> + <p> + “Damn you, what are you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm leaving here and going to London to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Westcott turned his bloodshot eyes in the direction of the fire-place—“Curse + it, I can't see straight. You young devil—I'll do for you—” + all this said rather sullenly and as though he were speaking to himself. + </p> + <p> + Peter, having delivered his news, passed Mrs. Pascoe's broad body, and + moved to the doorway. He turned with his hand on the door. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad I'm going,” he said, “you've always bullied me, and I've always + hated you. You killed my mother and she was a good woman. You can have + this house to yourself—you and grandfather—and that woman—” + he nodded contemptuously at Mrs. Pascoe, who was staring at him fiercely. + His grandfather was fast asleep beneath the cushions. + </p> + <p> + “Damn you,” said Mr. Westcott very quietly. “You've always been ungrateful—I + didn't kill your mother, but she was always a tiresome, crying woman.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped crumbling the bread and suddenly picked up a table knife and + hurled it at Peter. His hand was trembling, and the knife quivering, was + fastened to the door. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pascoe gasped, “Gawd 'elp us!” + </p> + <p> + Peter quietly closed the door behind him and went up to his room. + </p> + <p> + He was in no way disturbed by this interview. His relations with his + father were not of the things that now mattered. They had mattered before + his mother died. They had mattered whilst his father had been somebody + strong and terrible. Even at the funeral how splendid he had seemed! But + this trembling creature who drank whisky with the cook was some one who + concerned Peter not at all—something like the house, to be left + behind. + </p> + <p> + There was an old black bag that had held his things in the Dawson's days—it + held his things now. Not a vast number—only the black suit beside + the blue serge one that he was going to wear, some under-linen, a sponge, + and a toothbrush, the books and an old faded photograph of his mother as a + girl. Nothing like that white face that he had seen, this photograph, old, + yellow, and faded, but a girl laughing and beautiful—after all, his + most precious possession. + </p> + <p> + Then, when the bag was packed, he sat on the bed, swung his legs, and + thought about everything. He was nearly eighteen, nearly a man, and as + hard as rock. He could feel the muscles swelling, there was no fat about + him, he was sound all over. + </p> + <p> + He looked back and saw the things that stood out like hills above the + plain—that night, years ago, when he was whipped, the day that he + first met Mr. Zanti, the first day at school, the day when he said + good-bye to Cards, the hour, at the end of it all, when they hissed him, + that last evening with Stephen, the day with his mother ... and then, + quite lately, that afternoon when Mr. Zanti asked him to go to London, the + little girl with the black frock on the hill ... last of all, that kiss + (never mind with whom) on Easter morning—all these things had made + him what he was—yes, and all the people—Frosted Moses, + Stephen, his father, his mother, Bobby Galleon, Cards, Mr. Zanti, the + little girl. As he swung his legs he knew that everything that he did + afterwards would be, in some way, attached to these earlier things and + these earlier people. + </p> + <p> + He had brave hopes and brave ambitions and a warm heart as he flung + himself into bed; it speaks well for him that, on the night before he set + out on his adventure, he slept like the child that he really was. + </p> + <p> + But he knew that he would wake at six o'clock. He had determined that it + should be so, and the clocks were striking as he opened his eyes. It was + very dark and the cocks crowed beyond his open window, and the misty + morning swept in and blew his lighted candle up and down. He dressed in + the blue serge suit with a blue tie fastened in a sailor's knot. He leaned + out of his window and tried to imagine, out of the darkness, the beloved + moor—then he took his black bag and crept downstairs; it was + striking half-past six as he came softly into the hall. + </p> + <p> + There he saw that the gas was flaring and that his father was standing in + his night-shirt. + </p> + <p> + “I think I'm in front of you,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go, father,” Peter said, very white, and putting down the bag. + </p> + <p> + “Be damned to you,” said his father. “You don't get through this door.” + </p> + <p> + It was all so ludicrous, so utterly absurd, that his father should be + standing, in his night-shirt, on this very cold morning, under the flaring + gas. It occurred to Peter that as he wanted to laugh at this Mr. Zanti + could not have been right about his lack of humour. Peter walked up to his + father, and his father caught him by the throat. Mr. Westcott was still, + in spite of recent excesses, sufficiently strong. + </p> + <p> + “I very much want to choke you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Peter, however, was stronger. + </p> + <p> + His father dropped the hold of his throat, and had him, by the waist, but + his hands slipped amongst his clothes. For a moment they swayed together, + and Peter could feel the heat of his father's body beneath the night-shirt + and the violent beating of his heart. It was immensely ludicrous; moreover + there now appeared on the stairs Mrs. Pascoe, in a flannel jacket over a + night-gown, and untidy hair about her ample shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord be kind!” she cried, and stood, staring. Mr. Westcott was + breathing very heavily in Peter's face, and their eyes were so close + together that Peter could notice how bloodshot his father's were. + </p> + <p> + “God damn you!” said his father and slipped, and they came down on to the + wood floor together. Peter rose, but his father lay there, breathing + heavily. + </p> + <p> + “God damn you,” he said again, but he did not move. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better look after him,” Peter said, turning to the astounded Mrs. + Pascoe. As he moved he saw a surprising sight, his grandfather's door was + opened and his grandfather (who had not been on his feet for a great many + years) was standing in the middle of it, cackling with laughter, dressed + in a very ugly yellow dressing-gown, his old knotted hands clutching the + sides of the door, his shrivelled body shaking, and his feet in large red + slippers. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, that was a nasty knock,” he chattered. + </p> + <p> + And so Peter left them. + </p> + <p> + The high road was cool and fresh and dark. The sea sung somewhere below + amongst the rocks, and Peter immediately was aware that he was leaving + Cornwall. + </p> + <p> + Now he had no other thought. The streets of the town were deserted, clean, + smelling of the fields, hay-carts, and primroses, with the darkness broken + by dim lamps, and a very slender moon. His heart was full, his throat + burning. He crossed the market-place and suddenly bent down and kissed the + worn stones of the Tower. There was no one to see. + </p> + <p> + He was in the station at twenty minutes past seven. The platform was long + and cold and deserted, but in the waiting-room was Mr. Zanti enveloped in + an enormous black coat. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear boy, this is indeed splendid. And 'ave you said farewell to + your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I've said good-bye to every one,” he answered slowly. Suddenly he + would have given all the wide world and his prospects in it not to be + going. The terrors of Scaw House were as nothing beside that little grey + town with the waves breaking on the jetty, the Grey Hill above it, the + twisted cobbled streets. + </p> + <p> + The morning wind blew up the platform, the train rolled in; there were + porters, but Mr. Zanti had only a big brown bag which he kept with him. + </p> + <p> + Soon they were in corners facing one another. As the train swept past the + Tower the grey dawn was breaking into blue over the houses that rose, tier + by tier, to the sky over the grey rolling breakers, over the hills beyond + ... Cornwall! + </p> + <p> + Poor Peter stared with passionate eyes as the vision passed. + </p> + <p> + “London soon,” said Mr. Zanti, gaily. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <h3> + ALL KINDS OF FOG IN THE CHARING CROSS ROAD + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Towards the middle of the dim afternoon as the first straight pale houses + began to close in upon the train, a lady and gentleman on the opposite + side to Peter were discovered by him, as he awoke from a long sleep, to be + talking: + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear Lucy, how we are ever to get on if you want to do these + absurd things I don't know. In London one must do as London does. In the + country of course...” + </p> + <p> + He was short, breathless and a little bald. The lady was young and very + upset. + </p> + <p> + “But, Henry, what does it matter?” + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter? My dear Lucy, in London everything matters—” + </p> + <p> + She was excited. “In Kensington perhaps, but in London—” + </p> + <p> + “Allow me, my dear Lucy, to decide for you. When you are my age—” + </p> + <p> + Peter went to sleep again. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The vast iron-girdled station was very dark and Mr. Zanti explained that + this was because, outside, there was a Fog— + </p> + <p> + “The Fog,” he added, as though it had been a huge and ferocious animal, + “is very yellow and has eaten up London. It will take us a very long time + to find our home.” + </p> + <p> + To Peter, short and square, in his rough suit shouldering his bag, this + was all as the infernal regions. The vast place towered high, into misty + distances above him. Trains, like huge beasts, stretched their limbs into + infinity; screams, piercing and angry, broke suddenly the voices and busy + movement that flooded the place with sounds. He was jostled and pushed + aside and people turned and swore at him and a heated porter ran a truck + into his legs. And through it and above it all the yellow fog came + twisting in coils from the dark street beyond and every one coughed and + choked and cursed England. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti, after five minutes' angry pursuit, caught a reluctant and very + shabby four-wheeler, and they both climbed into its cavernous depths and + Peter's nose was filled with something that had leather and oranges and + paper bags and whisky in it; he felt exactly as though Mr. Zanti (looking + very like an ogre in the mysterious yellow light with his bowler on the + back of his head and mopping his face with a huge crimson handkerchief) + were decoying him away to some terrible fastness where it was always dark + and smelly. + </p> + <p> + And indeed that first vision of London, seen through the grimy windows of + the cab, was terrible enough. The cab moved a little, stopped, moved + again; it seemed that they would be there for ever and they exchanged no + word. There were no buildings to be seen; a vast wall of darkness + surrounded him and ever and again, out of the heart of it, a great + cauldron of fire flamed and by the side of it there were wild, agitated + faces—and again darkness. On every side of the stumbling cab there + was noise—voices shouting, women screaming, the rumbling of wheels, + the plunging of horses' hoofs; sometimes things brushed against their cab—once + Peter thought that they were down because they were jerked right forward + against the opposite seats. And then suddenly, in the most wonderful way, + they would plunge into silence, a silence so deep and cavernous that it + was more fearful than those other noises had been, and the yellow darkness + seemed to crowd upon them with a closer eagerness and it was as though + they were driving over the edge of the world. Then the noises returned, + for a moment the fog lifted showing houses, rising like rocks from the sea + sheer about them on every side, then darkness again and the cab stopped + with a jerk. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, good,” said Mr. Zanti, rolling his red handkerchief into a ball. + “'Ere we are, my young friend—Mr. Peter, after you, please.” + </p> + <p> + Before him a light faintly glimmered and towards this, after stumbling on + the slippery pavement, he made his way. He found himself in a bookshop + lighted with gas that hissed and spit like an angry cat; the shop was low + and stuffy but its walls were covered with books that stretched into misty + fog near the ceiling. Behind a dingy counter a man was sitting. This man + struck Peter's attention at once because of the enormous size of his head + and the amount of hair that covered it—starting out of the mist and + obscurity of the shop, this head looked like some strange fungus, and from + the heart of it there glittered two very bright eyes. + </p> + <p> + Peter, standing awkwardly in the middle of the shop, gazed at this head + and was speechless. + </p> + <p> + Outside, Mr. Zanti could be heard disputing with the cabman. + </p> + <p> + “You can go and be damned—ze bags were not on ze outside—Zat + is plenty for your pay and you be damned—” + </p> + <p> + The shop door closed with a bang shutting out the fog and Mr. Zanti filled + the little bookshop. He seemed taller and larger than he had been in + Cornwall and his voice was sharper. The head removed itself from the + counter and Peter saw that it belonged to a small man with a hump who came + forward to Mr. Zanti very humbly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Gottfried,” said Zanti, “you well?” + </p> + <p> + “Very, sir,” answered the little man, bowing a little and smiling; his + voice was guttural with a very slight accent. + </p> + <p> + “This is Mr. Peter Westcott. 'E will work here and 'elp you with ze books. + 'E is a friend of mine and you will be kind to him. Mr. Peter, zis is Herr + Gottfried Hanz—I owe 'im much—ver' clever man.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands and Peter liked the pair of eyes that gazed into his. + </p> + <p> + Then Mr. Zanti said, “Come, I will show you ze rest of ze place. It is not + a mansion, you will find.” + </p> + <p> + Indeed it was not. Behind the shop there was a room, brown and green, with + two windows that looked on to a yard, so Mr. Zanti said. There was no + furniture in it save a table and some chairs; a woman was spreading a + cloth on the table as they came in. This woman had grey hair that escaped + its pins and fell untidily about her shoulders. She was very pale, tall + and thin and her most striking features were her piercing black eyes and + with these she stared at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Zis is Mrs. Dantzig,” said Mr. Zanti, “an old friend—Mr. Peter + Westcott, Mrs. Dantzig. 'E will work wiz us.” + </p> + <p> + The woman said nothing but nodded her head and continued her work. They + passed out of the room. Stairs ran both up and down. + </p> + <p> + “What is down there?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, zat is ze kitchen,” said Mr. Zanti, laughing. Upstairs there was a + clean and neat bedroom with a large bed in it, an old sofa and two chairs. + </p> + <p> + “Zis is where I sleep,” said Mr. Zanti. “For a night or two until you 'ave + discovered a lodging you shall sleep on zat sofa. Zay will make it whilst + we 'ave supper.” + </p> + <p> + It was now late and Peter was very very tired. Downstairs there was much + bread and butter and bacon and eggs, and beer. The woman waited upon them + but they were all very silent and Peter was too sleepy to be hungry. + </p> + <p> + The table was cleared and Mr. Zanti sat smoking his pipe and talking to + the woman. Peter sat there, nodding, and he thought that their + conversation was in a foreign tongue and he thought that they looked at + him and that the woman was angry about something—but the sleep + always gained upon him—he could not keep it away. + </p> + <p> + At last a hand was upon his shoulder and he was led up to bed. + </p> + <p> + He tumbled out of his clothes and his last impression was of Mr. Zanti + standing in front of him, looking vast and very solemn in a blue cotton + night-shirt. + </p> + <p> + “Peter,” Mr. Zanti seemed to be saying, “you see in me, one, two, a + hundred men.... All my life I seek adventure—fun—and I find it—but + there 'as not been room for ze affections. Then I find you—I love + you as my son and I say 'Come to my bookshop'—But only ze bookshop + mind you—you are there for ze books and because I care for you—I + care for you ver' much, Peter, and zere 'as not been room in my life for + ze affections ... but I will be a ver' good friend to you—and you + shall only be in ze shop—with ze books—I will be a good friend—” + </p> + <p> + Then it seemed that Mr. Zanti kissed Peter on both cheeks, blew out the + candle, and climbed into his huge bed; soon he was snoring. + </p> + <p> + But Peter could not be sure of these things because he was so very tired + that he did not know whether he were standing on his head or his heels and + he was asleep on his sofa and dreaming about the strangest and most + confused events in less than no time at all. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + And then how wonderful to discover, on waking up the next morning, that it + was a beautiful day, as beautiful a day as any that Cornwall could give + him. It was indeed odd, after the great darkness of the afternoon before + to find now a burning blue sky, bright shining pavements and the pieces of + iron and metal on the cabs glittering as they rolled along. The streets + were doubtless delightful but Peter was not, on this day at any rate, to + see very much of them; he was handed over to the care of Herr Gottfried + Hanz, who had obviously not brushed his hair when he got up in the + morning; he also wore large blue slippers that were too big for his feet + and clattered behind him as he walked. Whatever light there might be in + the street outside only chinks of it found their way into the shop and the + gas-jet hissed and flared as it had done on the day before. The books + seemed mistier and dustier than ever and Peter wondered, in a kind of + despair, how in the world if any one did come in and ask for anything he + was going to tell them whether it were there or not. + </p> + <p> + But here Herr Gottfried came to the rescue. “See you,” he said with an air + of pride, “it is thus that they are arranged. Here you have the Novel—Brontë, + Bulwer, Bunyan (“The Pilgrim's Progress,” that is not a novel but it is + near enough). Here you have History, and here the Poets, and here + Philosophy and here Travel—it will all be simple in time—” + </p> + <p> + Peter's eyes spun dizzily to the heights. + </p> + <p> + “There is a little ladder,” said Herr Gottfried. + </p> + <p> + “And,” at last said Peter timidly, “May I—read—when there is + no one here?” + </p> + <p> + Herr Gottfried looked at him with a new interest. “You like reading?” + </p> + <p> + “Like!” Peter's voice was an ecstasy. + </p> + <p> + “Why of course, often.” Herr Gottfried smiled. “And then see! (he opened + the shop door) there is a small boy, James, who is supposed to look after + these (these were the 1<i>d</i>., 2<i>d</i>. and 3<i>d</i>. boxes outside + the window, on the pavement) but he is an idle boy and often enough he is + not there and then we must have the door open and you must watch them. + Often enough (this seemed a favourite phrase of his) these gentlemen (this + with great scorn) will turn the books over and over and they will look up + the street once and they will look down the street once, and then into the + pocket a book will go—often enough,” he added, looking beyond the + door savagely at a very tired and tattered lady who was turning the 1<i>d</i>. + lot over and over. + </p> + <p> + Then, this introductory lesson concluded, Herr Gottfried suddenly withdrew + into the tangles of his hair and retreated behind his counter. Through the + open door there came the most entrancing sound and the bustle of the + street was loud and startling—bells ringing, boys shouting, wheels + rattling, and beyond these immediate notes a steady hum like the murmur of + an orchestra heard through closed doors. All this was wonderful enough but + it was nothing at all to the superlative fascination of that multitude of + books. Peter found a hard little chair in a dark corner and sat down upon + it. Here he was in the very heart of his kingdom! He could never read all + the books in this place if he lived for two hundred years... and so he had + better not try. He made a blind dash at the volumes nearest him (quietly + lest he should disturb Herr Gottfried who seemed very busy at his counter) + and secured something and read it as well as he could, for the light was + very bad. It was called “The True and Faithful Experiences of the Reverend + James Scott in the Other World Being a Veracious History of his + Experiences of the Life after Death”—the dust rose from its pages in + little clouds and tempted him to sneeze but he bit his lip and counted + forty and saved the situation. + </p> + <p> + Herr Gottfried dealt with the customers that morning and Peter stood + nervously watching him. The customers were not very many—an old lady + who “wanted something to read” caused many volumes to be laid before her, + and finally left the shop without buying anything—a young man with + spectacles purchased some tattered science and a clergyman some Sermons. A + thin and very hungry looking man entered, clutching a badly-tied paper + parcel. These were books he wanted to sell. They were obviously treasured + possessions because he touched them, when they were laid upon the counter, + with a loving hand. + </p> + <p> + “They are very good books,” he said plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “Three shillings,” said Herr Gottfried. + </p> + <p> + The hungry man sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Five shillings,” he said, “they are worth more.” + </p> + <p> + “Three shillings for the lot,” said Herr Gottfried. + </p> + <p> + “It is very little,” said the hungry man, but he took the money and went + out sadly. + </p> + <p> + Once their came a magnificent gentleman—that is, he looked + magnificent in the distance away from the gas jet. He was tall with a high + hat, a fine moustache and a tailcoat; he had melancholy eyes and a languid + air. Peter was sorry to observe on a closer view that his tail-coat was + frayed and his collar not very clean. + </p> + <p> + He gave Herr Gottfried a languid bow and passed through the shop into the + room beyond. + </p> + <p> + “Guten Tag, Herr Signer,” said Herr Gottfried with deference, but the + gentleman had already disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Then, after a time, one o'clock struck and Peter understood that if he + would place himself under Herr Gottfried's protection he should be led to + an establishment where for a small sum meat-pies were to be had... all + this very novel and delightful, and Peter laid down “The Experiences of + the Reverend James Scott,” which were not at present very thrilling and + followed his guide into the street. Peter was still wondering where Herr + Gottfried had put his blue slippers and whence had come the large flat + boots and the brown and faded squash hat when he was suddenly in a little + dark street with the houses hanging forward as though they were listening + and any number of clothes dangling from the window sills and waving about + as though their owners were still inside them and kicking vigorously. + Although the street was dark it was full of noise, and a blaze of light at + the other end of it proclaimed more civilised quarters (Trafalgar Square + in fact) at no great distance. + </p> + <p> + “Gerade aus,” said Herr Gottfried and pushed open a swinging door. Peter + followed him into the most amazing babel of voices, a confusion and a + roaring, an atmosphere thick with smoke and steam and a scent in the air + as though ten thousand meat-pies were cooking there before his eyes. By + the door a neat stout little woman, hung all over with lockets and + medallions as though she were wearing all the prizes that the famous + meat-pies had ever won, was sitting in a little box with a glass front to + it. + </p> + <p> + “Bon jour, Monsieur Hanz.” + </p> + <p> + “Tag, Meine Gnädige Frau.” + </p> + <p> + All down the room, by the wall, ran long tables black with age and grime. + Men of every age and nationality were eating, drinking, smoking and + talking. Some of them knew Herr Gottfried, some did not. + </p> + <p> + “Wie gehts, Gottfried?” + </p> + <p> + And Herr Gottfried, planting his flat feet like dead weights in front of + him, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his hair, smiled + at some, spoke to others, and at last found a little corner at the end of + the room, a corner comparatively quiet but most astoundingly smelly. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down and recovered his breath. How far away now was Treliss with + its cobbled street, and the Grey Hill with the Giant's Finger pointing + solemnly to the sky. + </p> + <p> + “I have no money,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The Master has given me this for you,” Herr Gottfried said, handing him + two sovereigns, “he says it is in advance for the week.” + </p> + <p> + The meat-pies, beer and bread were ordered and then for a time they sat in + silence. Peter was turning in his mind a thousand questions that he would + like to ask but he was still afraid of his strange companion and he felt a + little as though he were some human volcano that might at any moment burst + forth and cover him with furious disaster. + </p> + <p> + Then Herr Gottfried said: + </p> + <p> + “And so you care for reading?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you read?” + </p> + <p> + What had Peter read? He mentioned timidly “David Copperfield,” “Don + Quixote,” and “Henry Lessingham.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's the way—novels, novels, novels—always sugar ... + Greek, Latin?” + </p> + <p> + “No, just a little at school.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, your schools. I know them. Homer?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm afraid not.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well you shall read Homer. He is the greatest, he is the Master. + There is Pope for a beginning. I will teach you Greek.... Goethe?” + </p> + <p> + “I—beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Goethe, Goethe, Goethe—he has never heard of him—never. Ah, + these schools—I know them. Teach them nonsense—often enough—but + any wisdom—never—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm very sorry—” said Peter humbly. + </p> + <p> + “And music?” + </p> + <p> + “I've had no opportunity—” + </p> + <p> + “But you would love it? Yes, I see that you would love it—it is in + your eyes. Beethoven? No—later perhaps—then often enough—but + Schubert! Ah, Schubert!” (Here the meat-pies arrived but Herr Gottfried + did not see them). “Ah, the Unfinished! He shall hear that and he will + have a new soul—And the songs! Gott in Himmel, the songs! There is a + man I know, he will sing them to you. Die Mullerlieder. It is always + water, the Flowers, the Sun and all the roses in the world ... ach! 'Dir + Spinnerin' 'Meersstille' ... 'Meersstille'—yah, Homer, Schubert—meat + and drink—Homer the meat-pie, Schubert the beer, but not this beer—no, + Helles, beautiful Helles with the sun in it....” + </p> + <p> + He had forgotten Peter and Peter did not understand anything that he said, + but he sat there with his eyes wide open and felt assured that it was all + very useful to him and very important. The inferno continued around them, + the air grew thicker with smoke, a barrel-organ began to play at the door, + draughts and dominoes rattled against the long wooden tables.... + </p> + <p> + Ah! this was, indeed, London. + </p> + <p> + Peter was so greatly moved that his hunger left him and it was with + difficulty that the meat-pie was finished. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + During the three days that followed Peter learnt a very great deal about + the bookshop. At night he still slept in Mr. Zanti's bedroom, but it was + only a temporary pitching of tents during these days whilst he was a + stranger and baffled by the noise and confusion. + </p> + <p> + Already his immediate surroundings had ceased to be a mystery. He had as + it were taken them to himself and seated himself in the midst of them with + surprising ease. Treliss, Scaw House, his father, had slipped back into an + unintelligible distance. He felt that they still mattered to him and that + the time would most certainly come when they would matter to him even + more, but they were not of immediate concern. The memory of his mother was + closer to him.... + </p> + <p> + But in this discovery of London he was amazingly happy—happier than + he had ever been in all his life, and younger too. There were a great many + things that he wished to know, a great many questions that he wished to + ask—but for the moment he was content to rest and to grasp what he + could see. + </p> + <p> + In a day he seemed to understand the way that the books went, and not only + that but even the places where the individual books were lodged. He did + not, of course, know anything about the contents of the books, but their + titles gave them, in his mind, human existence so that he thought of them + as actual persons living in different parts of the shop. There was, for + instance, the triumph of “Lady Audley's Secret.” An old lady with a + trembling voice and a very sharp pair of eyes wished for a secondhand + copy. + </p> + <p> + “I've very sorry, Madame,” began Herr Gottfried, “but I'm afraid we + haven't...” + </p> + <p> + “I think—” said Peter timidly, and he climbed the little ladder and + brought the book down from a misty corner. Herr Gottfried was indeed + amazed at him—he said very little but he was certainly amazed. + Indeed, with the exception of the “meat-pie” interval he scarcely spoke + throughout the day. Peter began to look forward to one o'clock for then + the German, in the midst of the babel and the smoke, continued the + educating progress, and even read Goethe's poetry aloud (translating it + into the strangest English) and developed Peter's conception of Homer into + an alluring and fascinating picture. + </p> + <p> + Of London itself during these days Peter saw nothing. At eight o'clock in + the evening the shutters were put up by the disobedient James and the shop + retired for the night. Herr Gottfried shuffled away to some hidden + resting-place of his own and Peter found supper waiting for him in the + room at the back. He ate this alone, for Mr. Zanti was not there and + during these three days he was hardly visible at all. He was up in the + morning before Peter was and he came to bed when Peter was already asleep. + The boy was not, however, certain that his master was always away when he + seemed to be. He appeared suddenly at the most surprising moments, smiling + and cheerful as ever and with no sign of hurry about him. He always gave + Peter a nod and a kind word and asked him how the books were going and + patted him on the shoulder, but he was away almost as soon as he was + there. + </p> + <p> + One strange thing was the number of people that came into the bookshop + with no intention whatever of having anything to do with the books. Indeed + they paid no heed to the bookshop, and after flinging a word at Herr + Gottfried, they would pass straight into the room beyond and as far as + Peter could see, never came out again. + </p> + <p> + The magnificently-dressed gentleman, called by Herr Gottfried “Herr + Signor,” was one of these persons. + </p> + <p> + However, Peter, happy enough in the excitement of the present, asking no + questions and only at night, before he fell asleep, lying on his sofa, + listening to the sounds in the street below him, watching the reflections + of the gas light flung up by the street lamps on to the walls of his room, + he would wonder ... and, so wondering, he was asleep. + </p> + <p> + And then, on the fourth day, something happened. + </p> + <p> + It was growing late, and Peter underneath the gas jet was buried in Mr. + Pope's Homer. A knock on the door and the postman entered with the + letters. As a rule Herr Gottfried took them, but on this afternoon he had + left the shop in Peter's hands for half an hour whilst he went out to see + a friend. Peter took the letters and immediately the letter on the top of + the pile (Mr. Zanti's post was always a large one) set his heart thumping. + The handwriting was the handwriting of Stephen. There could be no doubt + about it, no possible doubt. Peter had seen that writing many times and he + had always kept the letter that Stephen had written to him when he first + went to Dawson's. To other eyes it might seem an ordinary enough hand—rough + and uneducated and sprawling—anybody's hand, but Peter knew that + there could be no mistake. + </p> + <p> + The sight of the letter as it lay there on the counter swept away the + shop, the books, London—he sat looking at it with a longing, + stronger than any longing that he had ever known, to see the writer again. + He lived once more through that night on the farm—perhaps at that + moment he felt suddenly his loneliness, here in this huge and tempestuous + London, here in this dark bookshop with so many people going in or out. He + rubbed the sleeves of his blue serge suit because they made him feel like + Treliss, and he sat, with eyes staring into the dark, thinking of Stephen. + </p> + <p> + That evening, just as he was going up to bed, Mr. Zanti came in and + greeted him with his accustomed cheerfulness. + </p> + <p> + “Going to bed, Peter? Ah, good boy.” + </p> + <p> + Peter stopped, hesitating, by the door. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wonder—” he said and stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Mr. Zanti, looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well—it's nothing—” Then he blurted out—“I saw + a letter—I couldn't help it—a letter from Stephen this + afternoon. They came when Herr Gottfried was out—and I wanted—I + want dreadfully—to hear about him—if you could tell me—” + </p> + <p> + For an instant Mr. Zanti's large eyes closed until they seemed to be no + larger than pin-points—then they opened again. + </p> + <p> + “Stephen—Stephen? Stephen what? What is it that the boy talks of?” + </p> + <p> + “You know—Stephen Brant—the man who first brought me to see + you when I was quite a kid. I was—I always have been very fond of + him. I should be so very glad—” + </p> + <p> + “Surely the boy is mad—what has come to you? Stephen Brant—yes + I remember the man—but I have heard nothing for years and years—no, + nothing. See, here are my afternoon's letters.” + </p> + <p> + He took a bundle of letters out of his pocket and showed them to Peter. + The boy found the one in Stephen's handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “You may read it,” said Mr. Zanti smiling. Peter read it. He could not + understand it and it was signed “John Simmons” ... but it was certainly in + Stephen's handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Peter in rather a quivering voice and he turned away, + gulping down his disappointment. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti patted him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “That's right, my boy. Ah, I expect you miss your friend. You will be + lonely here, yes? Well—see—now that you have been here a few + days perhaps it is time for you to find a place to live—and I have + talked wiz a friend of mine, a ver' good friend who 'as lived for many + years in a 'ouse where 'e says there is a room that will just do for you—cheap, + pleasant people ... yes? To-morrow 'e will show you the place. There you + will 'ave friends—” + </p> + <p> + Peter smiled, thanked Mr. Zanti and went to bed. But his dreams were + confused that night. It seemed to him that London was a huge room with + closing walls, and that ever they came closer and closer and that he + screamed for Stephen and they would not let Stephen come to him. + </p> + <p> + And bells were ringing, and Mr. Zanti, with a lighted candle in his hands, + was creeping down those dark stairs that led to the kitchen, and he might + have stopped those closing walls but he would not. Then suddenly Peter was + running down the Sea Road above Treliss and the waves were sounding + furiously below him—his father was there waiting for him sternly, at + the road's end and Herr Gottfried with a Homer in one hand and his blue + shoes in the other sat watching them out of his bright eyes. His father + was waiting to kill him and Mrs. Pascoe was at his elbow. Peter screamed, + the sweat was pouring off his forehead, his throat was tight with agony + when suddenly by his side was old Frosted Moses, with his flowing beard. + “It isn't life that matters,” he was whispering in his old cracked voice, + “but the courage that you bring to it.” + </p> + <p> + The figures faded, the light grew broader and broader, and Peter woke to + find Mr. Zanti, by the aid of a candle, climbing into bed. + </p> + <p> + But some time passed before he had courage to fall asleep again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <h3> + BROCKETTS: ITS CHARACTER, AND ESPECIALLY MRS. BROCKETT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + On the next afternoon about six o'clock, Mr. Zanti, accompanied by the + languid and shabby gentleman whom Peter had noticed before, appeared in + the shop. + </p> + <p> + “Signor Rastelli,” said Mr. Zanti, and the languid gentleman shook hands + with Peter as though he were conferring a great benefit upon him and he + hoped Peter wouldn't forget it. + </p> + <p> + “Zis,” said Mr. Zanti, “is my young friend, Peter Westcott, whom I love as + if 'e were my own son—Signor Rastelli,” he continued, turning to + Peter, “I've known him for very many years and I can only say zat ze + longer I 'ave known him ze more admirable I 'ave thought 'im.” + </p> + <p> + The gentleman took off his tall hat, stroked it, put it on again and + looked, with his languid eyes, at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “And,” continued Mr. Zanti, cheerfully, conscious perhaps that he was + carrying all the conversation on his own shoulders, “'e will take you to a + 'ouse where 'e has been for—'ow many years, Signor?” + </p> + <p> + “Ten,” said that gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “For ten years—every comfort. Zere's a little room 'e tells me where + you will be 'appy—and all your food and friendship for one pound a + week. There!” he ended triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much,” said Peter, but he did not altogether like the look + of the seedily dressed gentleman, and would much rather have stayed with + Mr. Zanti. + </p> + <p> + He had packed his black bag in readiness, and now he fetched it and, after + promising to be in the shop at half-past eight the next morning, started + off with his melancholy guide. + </p> + <p> + The lamps were coming out, and a silence that often falls upon London just + before sunset had come down upon the traffic and the people. Windows + caught the departing flame, held it for an instant, and sank into grey + twilight. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you're thinking about me,” Peter's companion suddenly said + (he was walking very fast as though trying to catch something), “I know + you don't like me. I could see it at once—I never make a mistake + about those things. You were saying to yourself: 'What does that horrible, + over-dressed stranger want to come interfering with me for?'” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I wasn't,” said Peter, breathlessly, because the bag was so heavy + and they were walking so fast. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you were. Never mind. I'm not a popular man, and when you know + me better you'll like me still less. That's always the way I affect + people. And always with the best intentions. And you were thinking, too, + that you never saw anything less Italian than I am, and you're sure my + name's Brown or Smith, and indeed it's true that I was born in Clapham, + but my parents were Italians—refugees, you know, although I'm sure I + don't know what from—and every one calls me the Signor, and so there + you are—and I don't see how I'm to help it. But that's just me all + over—always fighting against the tide but I don't complain, I'm + sure.” All this said very rapidly and in a melancholy way as though tears + were not very far off. Then he suddenly added: + </p> + <p> + “Let me carry your bag for you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you,” said Peter, laughing, “I can manage it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, you look strong,” said the Signor appreciatively. “I envy you, + I'm sure—never had a day's health myself—but I don't + complain.” + </p> + <p> + By this time they had passed the British Museum and were entering into the + shadows of Bloomsbury. At this hour, when the lamps and the stars are + coming out, and the sun is going in, Bloomsbury has an air of melancholy + that is peculiarly its own. The dark grey houses stand as a perpetual + witness of those people that have found life too hard for them and have + been compelled to give in. The streets of those melancholy squares seen + beneath flickering lamp light and a wan moon protest against all gaiety of + spirit and urge resignation and a mournful acquiescence. Bloomsbury is + Life on Thirty Shillings a week without the drama of starvation or the + tragedy of the Embankment, but with all the ignominy of making ends meet + under the stern and relentless eye of a boarding-house keeper. + </p> + <p> + But of all the sad and unhappy squares in Bloomsbury the saddest is + Bennett Square. It is shut in by all the other Bloomsbury Squares and is + further than any of them from the lights and traffic of popular streets. + There are only four lamp posts there—one at each corner—and + between these patches of light everything is darkness and desolation. + </p> + <p> + Every house in Bennett Square is a boarding-house, and No. 72 is + Brockett's. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Brockett is a very terrifying but lovable woman,” said the Signor + darkly, and Peter, whose spirits had sunk lower and ever lower as he + stumbled through the dark streets, felt, at the sound of this threatening + prophecy, entirely miserable. + </p> + <p> + No. 72 is certainly the grimiest of the houses in Bennett Square. It is + tall and built of that grey stone that takes the mind of the observer back + to those school precincts of his youth. It is a thin house, not broad and + fat and comfortably bulging, but rather flinging a spiteful glance at the + house that squeezed it in on either side. It is like a soured, elderly + caustic old maid, unhappy in its own experiences and determined to make + every one else unhappy in theirs. Peter, of course, did not see these + things, because it was very dark, but he wished he had not come. + </p> + <p> + The Signor had a key of his own and Peter was soon inside a hall that + smelt of oilcloth and the cooking of beef; the gas was burning, but the + only things that really benefited from its light were a long row of + mournful black coats that hung against the wall. + </p> + <p> + Peter sneezed, and was suddenly conscious of an enormous woman whom he + knew by instinct to be Mrs. Brockett. She was truly enormous—she + stood facing him like some avenging Fate. She had the body of a man—flat, + straight, broad. Her black hair, carefully parted down the middle, was + brushed back and bound into hard black coils low down over the neck. She + stood there, looking down on them, her arms akimbo, her legs apart. Her + eyes were black and deep set, her cheek bones very prominent, her nose + thin and sharp; her black dress caught in a little at the waist, fell + otherwise in straight folds to her feet. There was a faint moustache on + her upper lip, her hands, with long white slender fingers, were beautiful, + lying straight by her side, against the stuff of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said—and her voice was deep like a man's. “Good evening, + Signor.” + </p> + <p> + “Good evening, Madame.” He took off his hat and gave her a deep bow. “This + is the young gentleman, Mr. Westcott, of whom I spoke to you this + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—how are you, Mr. Westcott?” Her words were sharply clipped and + had the resonance of coins as they rang in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Quite well, thank you,” said Peter, and he noticed, in spite of his + dismay at her appearance, that the clasp of her hand was strong and + friendly. + </p> + <p> + “Florence will show you your room, Mr. Westcott. It is a pound a week + including your meals and attendance and the use of the general + sitting-room. If you do not like it you must tell me and we will wish one + another good evening. If you do like it I shall do my best to make you + comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + Peter found afterwards that this was her invariable manner of addressing a + new-comer. It could scarcely be called a warm welcome. She turned and + called, “Florence!” and a maid-servant, diminutive in size but spotless in + appearance, suddenly appeared from nowhere at all, as it seemed to Peter. + </p> + <p> + He followed this girl up many flights of stairs. On every side of him were + doors and, once and again, gas flared above him. It was all very cold, and + gusts of wind passed up and down, whisking in and out of the oilcloth, and + Peter thought that he had never seen so many closed doors in his life. + </p> + <p> + At last they came to an end of the stairs and there with a skylight + covering the passage outside was his room. It was certainly small and the + window looked out on a dismal little piece of garden far below and a great + number of roofs and chimneys and at last a high dome rising like a black + cloud in the farther distance. It was spotlessly clean. + </p> + <p> + “I think it will do very well, thank you,” said Peter and he put down his + black bag. + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” said the maid. “There's a bell,” she said, pointing, “and the + meal's at seving sharp.” She disappeared. + </p> + <p> + He spent the time, very cheerfully, taking the things out of the black bag + and arranging them. He had suddenly, as was natural in him, forgotten the + dismal approach to the house, the overwhelming appearance of Mrs. + Brockett, his recent loneliness. Here, at last, was a little spot that he + could, for a time, at any rate, call his own. He could come, at any time + of the evening and shut his door, and be alone here, master of everything + that he surveyed. Perhaps—and the thought sent the blood to his + cheeks—it was here that he would write! He looked about the room + lovingly. It was quite bare except for the bed, the washing stand and a + chair, and there was no fire-place. But he arranged the books, David + Copperfield, Don Quixote, Henry Lessingham, The Roads, The Downs, on the + window sill, and the little faded photograph of his mother on the ledge + above the washing basin. He had scarcely finished doing these things when + there was a tap on his door. He opened it, and found the Signor, no longer + in a tail-coat, but in a short, faded blue jacket that made him look + shabbier than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse—not intruding, I hope?” He looked gloomily round the room. + “Everything all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Very nice,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you'll like it at first—but never mind. Wonderful woman, Mrs. + Brockett. I expect you were alarmed just now.” + </p> + <p> + “I was, a little,” admitted Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, we all are at first. But you'll get over that, you'll love her—every + one loves her. By the way,” he pushed his hand through his hair, “what I + came about was to tell you that we all foregather—as you might say—in + the sitting-room before dinner—yes—and I'd like to introduce + you to my wife, the Signora—not Italian, you know—but you'll + like her better than me—every one's agreed that hers is a nicer + character.” + </p> + <p> + Peter, trembling a little at the thought of more strangers, followed the + Signer downstairs and found, in the middle of one of the dark landings, + looking as though she had been left there by some one and completely + forgotten, a little wisp of a woman with bright yellow hair and a straw + coloured dress, and this was the Signora. This lady shook hands with him + in a frightened tearful way and made choking noises all the way + downstairs, and this distressed Peter very much until he discovered that + she had a passion for cough drops, which she kept in her pocket in a + little tin box and sucked perpetually. The Signor drove his wife and Peter + before him into the sitting-room. This was a very brightly-coloured room + with any number of brilliant purple vases on the mantelpiece, a pink + wall-paper, a great number of shining pictures in the most splendid gilt + frames, and in the middle of the room a bright green settee with red + cushions on it. On this settee, which was round, with a space in the + middle of it, like a circus, several persons were seated, but there was + apparently no conversation. They all looked up at the opening of the door, + and Peter was so dazzled by the bright colour of the room that it was some + time before he could collect his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + But the Signor beckoned to him, and he followed. + </p> + <p> + “Allow me, Mrs. Monogue,” said the Signor, “to introduce to you Mr. Peter + Westcott.” The lady in question was stout, red-faced, and muffled in + shawls. She extended him a haughty finger. + </p> + <p> + There followed then Miss Norah Monogue, a girl with a pleasant smile and + untidy hair, Miss Dall, a lady with a very stiff back, a face like an + interrogation mark, because her eyebrows went up in a point and a very + tight black dress, Mr. Herbert Crumley, and Mr. Peter Crumley, two short, + thin gentlemen with wizened and anxious faces (they were obviously brothers, + because they were exactly alike), and Mrs. and Mr. Tressiter, two + pleasant-faced, cheerful people, who sat very close together as though + they were cold. + </p> + <p> + All these people shook hands agreeably with Peter, but made no remarks, + and he stood awkwardly looking at the purple vases and wishing that + something would happen. + </p> + <p> + Something <i>did</i> happen. The door was very softly and slowly opened, + and a little woman came hurrying in. She had white hair, and glasses were + dangling on the end of her nose, and she wore a very old and shabby black + silk dress. She looked round with an agitated air. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know why it is,” she said, with a little chirrup, like a bird's, + “but I'm <i>always</i> late—always!” + </p> + <p> + Then she did an amazing thing. She walked to the green settee and sat down + between Miss Dall, the lady with the tight dress, and Mrs. Monogue. She + then took out of one pocket an orange and out of another a piece of + newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “I must have my orange, you know,” she said, looking gaily round on every + one. + </p> + <p> + She spread the newspaper on her knee, and then peeled the orange very + slowly and with great care. The silence was maintained—no one spoke. + Then suddenly the Signor darted forward: “Oh, Mrs. Lazarus I must + introduce you to Madame's new guest, Mr. Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” the old lady chirruped. “Oh! but my fingers are all over + orange—never mind, we'll smile at one another. I hope you'll like + the place, I'm sure. I always have an orange before dinner. They've got + used to me, you know. We've all got our little habits.” + </p> + <p> + Peter did not know what to say, and was wondering whether he ought to + relieve the old lady of her orange peel (at which she was gazing rather + helplessly), when a bell rang and Florence appeared at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner!” she said, laconically. + </p> + <p> + A procession was formed, Mrs. Monogue, with her shawls sweeping behind + her, sailed in front, and Peter brought up the rear. Mrs. Lazarus put the + orange peel into the newspaper and placed it all carefully in her pocket. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Brockett was sitting, more like a soldier than ever, at the head of + the table. Mutton was in front of her, and there seemed to be nothing on + the table cloth but cruets and three dusty and melancholic palms. Peter + found that he was sitting between Mrs. Lazarus and Miss Dall, and that he + was not expected to talk. It was apparent indeed that the regularity with + which every one met every one at this hour of the day, during months and + months of the year negatived any polite necessity of cordiality or genial + spirits. When any one spoke it was crossly and in considerable irritation, + and although the food was consumed with great eagerness on everybody's + part, the faces of the company were obviously anxious to express the fact + that the food was worse than ever, and they wouldn't stand it another + minute. They all did stand it, however, and Peter thought that they were + all, secretly, rather happy and contented. During most of the meal no one + spoke to him, and as he was very hungry this did not matter. Opposite him, + all down the side of the room, were dusty grey pillars, and between these + pillars heavy dark green curtains were hanging. This had the effect of + muffling and crushing the conversation and quite forbidding anybody to be + cheerful in any circumstances. Mrs. Lazarus indeed chirruped along + comfortably and happily for the most part to herself—as, for + instance, “I am orangy, but then I was late and couldn't finish it. Dear + me, it's mutton again. I really must tell Madame about it and there's + nothing so nice as beef and Yorkshire pudding, is there? Dear me, would + you mind, young man, just asking Dear Miss Dall to pass the salt spoon. + She's left that behind. I <i>have</i> the salt-cellar, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She also hummed to herself at times and made her bread into little hard + pellets, which she flicked across the table with her thumb at no one in + particular and in sheer absence of mind. The two Mr. Crumleys were sitting + opposite to her, and they accepted the little charge of shot with all the + placid equanimity bred of ancient custom. + </p> + <p> + Peter noticed other things. He noticed that Mrs. Monogue was an + exceedingly ill-tempered and selfish woman, and that she bullied the + pleasant girl with the untidy hair throughout the meal, and that the girl + took it all in the easiest possible way. He noticed that Mrs. Brockett + dealt with each of her company in turn—one remark apiece, and always + in that stern, deep voice with the strangely beautiful musical note in it. + To himself she said: “Well, Mr. Westcott, I'm pleased, I'm sure, that + everything is to your satisfaction,” and listened gravely to his + assurance. To Miss Dall: “Well, Miss Ball, I looked at the book you lent + me and couldn't find any sense in it, I'm afraid.” To Mrs. Tressiter: “I + had little Minnie with me for half an hour this evening, and I'm sure a + better behaved child never breathed” ... and so on. + </p> + <p> + Once Miss Dall turned upon him sharply with: “I suppose you never go and + hear the Rev. Mr. M. J. Valdwell?” and Peter had to confess ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “Really! Well, it 'ud do you young men a world of good.” + </p> + <p> + He assured her that he would go. + </p> + <p> + “I will lend you a volume of his sermons if you would care to read them.” + </p> + <p> + Peter said that he would be delighted. The meal was soon over, and every + one returned to the sitting-room. They sat about in a desolate way, and + Peter discovered afterwards that Mrs. Brockett liked every one to be there + together for half an hour to encourage friendly relations. That object + could scarcely be said to be achieved, because there was very little + conversation and many anxious glances were flung at the clocks. Mrs. + Brockett, however, sat sternly in a chair and sewed, and no one ventured + to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + One pleasant thing happened. Peter was standing by the window turning over + some fashion papers of an ancient date, when he saw that Miss Monogue was + at his elbow. Now that she was close to him he observed that she looked + thin and delicate; her dress was worn and old-fashioned, she looked as + though she ought to be wrapped up warmly and taken care of—but her + eyes were large and soft and grey, and although her wrists looked + strangely white and sharp through her black dress her hands were + beautiful. Her voice was soft with an Irish brogue lingering pleasantly + amongst her words: + </p> + <p> + “I hope that you will like being here.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I shall,” he said, smiling. He felt grateful to her for talking + to him. + </p> + <p> + “You're very fortunate to have come to Mrs. Brockett's straight away. You + mayn't think so now, because Mrs. Brockett is alarming at first, and we + none of us—” she looked round her with a little laugh—“can + strike the on-looker as very cheerful company. But really Madame has a + heart of gold—you'll find that out in time. She's had a terribly + hard time of it herself, and I believe it's a great struggle to keep + things going now. But she's helped all kinds of people in her time.” + </p> + <p> + Peter looked, with new eyes, at the lady so sternly sewing. + </p> + <p> + “You don't know,” Miss Monogue went on in her soft, pleasant voice, “how + horrible these boarding-houses can be. Mother and I have tried a good + many. But here people stay for ever—a pretty good testimony to it, I + think ... and then, you know, she never lets any one stay here if she + doesn't like them—so that prevents scoundrels. There've been one or + two, but she's always found them out ... and I believe she keeps old Mrs. + Lazarus quite free of charge.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and then she added: + </p> + <p> + “And there's no one here who hasn't found life pretty hard. That gives us + a kind of freemasonry, you know. The Tressiters, for instance, they have + three children, and he has been out of work for months—sometimes + there's such a frightened look in her eyes ... but you mustn't think that + we're melancholy here,” she went on more happily. “We get a lot of + happiness out of it all.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, and remembering Mrs. Monogue at dinner and seeing now + how delicate the girl looked, thought that she must have a very + considerable amount of pluck on her own account. + </p> + <p> + “And you?” she said. “Have you only just come up to London?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, “I'm in a bookseller's shop—a second-hand + bookseller's. I've only been in London a few days—it's all very + exciting for me—and a little confusing at present.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure you'll get on,” she said. “You look so strong and confident and + happy. I envy you your strength—one can do so much if one's got + that.” + </p> + <p> + He felt almost ashamed of his rough suit, his ragged build. “Well, I've + always been in the country,” he said, a little apologetically. “I expect + London will change that.” + </p> + <p> + Then there came across the room Mrs. Monogue's sharp voice. “Norah! Norah! + I want you.” + </p> + <p> + She left him. + </p> + <p> + That night in his little room, he looked from his window at the sea of + black roofs that stretched into the sky and found in their ultimate + distance the wonderful sweep of stars that domed them; a great moon, + full-rounded, dull gold, staring like a huge eye, above them. His heart + was full. A God there must be somewhere to have given him all this + splendour—a splendour surely for him to work upon. He felt as a + craftsman feels, when some new and wonderful tools have been given to him; + as a woman feels the child in her womb, stirring mysteriously, moving her + to deep and glad thankfulness, so now, with the night wind blowing about + him, and all London lying, dark and motionless, below him, he felt the + first stirring of his power. This was his to work with, this was his to + praise and glorify and make beautiful—now crude and formless—a + seed dark and without form or colour—one day to make one more flower + in that garden that God has given his servants to work in. + </p> + <p> + He did not, at this instant, doubt that some God was there, crying to him, + and that he must answer. Of that moon, of those stars, of that mighty + city, he would make one little stone that might be added to that Eternal + Temple of Beauty.... + </p> + <p> + He turned from his window and thought of other things. He thought of his + father and Scaw House, of the windy day when his mother was buried, of Mr. + Zanti and Stephen's letter, of Herr Gottfried and his blue slippers, of + this house and its people, of the friendly girl and her grey eyes ... + finally, for a little, of himself—of his temper and his ambitions + and his selfishness. Here, indeed, suddenly jumping out at him, was the + truth. + </p> + <p> + He felt, as he got into bed, that he would have to change a great deal if + he were to write that great book that he thought of: “Little Peter + Westcott,” London seemed to say, “there's lots to be done to you first + before you're worth anything ... I'll batter at you.” + </p> + <p> + Well, let it, he thought, sleepily. There was nothing that he would like + better. He tumbled into sleep, with London after him, and Fame in front of + him, and a soft and resonant murmur, as of a slumbering giant, rising to + his open window. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II — THE BOOKSHOP + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <h3> + “REUBEN HALLARD” + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + There is a story in an early volume of Henry Galleon's about a man who + caught—as he may have caught other sicknesses in his time—the + disease of the Terror of London. Eating his breakfast cheerfully in his + luxurious chambers in Mayfair, in the act of pouring his coffee out of his + handsome silver coffee-pot, he paused. It was the very slightest thing + that held his attention—the noise of the rumbling of the traffic + down Piccadilly—but he was startled and, on that morning, he left + his breakfast unfinished. He had, of course, heard that rumbling traffic + on many other occasions—it may be said to have been the musical + accompaniment to his breakfast for many years past. But on this morning it + was different; as one has a headache before scarlet fever so did this + young man hear the rumble of the traffic down Piccadilly. He listened to + it very attentively, and it was, he told himself, very like the noise of + some huge animal breathing in its sleep. There was a regularity, a + monotony about it ... and also perhaps a sense of great force, quiescent + now and held in restraint. He was a very normal, well-balanced young man + and thoughts of this kind were unlike him. + </p> + <p> + Then he heard other things—the trees rustling in the park, bells + ringing on every side of him, builders knocking and hammering, windows + rattling, doors opening and shutting. In the Club one evening he confided + in a friend. “I say, it's damned funny—but what would you say to + this old place being alive, taking on a regular existence of its own, + don't you know? You might draw it—a great beast like some old + alligator, all curled up, with its teeth and things—making a noise a + bit as it moves about ... and then, one day when it's got us nicely all on + top of it, down it will bring us all, houses and the rest. Damned funny + idea, what? Do for a cartoon-fellow or some one—” + </p> + <p> + The disease developed; he had it very badly, but at first his friends did + not know. He lay awake at night hearing things—one heard much more + at night—sometimes he fancied that the ground shook under his feet—but + most terrible of all was it when there was perfect silence. The traffic + ceased, the trees and windows and doors were still ... the Creature was + listening. Sometimes he read in papers that buildings had suddenly + collapsed. He smiled to himself. “When we are all nicely gathered + together,” he said, “when there are enough people ... then—” + </p> + <p> + His friends said that he had a nervous breakdown; they sent him to a + rest-cure. He came back. The Creature was fascinating—he was + terrified, but he could not leave it. + </p> + <p> + He knew more and more about it; he knew now what it was like, and he saw + its eyes and he sometimes could picture its grey scaly back with churches + and theatres and government buildings and the little houses of Mr. Smith + and Mr. Jones perched upon it—and the noises that it made now were + so many and so threatening that he never slept at all. Then he began to + run, shouting, down Piccadilly, so they put him—very reluctantly—into + a nice Private Asylum, and there he died, screaming. This story is a + prologue to Peter's life in London.... The story struck his fancy; he + thought of it sometimes. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + On a late stormy afternoon in November, 1895, Peter finished his book, + “Reuben Hallard.” It had been raining all day, and now the windows were + blurred and the sea of shining roofs that stretched into the mist + emphasised the dark and gloom of the heavy overhanging sky. + </p> + <p> + Peter's little room was very cold, but his body was burning—he was + in a state of overpowering excitement; his hands trembled so that he could + scarcely hold his pen ... “So died Reuben Hallard, a fool and a gentleman”—and + then “Finis” with a hard straight line underneath it.... He had been + working at it for three years, and he had been in London seven. + </p> + <p> + He walked up and down his little room, he was so hot that he flung up his + window and leaned out and let the rain, that was coming down fiercely now, + lash his face. Mud! London was full of mud. He could see it, he fancied, + gathering in thick brown layers upon the pavement, shining and glistening + as it mounted, slipping in streams into the gutter, sweeping about the + foundations of the houses, climbing perhaps, one day, to the very windows. + That was London. And yet he loved it, London and its dirt and darkness. + Had he not written “Reuben Hallard” here! Had the place not taken him into + its arms, given him books and leisure out of its hospitality, treated him + kindly during these years so that they had fled like an instant of time, + and here he was, Peter Westcott, aged twenty-five, with a book written, + four friends made, and the best health possible to man. The book was + “Reuben Hallard,” the friends were Mrs. Brockett, Mr. Zanti, Herr + Gottfried, and Norah Monogue, and for his health one had only to look at + him! + </p> + <p> + “So died Reuben Hallard, a fool and a gentleman!” His excitement was + tremendous; his cheeks were flaming, his eyes glittering, his heart + beating. Here was a book written!—so many pages covered with so much + writing, his claim to be somebody, to have done something, justified and, + most wonderful of all, live, exciting people created by him, Peter + Westcott. He did not think now of publication, of money, of fame—only, + after sharing for three years in the trials and adventures of dear, + beloved souls, now, suddenly, he emerged cold, breathless ... alone ... + into the world again. + </p> + <p> + Exciting! Why, furiously, of course. He could have sung and shouted and + walked, right over the tops of the roofs, with the rain beating and + cooling his body, out into the mist of the horizon. <i>His</i> book, + “Reuben Hallard!” London was swimming in thick brown mud, and the four + lamps coming out in Bennett Square in a dim, sickly fashion and he, Peter + Westcott, had written a book.... + </p> + <p> + The Signor—the same Signor, some seven years older, a little + shabbier, but nevertheless the same Signor—came to summon him to + supper. + </p> + <p> + “I have finished it!” + </p> + <p> + “What! The book?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + Their voices were awed whispers. The whole house had during the last three + years shared in the fortunes of the book. Peter had come to dinner with a + cloud upon his brow—the book therefore has gone badly—even + Mrs. Brockett is disturbed and Mrs. Lazarus is less chirpy than usual. + Peter comes to dinner with a smile—the book therefore has gone well + and even Mrs. Monogue is a little less selfish than ordinary. The Signor + now gazed round the little room as though he might find there the secret + of so great an achievement. On Peter's dressing-table the manuscript was + piled—“You'll miss it,” the Signor said, gloomily. “You'll miss it + very much—you're bound to. You'll have to get it typewritten, and + that'll cost money.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, it's done,” said Peter, shaking his head as a dog shakes + himself when he leaves the water. “There they are, those people—and + now I'm going to wash.” + </p> + <p> + He stripped to the waist, and the Signor watched his broad back and strong + arms with a sigh for his own feeble proportions. He wondered how it was + that being in a stuffy bookshop for seven years had done Peter no harm, he + wondered how he could keep the back of his neck so brown as that in London + and his cheeks as healthy a colour and his eyes as clear. + </p> + <p> + “I'm amazingly unpleasant to look at,” the Signor said at last. “I often + wonder why my wife married me. I'm not surprised that every one finds me + uninteresting. I am uninteresting.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are not uninteresting to me, I can tell you,” said Peter. He + had put on a soft white shirt, a black tie, and a black coat and trousers, + the last of these a little shiny perhaps in places, but neat and well + brushed, and you would really not guess when you saw him, that he only + possessed two suits in the wide world. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> think you're absorbing,” Peter said, a little patronisingly + perhaps. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that proves nothing,” the Signer retorted. “You only care for fools + and children—Mrs. Brockett always says so.” + </p> + <p> + They went downstairs—Peter was, of course, not hungry at all, but + the conventions had to be observed. In the sitting-room, round about the + green settee, the company was waiting as it had waited seven years ago; + there were one or two unimportant additions and Mrs. Monogue had died the + year before and Mrs. Lazarus was now very old and trembling, but in effect + there was very little change. + </p> + <p> + “He has finished it,” the Signor announced in a wondering whisper. A + little buzz rose, filled the air for a moment and then sank into silence + again. Mrs. Lazarus was without her orange because she had to wear mittens + now, and that made peeling the thing difficult. “I'm sure,” she said, in a + voice like that of a very excited cricket, “that Mr. Westcott will feel + better after he's had something to eat. <i>I</i> always do.” + </p> + <p> + This remark left conversation at a standstill. The rain drove against the + panes, the mud rose ever higher against the walls, and dinner was + announced. Mrs. Brockett made her remarks to each member of the company in + turn as usual. To Peter she said: + </p> + <p> + “I hear that you have finished your book, Mr. Westcott. We shall all watch + eagerly for its appearance, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + He felt his excitement slipping away from him as the moments passed. + Suddenly he was tired. Instead of elation there was wonder, doubt. What + if, after all, the book should be very bad? During all these years in + London he had thought of it, during all these years he had known that it + was going to succeed. What, if now he should discover suddenly that it was + bad?... Could he endure it? The people of his book seemed now to stand + very far away from him—they were unreal—he could remember + scenes, things that they had said and done, absurd, ignorant things. + </p> + <p> + He began to feel panic. Why should he imagine that he was able to write? + Of course it was all crude, worthless stuff. He looked at the dingy white + pillars and heavy green curtains with a kind of despair ... of course it + was all bad. He had been hypnotised by the thing for the time being. Then + he caught Norah Monogue's eyes and smiled. He would show it to her, and + she would tell him what it was worth. + </p> + <p> + Poor Mrs. Tressiter's baby had died last week and now, suddenly, she burst + out crying and had to leave the room. There was a little twitter of + sympathy. How good they all were to one another, these people, stupid and + odd perhaps in some ways, but so brave for themselves and so generous to + one another. It was no mean gathering of souls that Mrs. Brockett's dingy + gas illuminated. + </p> + <p> + Every now and again the heavy curtains blew forward in the wind and the + gas flared. There was no conversation, and the wind could be heard driving + the rain past the windows. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Peter, that evening, took the manuscript of “Reuben Hallard” into Miss + Monogue's room. Since her mother died Norah Monogue had had a bed + sitting-room to herself. The bed was hidden by a high screen, the wall + paper was a dark green, and low bookshelves, painted white, ran round the + room. There were no pictures (she always said that until she could have + good ones she wouldn't have any at all). There were some brown pots and + vases on the shelves and a writing-table with a typewriter by the window. + </p> + <p> + When Peter came in, Norah Monogue was sitting in a low chair over a rather + miserable fire; a little pool of light above her head came from two + candles on the mantelpiece—otherwise the room was in darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I turn on the gas?” she said, when she saw who it was. + </p> + <p> + “No, leave it as it is, I like it.” He sat down in a chair near her and + put a pile of manuscript on the floor beside him. “I've brought it for you + to read,” he said, “I'm frightened about it. I suddenly think it is the + most rotten thing that ever was written.” He had become very intimate with + her during these seven years. At first he had admired her because she + behaved so splendidly to her abominable mother—then she had + obviously been interested in him, had talked about the things that he was + reading and his life at the bookshop. They had speedily become the very + best of friends, and she understood friendship he thought in the right way—as + though she had herself been a man. And yet she was with that completely + feminine, a woman who had known struggle from the beginning and would know + it to the end; but her personality—humorous, pathetic, understanding—was + felt in her presence so strongly that no one ever forgot her after meeting + her. Some one once said of her, “She's the nicest ugly woman to look at + I've ever seen.” + </p> + <p> + She cared immensely about her appearance. She saved, through blood and + tears, to buy clothes and then always bought the wrong ones. She had + perfect taste about everything except herself, and as soon as it touched + her it was villainous. She was untidy; her hair—streaked already + with grey—was never in its place; her dress was generally undone at + the back, her gloves had holes. + </p> + <p> + Her mother's death had left her some fifty pounds a year and she earned + another fifty pounds by typewriting. Untidy in everything else, in her + work she was scrupulously neat. She had had a story taken by <i>The Green + Volume</i>. Her friends belonged (as indeed just at this time so many + people belonged) to the Cult of the Lily, repeated the witticisms of Oscar + Wilde and treasured the art of Mr. Aubrey Beardsley. Miss Monogue believed + in the movement and rejected the affectations. In 1895, when the reaction + began, she defended her old giants, but looked forward eagerly to new + ones. She worked too hard to have very many friends, and Peter saved her + from hours of loneliness. To him she was the last word in Criticism, in + Literature. He would have liked to have fashioned “Reuben Hallard” after + the manner of <i>The Green Volume</i>, but now thought sadly that it was + as unlike that manner as possible; that is why he was afraid to bring it + to her. + </p> + <p> + “You won't like it,” he said. “I thought for a moment I had done something + fine when I finished it this afternoon, but now I know that it's bad. It's + all rough and crude. It's terribly disappointing.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” she answered quietly. “We won't say any more about it + until I have read it—then we'll talk.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a little. He was feeling unhappy and, curiously + enough, frightened. He would have liked to jump up suddenly and shout, + “Well, what's going to happen now?”—not only to Norah Monogue, but + to London, to all the world. The work at the book had, during these years, + upheld him with a sense of purpose and aim. Now, feeling that that work + was bad, his aim seemed wasted, his purpose gone. Here were seven years + gone and he had done nothing—seen nothing, become nothing. What was + his future to be? Where was he to go? What to do? He had reasoned blindly + to himself during these years, that “Reuben Hallard” would make his + fortune—now that seemed the very last thing it would do. + </p> + <p> + “I knew what you're feeling,” she said, “now that the book's done, you're + wondering what's coming next.” + </p> + <p> + “It's more than that. I've been in London seven years. Instead of writing + a novel that no one will want to read I might have been getting my foot + in. I might at any rate have been learning London, finding my way about. + Why,” he went on, excitedly, “do you know that, except for a walk or two + and going into the gallery at Covent Garden once or twice and the Proms + sometimes and meeting some people at Herr Gottfried's once or twice I've + spent the whole of my seven years between here and the bookshop—” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't worry about that. It was quite the right thing to do. You + must remember that there are two ways of learning things. First through + all that every one has written, then through all that every one is doing. + Up to now you've been studying the first of those two. Now you're ready to + take part in all the hurly-burly, and you will. London will fling you into + it as soon as you're ready, you can be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I've been awfully happy all this time,” he went on, reflectively. “Too + happy I expect. I never thought about anything except reading and writing + the book, and talking to you and Gottfried. Now things will begin I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of things?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, it isn't likely that I'm going to be let alone for ever. I've + never told you, have I, about my life before I came up to London?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated a little before she answered. “No, you've never told me + anything. I could see, of course, that it hadn't been easy.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you see that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it hadn't been easy for either of us. That made us friends. And + then you don't look like a person who would take things easily—ever. + Tell me about your early life before you came here,” Norah Monogue said. + </p> + <p> + She watched his face as he told her. She had found him exceedingly good + company during the seven years that she had known him. They had slipped + into their friendship so easily and so naturally that she had never taken + herself to task about it in any way; it existed as a very delightful + accompaniment to the day's worries and disappointments. She suddenly + realised now with a little surprised shock how bitterly she would miss it + all were it to cease. In the darkened room, with the storm blowing + outside, she felt her loneliness with an acute wave of emotion and + self-pity that was very unlike her. If Peter were to go, she felt, she + could scarcely endure to live on in the dreary building. + </p> + <p> + Part of his charm from the beginning had been that he was so astoundingly + young, part of his interest that he could be, at times, so amazingly old. + She felt that she herself could be equal neither to his youth nor his age. + She was herself so ordinary a person, but watching him made the most + fascinating occupation, and speculating over his future made the most + wonderful dreams. That he was a personality, that he might do anything, + she had always believed, but there had, until now, been no proof of it in + any work that he had done ... he had had nothing to show ... now at last + there lay there, with her in the room, the evidence of her belief—his + book. + </p> + <p> + But the book seemed now, at this moment, of small account and, as she + watched him, with the candle-light and the last flicker of the fire-light + upon his face, she saw that he had forgotten her and was back again, soul + and spirit, amongst the things of which he was speaking. + </p> + <p> + His voice was low and monotonous, his eyes staring straight in front of + him, his hands, spread on his knees, gripped the cloth of his trousers. + She would not admit to herself that she was frightened, but her heart was + beating very fast and it was as though some stranger were with her in the + room. It may have been the effect of the candlelight, blowing now in the + wind that came through the cracks in the window panes, but it seemed to + her that Peter's face was changed. His face had lines that had not been + there before, his mouth was thinner and harder and his eyes were old and + tired ... she had never seen the man before, that was her impression. + </p> + <p> + But she had never known anything so vivid. Quietly, as though he were + reciting the story to himself and were not sure whether he were telling it + aloud or no, he began. As he continued she could see the place as though + it was there with her in the room, the little Inn that ran out into the + water, the high-cobbled street, the sea road, the grim stone house + standing back amongst its belt of trees, the Grey Hill, the coast, the + fields ... and then the story—the night of the fight, the beating, + the school-days, that day with his mother (here he gave her actual + dialogue as though there was no word of it that he had forgotten), the + funeral—and then at last, gradually, climbing to its climax + breathlessly, the relation of father and son, its hatred, then its + degradation, and last of all that ludicrous scene in the early morning ... + he told her everything. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished, there was a long silence between them: the fire was + out and the room very cold. The storm had fallen now in a fury about the + house, and the rain lashed the windows and then fell in gurgling + stuttering torrents through the pipes and along the leads. Miss Monogue + could not move; the scene, the place, the incidents were slowly fading + away, and the room slowly coming back again. The face opposite her, also, + gradually seemed to drop, as though it had been a mask, the expression + that it had worn. Peter Westcott, the Peter that she knew, sat before her + again; she could have believed as she looked at him, that the impressions + of the last half-hour had been entirely false. And yet the things that he + had told her were not altogether a surprise; she had not known him for + seven years without seeing signs of some other temper and spirit—controlled + indeed, but nevertheless there, and very different from the pleasant, + happy Peter who played with the Tressiter children and dared to chaff Mrs. + Brockett. + </p> + <p> + “You've paid me a great compliment, telling me this,” she said at last. + “Remember we're friends; you've proved that we are by coming like this + to-night. I shan't forget it. At any rate,” she added, softly, “it's all + right now, Peter—it's all over now.” + </p> + <p> + “Over! No, indeed,” he answered her. “Do you suppose that one can grow up + like that and then shake it off? Sometimes I think ... I'm afraid ...” he + stopped, abruptly biting his lips. “Oh, well,” he went on suddenly in a + brighter tone, “there's no need to bother you with all that. It's nothing. + I'm a bit done up over this book, I expect. But that's really why I told + you that little piece of autobiography—because it will help you to + understand the book. The book's come out of all that, and you mightn't + have believed that it was me at all—unless I'd told you these + things.” + </p> + <p> + He stood facing her and a sudden awkwardness came over both of them. The + fire was dead (save for one red coal), and the windows rattled like + pistol-shots. He was feeling perhaps that he had told her too much, and + the reserve of his age, the fear of being indiscreet, had come upon him. + And with her there was the difficulty of not knowing exactly what comfort + it was that he wanted, or whether, indeed, any kind of comfort would not + be an insult to him. And, with all that awkwardness, there was also a + knowledge that they had never been so near together before, an intimacy + had been established that night that would never again be broken. + </p> + <p> + Into their silence there came a knock on the door. When Miss Monogue + opened it the stern figure of Mrs. Brockett confronted her. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Miss Monogue, but is Mr. Westcott here?” + </p> + <p> + Peter stepped forward. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm sure I'm sorry to have to disturb you, Mr. Westcott, but there's + a man outside on the steps who insists on seeing you.” + </p> + <p> + “Seeing me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—he won't come in or go away. He won't move until he's seen you. + Very obstinate I'm sure—and such a night! Rather late, too—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Brockett was obviously displeased. Her tall black figure was drawn up + outside the door, as a sentry might guard Buckingham Palace. There was a + confusion of regality, displeasure, and grim humour in her attitude. But + Peter was a favourite of hers. With a hurried goodnight to Miss Monogue he + left the two women standing on the stairs and went to the hall-door. + </p> + <p> + When he opened it the wind was blowing up the steps so furiously that it + flung him back into the hall again. Outside in the square the world was a + wild tempestuous black, only, a little to the right, the feeble glow of + the lamp blew hither and thither in the wind. The rain had stopped but all + the pipes and funnels of the city were roaring with water. The noise was + that of a thousand chattering voices, and very faintly through the tumult + the bells of St. Matthews in Euston Square tinkled the hour. + </p> + <p> + On the steps a figure was standing bending beneath the wind. The light + from the hall shone out on to the black slabs of stone, bright with the + shining rain, but his cape covered the man's head. Nevertheless Peter knew + at once who it was. + </p> + <p> + “Stephen,” he said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + The hall door was flung to with a crash; the wind hurled Peter against + Stephen's body. + </p> + <p> + “At last! Oh, Stephen! Why didn't you come before?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't, Master Peter. I oughtn't to of come now, but I 'ad to see yer + face a minute. Not more than a minute though—” + </p> + <p> + “But you must come in now, and get dry things on at once. I'll see Mrs. + Brockett, she'll get you a room. I'm not going to let you go now that—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Master Peter, I can't stop. I mustn't. I 'aven't been so far away all + this time as you might have thought. But I mustn't see yer unless I can be + of use to yer. And that's what I've come about.” + </p> + <p> + He pressed close up to Peter, held both his hands in his and said: “Look + 'ere, Peter boy, yer may be wanting me soon—no, I can't say more + than that. But I want yer—to be on the look-out. Down there at the + bookshop be ready, and then if any sort o' thing should 'appen down along—why + I'm there, d'ye see? I'll be with yer when you want me—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but Stephen, what do you mean? What <i>could</i> happen? Anyhow you + mustn't go now, like this. I won't let you go—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I must now—I must. Maybe we shall be meeting soon enough. + Only I'm there, boy, if yer wants me. And—keep yer eye open—” + </p> + <p> + In an instant that warm pressure of the hand was gone; the darker black of + Stephen's body no longer silhouetted against the lighter black of the + night sky. + </p> + <p> + Still in Peter's nose there was that scent of wet clothes and the deep, + husky voice was in his ears. But, save for the faint yellow flickering + lamp, struggling against the tempest, he was alone in the square. + </p> + <p> + The rain had begun to fall again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + THE MAN ON THE LION + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + After the storm, the Fog. + </p> + <p> + It came, a yellow, shrouded witch down upon the town, clinging, choking, + writhing, and bringing in its train a thousand mysteries, a thousand + visions. It was many years since so dense and cruel a fog had startled + London—in his seven years' experience of the place Peter had known + nothing like it, and his mind flew back to that afternoon of his arrival, + seven years before, and it seemed to him that he was now moving straight + on from that point and that there had been no intervening period at all. + The Signer saw in a fog as a cat sees in the dark, and he led Peter to the + bookshop without hesitation. He saw a good many other things beside his + immediate direction and became comparatively cheerful and happy. + </p> + <p> + “It is such a good thing that people can't see me,” he said. “It relieves + one of a lot of responsibility if one's plain to look at—one can act + more freely.” Certainly the Signor acted with very considerable freedom, + darting off suddenly into the fog, apparently with the intention of + speaking to some one, and leaving Peter perfectly helpless and then + suddenly darting back again, catching Peter in tow and tugging him forward + once more. + </p> + <p> + To the bookshop itself the fog made very little difference. There were + always the gas-jets burning over the two dark corners and the top shelves + even in the brightest of weather, were mistily shrouded by dust and + distance. The fog indeed seemed to bring the books out and, whilst the + world outside was so dark, the little shop flickered away under the + gas-jets with little spasmodic leaps into light and colour when the door + opened and blew the quivering flame. + </p> + <p> + It was not of the books that Peter was thinking this morning. He sat at a + little desk in one dark corner under one of the gas-jets, and Herr + Gottfried, huddled up as usual, with his hair sticking out above the desk + like a mop, sat under the other; an old brass clock, perched on a heap of + books, ticked away the minutes. Otherwise there was silence save when a + customer entered, bringing with him a trail of fog, or some one who was + not a customer passed solemnly, seriously through to the rooms beyond. The + shop was, of course, full of fog, and the books seemed to form into lines + and rows and curves in and out amongst the shelves of their own accord. + </p> + <p> + Peter meanwhile was most intently thinking. He knew as though he had seen + it written down in large black letters in front of him, that a period was + shortly to be put to his present occupation, but he could not have said + how it was that he knew. The finishing of his book left the way clear for + a number of things to attack his mind. Here in this misty shop he was + beset with questions. Why was he here at all? Had he during these seven + years been of such value, that the shop could not get on without him?... + To that second question he must certainly answer, no. Why then had Mr. + Zanti kept him all this time? Surely because Mr. Zanti was fond of him. + Yes, that undoubtedly was a part of the reason. The relationship, all this + time, had grown very strong and it was only now, when he set himself + seriously to think about it, that he realised how glad he always was when + Mr. Zanti returned from his travels and how happy he had been when it had + been possible for them to spend an afternoon together. Yes, Mr. Zanti was + attached to him; he had often said that he looked upon him as a son, and + sometimes it seemed to Peter that the strange man was about to make some + declaration, something that would clear the air, and explain the world—but + he never did. + </p> + <p> + Peter had discovered strangely little about him. He knew now that Mr. + Zanti's connection with the bookshop was of the very slenderest, that that + was indeed entirely Herr Gottfried's affair, and that it was used by the + large and smiling gentleman as a cloak and a covering. As a cloak and a + covering to what? Well, at any rate, to some large and complicated game + that a great number of gentlemen were engaged in playing. Peter knew a + good many of them now by sight—untidy, dirty, many, foreigners most, + all it seemed to Peter, with an air of attempting something that they + could never hope to accomplish. Anything that they might do he was quite + sure that they would bungle and, with the hearts of children, the dirty + tatters of foreign countries, and the imaginations of exuberant + story-tellers, he could see them go, ignorantly, to dreadful catastrophes. + </p> + <p> + Peter was even conscious that the shop was tolerantly watched by + inspectors, detectives, and policemen, and that it was all too childish—whatever + it was—for any one to take it in the least seriously. But + nevertheless there were elements of very real danger in all those + blundering mysteries that had been going on now for so many years, and it + was at any rate of the greatest importance to Peter, because he earned his + living by it, because of his love for Stephen and his affection for Mr. + Zanti, and because if once anything were to happen his one resting-place + in this wild sea of London would be swept away and he would be utterly + resourceless and destitute. + </p> + <p> + This last fact bit him, as he sat there in the shop, with sudden and acute + sharpness. What a fool he had been, all this time, to let things slide! He + should have been making connections, having irons in the fire, bustling + about—how could he have sat down thus happily and easily for seven + years, as though such a condition of things could continue for ever? He + had had wild ideas of “Reuben Hallard” making his fortune!... that showed + his ignorance of the world. Let him begin to bustle. He would not lose + another moment. There were two things for him now to do, to beard editors + (those mythical creatures!) in their caves and to find out where Stephen + lived ... both these things as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon the fog became of an impenetrable thickness, and beyond + the shop it seemed that there was pandemonium. Some fire, blazing at some + street corner, flared as though it were the beating heart of all that + darkness, and the cries of men and the slow, clumsy passing of the traffic + filled the bookshop with sound. + </p> + <p> + No customers came; Herr Gottfried worked away at his desk, the brass clock + ticked, Peter sat listening, waiting. + </p> + <p> + Herr Gottfried broke the silence once with: “Peter, my friend, at ten + o'clock to-night there will be a little music in my room. Herr Dettzolter + and his 'cello—a little Brahms—if the fog is not too much for + you.” + </p> + <p> + Peter accepted. He loved the low-roofed attic, the clouds of tobacco, the + dark corner where he sat and listened to Herr Gottfried's friends (German + exiles like Herr Gottfried playing their beloved music). It was his only + luxury. + </p> + <p> + Once two men whom Peter knew very well by sight came into the shop. They + were, he believed, Russians—one of them was called Oblotzky—a + tall, bearded fierce-looking creature who could speak no English. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly, just as Peter was thinking of finding his way home to the + boarding-house, Mr. Zanti appeared. He had been away for the last two + months, but there he was, his huge body filling the shop, the fog circling + his beard like a halo, beaming, calm, and unflustered as though he had + just come from the next street. + </p> + <p> + “Damned fog,” he said, and then he went and put his hand on Peter's + shoulder and looked down at him smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Well, 'ow goes the shop?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well enough,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “What 'ave you been doing, boy? Finished the book?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, good. You'll be ze great man, Peter.” He looked down at him proudly + as a father might look upon his son. + </p> + <p> + “Ze damnedest fog—” he began, then suddenly he stopped and Peter + felt his hand on his shoulder tighten. “Ze damnedest—” Mr. Zanti + said slowly. + </p> + <p> + Peter looked up into his face. He was listening. Herr Gottfried, standing + in the middle of the shop, was also listening. + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was an intense breathless silence. The noise from the + street seemed also, for the instant, to be hushed. + </p> + <p> + Very slowly, very quietly, Mr. Zanti went to the street door and opened + it. A cloud of yellow fog blew into the shop. + </p> + <p> + “Ze damnedest fog ...” repeated Mr. Zanti, still very slowly, as though he + were thinking. + </p> + <p> + “Any one been?” he said at last to Herr Gottfried. + </p> + <p> + “Oblotzky.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti, after flinging a strange, half-affectionate, half-inquisitive + look at Peter, went through into the room beyond. + </p> + <p> + “What ...” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Often enough,” interrupted Herr Gottfried, shuffling back to his seat, + “young boys want to know—too much ... often enough.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The Tressiter children, of whom there were eight, loved Peter with a + devotion that was in fact idolatry. They loved him because he understood + them so completely and from Anne Susan, aged one and a half, to Rupert + Bernard, aged nine, there was no member of the family who did not repose + complete trust and confidence in Peter's opinions, and rejoice in his + wonderful grasp of the things in the world that really mattered. Other + persons might be seen shifting, slowly and laboriously, their estimates + and standards in order to bring them into line with the youthful Tressiter + estimates and standards.... Peter had his ready without any shifting. + </p> + <p> + First of all the family did Robin Tressiter, aged four, adore Peter. He + was a fat, round child with brown eyes and brown hair, and an immense and + overwhelming interest in the world and everything contained therein. He + was a silent child, with a delightful fat chuckle when really amused and + pleased, and he never cried. His interest in the world led him into + strange and terrible catastrophes, and Mrs. Tressiter was always far too + busy and too helpless to be of any real assistance. On this foggy + afternoon, Peter, arriving at Brockett's after much difficulty and + hesitation, found Robin Tressiter, on Miss Monogue's landing, with his + head fastened between the railings that overlooked the hall below. He was + stuck very fast indeed, but appeared to be perfectly unperturbed—only + every now and again he kicked a little with his legs. + </p> + <p> + “I've sticked my neck in these silly things,” he said, when he saw Peter. + “You must pull at me.” + </p> + <p> + Peter tried to wriggle the child through, but he found that he must have + some one to help him. Urging Robin not to move he knocked at Miss + Monogue's door. She opened it, and he stepped back with an apology when he + saw that some one else was there. + </p> + <p> + “It's a friend of mine,” Norah Monogue said, “Come in and be introduced, + Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “It's only,” Peter explained, “that young Robin has got his head stuck in + the banisters and I want some one to help me—” + </p> + <p> + Between them they pulled the boy through to safety. He chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “I'll do it again,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather you didn't,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Then I won't,” said Robin. “I did it 'cause Rupert said I couldn't—Rupert's + silly ass.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't call your brother names or I won't come and see you in bed.” + </p> + <p> + “You will come?” said Robin, very earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I will,” said Peter, “to-night, if you don't call your brother names.” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Robin, reflectively, “that now I will hunt for the lion + and the tigers on the stairs—” + </p> + <p> + “Bring him into my room until his bedtime,” said Miss Monogue, laughing. + “It's safer. Mrs. Tressiter is busy and has quite enough children in with + her already.” + </p> + <p> + So Peter brought Robin into Miss Norah Monogue's room and was introduced, + at once, to Clare Elizabeth Rossiter—so easily and simply do the + furious events of life occur. + </p> + <p> + She was standing with her back to the window, and the light from Miss + Monogue's candles fell on her black dress and her red-gold hair. As he + came towards her he knew at once that she was the little girl who had + talked to him on a hill-top one Good Friday afternoon. He could almost + hear her now as she spoke to Crumpet—the candle-light glow was dim + and sacred in the foggy room; the colour of her hair was filled more + wonderfully with light and fire. Her hands were so delicate and fine as + they moved against her black dress that they seemed to have some harmony + of their own like a piece of music or a running stream. She wore blue + feathers in her black hat. She did not know him at all when he came + forward, but she smiled down at Robin, who was clinging on to Peter's + trousers. + </p> + <p> + “This is a friend of mine, Mr. Westcott,” Miss Monogue said. + </p> + <p> + She turned gravely and met him. They shook hands and then she sat down; + suddenly she bent down and took Robin into her lap. He sat there sucking + his thumb, and taking every now and again a sudden look at her hair and + the light that the candles made on it, but he was very silent and quiet + which was unlike him because he generally hated strangers. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down and was filled with embarrassment; his heart also was + beating very quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I have met you before,” he said suddenly. “You don't remember.” + </p> + <p> + “No—I'm afraid—” + </p> + <p> + “You had once, a great many years ago, a dog called Crumpet. Once in + Cornwall ... one Good Friday, he tumbled into a lime-pit. A boy—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course,” she broke in, “I remember you perfectly. Why of all the + things! Norah, do you realise? Your friend and I have known each other for + eight years. Isn't the world a small place! Why I remember perfectly now!” + </p> + <p> + She turned and talked to Norah Monogue, and whilst she talked he took her + in. Although now she was grown up she was still strangely like that little + girl in Cornwall. He realised that now, as he looked at her, he had still + something of the same feeling about her as he had had then—that she + was some one to be cared for, protected, something fragile that the world + might break if she were not guarded. + </p> + <p> + She was porcelain but without anything of Meredith's “rogue.” Because + Peter was strong and burly the contrast of her appealing fragility + attracted him all the more. Had she not been so perfectly proportioned her + size would have been a defect; but now it was simple that her delicacy of + colour and feature demanded that slightness and slenderness of build. Her + hair was of so burning a red-gold that its colour gave her precisely the + setting that she required. She seemed, as she sat there, a little + helpless, and Peter fancied that she was wishing him to understand that + she wanted friends who should assist her in rather a rough-and-tumble + world. Just as she had once appealed to him to save Crumpet, so now she + seemed to appeal for some far greater assistance. Ah! how he could protect + her! Peter thought. + </p> + <p> + Something in Peter's steady gaze seemed suddenly to surprise her. She + stopped—the colour mounted into her cheeks—she bent down over + the boy. + </p> + <p> + They were both of them supremely conscious of one another. There was a + moment.... Then, as men feel, when some music that has held them ceases, + they came, with a sense of breathlessness, back to Norah Monogue and her + dim room. + </p> + <p> + Peter was conscious that Robin had watched them both. He almost, Peter + thought, chuckled to himself, in his fat solemn way. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Rossiter,” Norah Monogue said—and her voice seemed a long way + away—“has just come back from Germany and has brought some wonderful + photographs with her. She was going to show them to me when you came in—” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see them too, please,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + Robin was put on to the floor and he went slowly and with ceremony to an + old brown china Toby that had his place on a little shelf by the door. + This Toby—his name was Nathaniel—was an old friend of Robin's. + Robin sat on the floor in a corner and told Nathaniel the things about the + world that he had noticed. Every now and again he paused for Nathaniel's + reply; he was always waiting for him to speak, and the continued silence + of a now ancient acquaintance had not shaken Robin's faith.... Robin + forgot the rest of the company. + </p> + <p> + “Photographs?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Germany. I have just been there.” She looked up at him eagerly and + then opened a portfolio that she had behind her chair and began to show + them. + </p> + <p> + He bent gravely forward feeling that all of this was pretence of the most + absurd kind and that she also knew that it was. + </p> + <p> + But they were very beautiful photographs—the most beautiful that he + had ever seen, and as each, in its turn, was shown for a moment his eyes + met hers and his mouth almost against his will, smiled. His hand too was + very near the silk of her dress. If he moved it a very little more then + they would touch. He felt that if that happened the room would immediately + burst into flame, the air was so charged with the breathless tension; but + he watched the little space of air between his fingers and the black silk + and his hand did not move. + </p> + <p> + They were all very silent as she turned the photographs over and there + were no sounds but the sharp crackling of the fire as it burst into little + spurts of flame, the noise that her hand made on the silk of her dress as + she turned each picture and the little mutterings of Robin in his corner + as he talked to his Toby. + </p> + <p> + Peter had never seen anything like this photography. The man had used his + medium as delicately as though he had drawn every line. Things stood out—castles, + a hill, trees, running water, a shining road—and behind them there + was darkness and mystery. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Peter cried out: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that!” he said. It was the photograph of a great statue standing on a + hill that overlooked a river. That was all that could be seen—the + background was dark and vague, it was the statue of a man who rode a lion. + The lion was of enormous size and struggling to be free, but the man, + naked, with his utmost energy, his back set, his arms stiff, had it in + control, but only just in control ... his face was terrible in the agony + of his struggle and that struggle had lasted for a great period of time + ... but at length, when all but defeated, he had mastered his beast. + </p> + <p> + “Ah that!” Miss Rossiter held it up that Norah Monogue might see it + better. “That is on a hill outside a little town in Bavaria. They put it + up to a Herr Drexter who had done something, saved their town from riot I + think. It's a fine thing, isn't it, and I think it so clever of them to + have made him middle-aged with all the marks of the struggle about him—those + scars, his face—so that you can see that it's all been tremendous—” + </p> + <p> + Peter spoke very slowly—“I'd give anything to see that!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's in Bavaria; I wonder that it isn't better known. But funnily + enough the people that were with me at the time didn't like it; it was + only afterwards, when I showed them the photograph that they saw that + there might have been ... aren't people funny?” she ended abruptly, + appealing to him with a kind of freemasonry against the world. + </p> + <p> + But, still bending his brows upon it he said insistently— + </p> + <p> + “Tell me more about it—the place—everything—” + </p> + <p> + “There isn't really anything to tell; it's only a very ordinary, very + beautiful, little German town. There are many orchards and this forest at + the back of it and the river running through it—little cobbled + streets and bridges over the river. And then, outside, this great statue + on the hill—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but it's wonderful, that man's face—I'd like to go to that town—” + He felt perhaps that he was taking it all too seriously for he turned + round and said laughing: “The boy's daft on lions—Robin, come and + look at this lion—here's an animal for you.” + </p> + <p> + The boy put down the Toby and walked slowly and solemnly toward them. He + climbed on to Peter's knee and looked at the photograph: “Oh! it <i>is</i> + a lion!” he said at last, rubbing his fat finger on the surface of it to + see of what material it was made. “Oh! for me!” he said at last in a + shrill, excited voice and clutching on to it with one hand. “For me—to + hang over my bed.” + </p> + <p> + “No, old man,” Peter answered, “it belongs to the lady here. She must take + it away with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but <i>I</i> want it!” his eyes began to fill with tears. + </p> + <p> + Miss Rossiter bent down and kissed him. He looked at her distrustfully. “I + know now I'm not to have it,” he said at last, eyeing her, “or you + wouldn't have kissed me.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” said Peter, afraid of a scene, “the lady will show you the lion + another day—meantime I think bed is the thing.” + </p> + <p> + He mounted the boy on to his shoulder and turned round to Miss Rossiter to + say “Good-bye.” The photograph lay on the table between them—“I + shan't forget that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but you must come and see us one day. My mother will be delighted. + There are a lot more photographs at home. You must bring him out one day, + Norah,” she said turning to Miss Monogue. + </p> + <p> + If he had been a primitive member of society in the Stone Age he would at + this point, have placed Robin carefully on the floor and have picked Miss + Rossiter up and she should never again have left his care. + </p> + <p> + As it was he said, “I shall be delighted to come one day.” + </p> + <p> + “We will talk about Cornwall—” + </p> + <p> + “And Germany.” + </p> + <p> + His hand was burning hot when he gave it her—he knew that she was + looking at his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He was abruptly conscious of Miss Monogue's voice behind him. + </p> + <p> + “I've read a quarter of the book, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + He wondered as he turned to her how it could be possible to regard two + women so differently. To be so sternly critical of one—her hair that + was nearly down, a little ink on her thumb, her blouse that was unbuttoned—and + of the other to see her all in a glory so that her whole body, for colour + and light and beautiful silence, had no equal amongst the possessions of + the earth or the wonders of heaven. Here there was a button undone, there + there was a flaming fire. + </p> + <p> + “I won't say anything,” Miss Monogue said, “until I've read more, but it's + going to be extraordinarily good I think.” What did he care about “Reuben + Hallard?” What did that matter when he had Claire Elizabeth Rossiter in + front of him. + </p> + <p> + And then he pulled himself up. It must matter. How delighted an hour ago + those words would have made him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you think there's something in it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “We'll wait,” she answered, but her smile and the sparkle in her eyes + showed what she thought. What a brick she was! + </p> + <p> + He turned round back to Miss Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + “My first book,” he said laughing. “Of course we're excited—” + </p> + <p> + And then he was out of the room in a moment with Robin clutching his hair. + He did not want to look at her again ... he had so wonderful a picture! + </p> + <p> + And as he left Robin in the heart of his family he heard him say— + </p> + <p> + “<i>Such</i> a lion, Mother, a lady's got—with a man on it—a + 'normous lion, and the man hasn't any clothes on, and his legs are all + scratched....” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + ROYAL PERSONAGES ARE COMING + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter, sitting obscurely in a corner of Herr Gottfried's attic on the + evening of this eventful day and listening to that string sextette that + was written by Brahms when he was nineteen years of age (and it came + straight from the heights of Olympus if any piece of music ever did), was + conscious of the eyes of Herr Lutz. + </p> + <p> + Herr Lutz was Herr Gottfried's greatest friend and was notable for three + things, his enormous size, his surpassing skill on the violoncello and his + devoted attachment to the veriest shrew of a little sharp-boned wife that + ever crossed from Germany into England. For all these things Peter loved + him, but Herr Lutz was never very actively conscious of Peter because from + the moment that he entered Herr Gottfried's attic to the moment he left it + his soul was wrapped in the music and in nothing else whatever. To-night + as usual he was absorbed and after the second movement of the sextette had + come to a most rapturous conclusion he was violently dissatisfied and + pulled them back over it again, because they had been ragged and their + enthusiasm had got the better of their time and they were altogether + disgraceful villains, but through all of this his grey eyes were upon + Peter. + </p> + <p> + Peter, watching from his dark corner even felt that the 'cello was being + played especially for his benefit and that Herr Lutz was talking all the + time to him through the medium of his instrument. It may have been that he + himself was in a state of most exalted emotion, and never until the end of + all things mortal and possibly all things eternal will he forget that + sextette by Brahms; he may perhaps have put more into Herr Lutz than was + really there, but it is certain that he was conscious of the German's + attention. + </p> + <p> + As is common to all persons of his age and condition he was amazed at the + glorified vision of everyday things. In Herr Gottfried's flat there was a + model of Beethoven in plaster of Paris, a bed, and a tin wash-hand stand, + a tiny bookshelf containing some tattered volumes of Reclame's Universal + Bibliothek, a piano and six cane-bottomed chairs covered at the moment by + the stout bodies of the six musicians—nothing here to light the + world with wonder!—and yet to-night, Peter, sitting on a cushion in + a dark corner watched the glories of Olympus; the music of heaven was in + his ear and before him, laughing at him, smiling, vanishing only to + reappear more rapturous and beautiful than ever was the lady, the + wonderful and only lady. + </p> + <p> + His cheeks were hot and his heart was beating so loudly that it was surely + no wonder that Herr Lutz had discovered his malady. The sextette came to + an end and the six musicians sat, for a moment, silent on their chairs + whilst they dragged themselves into the world that they had for a moment + forsaken. That was a great instant of silence when every one in the room + was concerned entirely with their souls and had forgotten that they so + much as had bodies at all. Then Herr Lutz gathered his huge frame + together, stuck his hand into his beard and cried aloud for drink. + </p> + <p> + Beer was provided—conversation was, for the next two hours, + volcanic. When twelve o'clock struck in the church round the corner the + meeting was broken up. + </p> + <p> + Herr Lutz said to Peter, “There is still the 'verdammte' fog. Together we + will go part of the way.” + </p> + <p> + So they went together. But on the top of the dark and crooked staircase + Herr Gottfried stopped Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Boy,” he said and he rubbed his nose with his finger as he always did + when he was nervous and embarrassed, “I shouldn't go to the shop for a + week or two if I were you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not go?” said Peter astonished. + </p> + <p> + “No—for reason why—well—who knows? The days come and + they go, and again it will be all right for you. I should rub up the + Editors, I should—” + </p> + <p> + “Rub up the Editors?” repeated Peter still confused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—have other irons, you know—often enough other irons are + handy—” + </p> + <p> + “Did Zanti tell you to say this to me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, he says nothing. It is only I—as a friend, you understand—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, thank you very much,” said Peter at last. Herr Gottfried, he + reflected, must think that he, Peter, had mints of money if he could so + lightly and on so slender a warning propose his abandoning his precious + two pounds a week. Moreover there was loyalty to Mr. Zanti to be + considered.... Anyway, what did it all mean? + </p> + <p> + “I can't go,” he said at last, “unless Zanti says something to me. But + what are they all up to?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven years,” said Herr Gottfried darkly, “has the Boy been in the shop—of + so little enquiring a mind is he.” + </p> + <p> + And he would say nothing further. Peter followed Herr Lutz' huge body into + the street. They took arms when they encountered the fog and went + stumbling along together. + </p> + <p> + “You are in lof,” said Herr Lutz, breathlessly avoiding a lamp post. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Peter, “I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Herr Lutz giving Peter's arm a squeeze. “It is the only thing—The—Only—Thing.... + However it may be for you—bad or ill—whether she scold or + smile, it is a most blessed state.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke when under stress of emotion, in capitals with a pause before the + important word. + </p> + <p> + “It won't come to anything,” said Peter. “It can't possibly. I haven't got + anything to offer anybody—an uncertain two pounds a week.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a—Career,” said Herr Lutz solemnly, “I know—I have + often watched you. You have written a—Book. Karl Gottfried has told + me. But all that does not matter,” he went on impetuously. “It does not + matter what you get—It is—Being—in—Love—The—divine— + never—to—be—equalled—State—” + </p> + <p> + The enormous German stopped on an island in the middle of the road and + waved his arms. On every side of him through the darkness the traffic + rolled and thundered. He waved his arms and exulted because he had been + married to a shrew of a wife for thirty years. During that time she had + never given him a kind word, not a loving look, but Peter knew that out of + all the fog and obscurity that life might bring to him that Word, sprung + though it might be out of Teutonic sentiment and Heller's beer, that word, + at any rate, was true. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + London, in the morning, recovered from the fog and prepared to receive + Foreign Personages. They were not to arrive for another week, but it was + some while since anything of the kind had occurred and London meant to + carry it out well. The newspapers were crowded with details; personal + anecdotes about the Personages abounded—a Procession was to take + place, stands began to climb into the air and the Queen and her visitors + were to have addresses presented to them at intervals during the Progress. + </p> + <p> + To Peter this all seemed supremely unimportant. At the same moment, to + confuse little things with big ones, Mrs. Lazarus suddenly decided to die. + She had been unwell for many months and her brain had been very clouded + and temper uncertain—but now suddenly she felt perfectly well, her + intelligence was as sharp and bright as it had ever been and the doctor + gave her a week at the utmost. She would like, she said, to have seen the + dear Queen ride through the streets amidst the plaudits of the populace, + but she supposed it was not to be. So with a lace cap on her head and her + nose sharp and shiny she sat up in bed, flicked imaginary bread pellets + along the counterpane, talked happily to the boarding-house and made ready + to die. + </p> + <p> + The boarding-house was immensely moved, and Peter, during these days came + back early from the bookshop in order to sit with her. He was surprised + that he cared as he did. The old lady had been for so long a part of his + daily background that he could no more believe in her departure than he + could in the sudden disappearance of the dark green curtains and the + marble pillars in the dining-room. She had had, from the first, a great + liking for Peter. He had never known how much of that affection was an + incoherent madness and he had never in any way analysed his own feeling + for her, but now he was surprised at the acute sharpness of his regret. + </p> + <p> + On a bright evening of sunshine, about six o'clock, she died—Mrs. + Brockett, the Tressiters, Norah Monogue also were with her at the time. + Peter had been with her alone during the earlier afternoon and although + she had been very weak she had talked to him in her trembling voice (it + was like the noise that two needles knocking against one another would + make), and she had told him how she believed in him. + </p> + <p> + She made him ashamed with the things that she said about him. He had paid + her little enough attention, he thought, during these seven years. There + were so many things that he might have done. As the afternoon sun streamed + into the room and the old lady, her hands like ivory upon the counterpane, + fell into a quiet sleep he wondered—Was he bad or good? Was he + strong or weak? These things that people said, the affection that people + gave him ... he deserved none of it. Surely never were two so opposite + presences bound together in one body—he was profoundly selfish, + profoundly unselfish, loving, hard, kind, cruel, proud, humble, generous, + mean, completely possessed, entirely uncontrolled, old beyond his years, + young beyond belief— + </p> + <p> + As he sat there beside the sleeping old lady he felt a contempt of himself + that was beyond all expression, and also he felt a pride at the things + that he knew that he might do, a pride that brought the blood to his + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + The Man on the Lion? The Man under the Lion's Paw?... The years would + show. A quiet happy serenity passed over Mrs. Lazarus' face and he called + the others into the room. + </p> + <p> + Stern Mrs. Brockett was crying. Mrs. Lazarus woke for a moment and smiled + upon them all. She took Peter's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Be good to old people,” she breathed very faintly—then she closed + her eyes and so died. + </p> + <p> + Below in the street a boy was calling the evening papers. “Arrival of the + Prince and Princess of Schloss.... Arrival of the Prince and—” + </p> + <p> + They closed the windows and pulled down the blinds. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Thursday was to be the day of Royal Processions, and on Friday old Mrs. + Lazarus was to be buried. + </p> + <p> + To Peter, Wednesday was a day of extravagant confusion—extravagant + because it was a day on which nothing was done. Customers were not served + in the shop. Editors were not attacked in their lairs. Nothing was done, + every one hung about. + </p> + <p> + Peter could not name any one as directly responsible for this state of + things, nor could he define his own condition of mind; only he knew that + he could not leave the shop. About its doors and passages there fell all + day an air of suspense. Mr. Zanti was himself a little responsible for + this; it was so unusual for that large and smiling gentleman to waste the + day idly; and yet there he was, starting every now and again for the door, + looking into the empty yard from the windows at the back of the house, + disappearing sometimes into the rooms above, reappearing suddenly with an + air of unconcern a little too elaborately contrived. + </p> + <p> + Peter felt that Mr. Zanti had a great deal that he would like to say to + him, and once or twice he came to him and began “Oh, I say, boy,” and then + stopped with an air of confusion as though he had recollected something, + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + There was a Russian girl, too, who was about the shop, uneasily on this + day. She was thin, slight, very dark; fierce eyes and hands that seemed to + be always curving. Her name was Maria Notroska and she was engaged to the + big Russian, Oblotzky, whom Peter had seen, on other days up and down + through the shop. She spoke to no one. She knew but little English—but + she would stand for hours at the door looking out into the street. It was + a long uneasy day and Peter was glad when the evening, in slow straight + lines of golden light, came in through the black door. The evening too + seemed to bring forward a renewed hope of seeing Stephen again—enquiries + could bring nothing from either Zanti or Herr Gottfried; they had never + heard of the man, oh no!... Stephen Brant? Stephen ...? No! Never— + </p> + <p> + That sudden springing out of the darkness had meant something however. + Peter could still feel his wet clothes and see his shining beard. Yes, if + there were any trouble Stephen would be there. What were they all about? + Peter closed the shutters of the shop that night without having any + explanation to offer. Mr. Zanti was indeed a strange man; when Peter + turned to go he stopped him with his hand on his shoulder: “Peter, boy,” + he said, whispering, “come upstairs—I have something to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was about to follow him back into the shop when suddenly the man + shook his head. “No, not to-night,” he said and almost pushed him into the + street. + </p> + <p> + Peter, looking back, saw that he was talking to the Russian girl. + </p> + <p> + But the day was not over with that. Wondering about Mr. Zanti, thinking + that the boarding-house would be gloomy now after Mrs. Lazarus' death, + recalling, above all, to himself every slightest incident of his meeting + with Miss Rossiter, Peter, crossing Oxford Street, flung his broad body + against a fat and soft one. There was nearly a collapse. + </p> + <p> + The other man and Peter grasped arms to steady themselves, and then + behold! the fat body was Bobby Galleon's. Bobby Galleon, after all these + years! But there could be no possible doubt about it. There he stood, + standing back a little from the shock, his bowler hat knocked to one side + of his head, a deprecating, apologetic smile on his dear fat face! A man + of course now, but very little altered in spite of all the years; a little + fatter perhaps, his body seemed rather shapeless—but those same kind + eyes, that large mouth and the clear straight look in all his face that + spoke him to all the world for what he was. Peter felt exactly as though, + after a long and tiring journey, he had tumbled at last into a large + arm-chair. He was excited, he waved his arms: + </p> + <p> + “Bobby, Bobby,” he cried, so loudly that two old women in bonnets, + crossing the road like a couple of hens turned to look at him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry—” Bobby said vaguely, and then slowly recognition came + into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Peter!” he said in a voice lost in amazement, the colour flooding his + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + It was all absurdly moving; they were quite ridiculously stirred, both of + them. The lamps were coming out down Oxford Street, a pale saffron sky + outlined the dark bulk of the Church that is opposite Mudie's shop and + stands back from the street, a little as though it wondered at all the + noise and clamour, a limpid and watery blue still lingered, wavering, in + the evening sky. + </p> + <p> + They turned into an A.B.C. shop and ordered glasses of milk and they sat + and looked at one another. They had altered remarkably little and to both + of them, although the roar of the Oxford Street traffic was outside the + window, it might have been, easily enough, that a clanging bell would soon + summon them back to ink-stained desks and Latin exercises. + </p> + <p> + “Why, in heaven's name, did you ever get out of my sight so completely? I + wrote to Treliss again and again but I don't suppose anything was + forwarded.” + </p> + <p> + “They don't know where I am.” + </p> + <p> + “But why did you never write to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? I wanted to do something first—to show you-” + </p> + <p> + “What rot! Is that friendship? I call that the most selfish thing I've + ever known.” No, obviously enough, Bobby could never understand that kind + of thing. With him, once a friend always a friend, that is what life is + for. With Peter, once an adventure always an adventure—<i>that</i> + is what life is for—but as soon as a friend ceases to be an + adventure, why then— + </p> + <p> + But Bobby had not ceased to be an adventure. He was, as he sat there, more + of one than he had ever been before. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing all these years?” + </p> + <p> + “Been in a bookshop.” + </p> + <p> + “In a bookshop?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, selling second-hand books.” + </p> + <p> + “What else?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh reading a lot... seeing one or two people... and some music.” Peter + was vague; what after all had he been doing? + </p> + <p> + Bobby looked at him tenderly and affectionately. “You want seeing after—you + look fierce, as you used to when you'd been having a bad time at school. + The day they all hissed you.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven't been having a bad time. I've had a jolly good one. By the + way,” Peter leant forward, “have you seen or heard anything of Cards?” + </p> + <p> + Bobby coloured a little. “No, not for a long time. His mother died. He's a + great swell now with heaps of money, I believe. I'm not his sort a bit.” + </p> + <p> + They drank milk and beamed upon one another. Peter wanted to tell Bobby + everything. That was one of his invaluable qualities, that one did like + telling him everything. Talking to him eagerly now, Peter wondered how it + could be that he'd ever managed to get through these many years without + him. Bobby simply existed to help his friends and that was the kind of + person that Peter had so often wanted. + </p> + <p> + But in it all—in their talking, their laughing together, their + remembering certain catchwords that they had used together, there was + nothing more remarkable than their finding each other exactly as they had + been during those years before at Dawson's. Not even Bobby's tremendous + statement could alter that. + </p> + <p> + “I'm married,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Married?” + </p> + <p> + Bobby blushed. “Yes—two years now—got a baby. She's quite + splendid!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Peter was a little blank. Somehow this did remove Bobby a little—it + also made him, suddenly, strangely old. + </p> + <p> + “But it doesn't make any difference,” Bobby said, leaning forward eagerly + and putting his hand on Peter's arm—“not the least difference. You + two will simply get on famously. I've so often told her about you and + we've always been hoping that you'd turn up again—and now she'll be + simply delighted.” + </p> + <p> + But it made a difference to Peter, nevertheless. He went back a little + into his shell; Bobby with a home and a wife and a baby couldn't spare + time, of course, for ordinary friends. But even here his conscience + pricked him. Did he not know Bobby well enough to be assured that he was + as firm and solid as a rock, that nothing at all could move or change him? + And after all, was not he, Peter, wishing to be engaged and married and + the father of a family and the owner of a respectable mansion? + </p> + <p> + Clare Elizabeth Rossiter! How glorious for an instant were the thin, + sharp-faced waitresses, the little marble-topped tables, the glass windows + filled with sponge-cakes and hard-boiled eggs! + </p> + <p> + Peter came out of his shell again. “I shall just love to come and see + her,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, just as soon as you can. By Jove, old man, I'll never let you go + again. Now tell me, everything—all that you have done since I saw + you.” + </p> + <p> + Peter told him a great deal—not quite everything. He told him + nothing, for instance, about meeting a certain young lady on a Good Friday + afternoon and he passed over some of the Scaw House incidents as speedily + as possible. + </p> + <p> + “And since I came up to London,” he went on, “the whole of my time has + been spent either in the bookshop or the boarding-house. They're awfully + good sorts at both, but it's all very uncertain of course and instead of + writing a novel that no one will want to read I ought to have been getting + on to editors. I've a kind of feeling that the bookshop's going to end + very shortly.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see the book,” said Bobby. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, certainly,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, we go on together from this time forth—72 Cheyne Walk is my + little house. When will you come—to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! To-morrow! I don't think I can. There are these Processions and + things—I think I ought to be in the shop. But I'll come very soon. + This is the name of my boarding-house—” + </p> + <p> + Bobby, as he saw his friend, broad-shouldered, swinging along, pass down + the street with the orange lamps throwing chains of light about him, was + confronted again by that old elusive spirit that he had known so well at + school. Peter liked him, Peter was glad to see him again, but there were + so many other Peters, so many doors closed against intruders.... Bobby + would always, to the end, be for Peter, outside these doors. He knew it + quite certainly, a little sadly, as he climbed on to his bus. What was + there about Peter? Something hard, fierce, wildly hostile ... a devil, a + God. Something that Bobby going quietly home to his comfortable dinner, + might watch and guard and even love but something that he could never + share. + </p> + <p> + Now, in the cool and quiet of the Chelsea Embankment as he walked to his + door, Bobby sighed a little because life was so comfortable. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + A LITTLE DUST + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + That night Peter had one of his old dreams. In all the seven years that he + had been in London the visions that had so often made his nights at Scaw + House terrible had never come to him. Now, after so long an interval they + returned. + </p> + <p> + He thought that he was once more back on the sea-road above Treliss, that + the wind was blowing in a tempest and that the sea below him was foaming + on to the rocks. He could see those rocks like sharp black teeth, + stretching up to him—a grey sky was above his head and to his right + stretched the grey and undulating moor. + </p> + <p> + Round the bend of the road, beyond the point that he could see, he thought + that Clare Rossiter was waiting for him. He must get there before it + struck eleven or something terrible would happen to him. Only a few + minutes remained to him, and only a little stretch of the thin white road, + but two things prevented his progress; first, the wind blew so fiercely in + his face that it drove him back and for every step that he took forward, + although his head was bent and his teeth set, he seemed to lose two. Also, + across the moor voices cried to him and they seemed to him like the voices + of Stephen and Bobby Galleon, and they were pleading to him to stop; he + paused to listen but the cries mingled softly with the wind and he could + hear bells from the town below the road begin to strike eleven. The sweat + was pouring from him—she was waiting for him, and if he did not + reach her all would be lost. He would never see her again; he began to + cry, to beat against the wind with his hands. The voices grew louder, the + wind more vehement, the jagged edges of the rocks sharper in their + outline; the bells were still striking, but as, at last, breathless, a + sharp terror at his heart, he turned the corner there fell suddenly a + silence. At last he was there—only a few trees blowing a little, a + little white dust curling over the road, as though there had been no rain, + and then suddenly the laughing face of Cards, no longer now a boy, but a + man, more handsome than ever, laughing at him as he battled round the + corner. + </p> + <p> + Cards shouted something to him, suddenly the road was gone and Peter was + in the water, fighting for his life. He felt all the breathless terror of + approaching death—he was sinking—black, silent water rose + above and around him. For an instant he caught once more the sight of sky + and land. Cards was still on the road and beside him was a woman whose + face Peter could not see. Cards was still laughing. Then in the darkening + light the Grey Hill was visible against the horizon and instead of the + Giant's Finger there was that figure of the rider on the lion.... The + waters closed.... Peter woke to a grey, stormy morning. The sweat was + pouring down his face, his body was burning hot and his hands were + trembling. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + When he came down to breakfast his head was aching and heavy and Mrs. + Brockett's boiled egg and hard crackling toast were impossible. Miss + Monogue had things to tell him about the book—it was wonderful, + tremendous ... beyond everything that she had believed possible. But + strangely enough, he was scarcely interested. He was pleased of course, + but he was weighted with the sense of overhanging catastrophe. The green + bulging curtains, the row of black beads about Mrs. Brockett's thin neck, + the untidy egg-shells—everything depressed him. + </p> + <p> + “I have had a rotten night,” he said, “nightmares. I suppose I ate + something—anyhow it's a gloomy day.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Miss Monogue, pinning some of her hair in at the wrong place + and unpinning other parts of it that happened by accident to be right. + “I'm afraid it's a poor sort of day for the Procession. But Miss Black and + I are going to do our best to see it. It may clear up later.” He had + forgotten about the Procession and he wished that she would keep her hair + tidier. + </p> + <p> + He wanted to ask her whether she had seen Miss Rossiter but had not the + courage. A little misty rain made feathery noises against the window-pane. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must go down to the shop,” he said, finding his umbrella in the + hall. + </p> + <p> + “I think it's superb,” she said, referring back to the book. “You won't be + having to go down to the shop much longer.” + </p> + <p> + It was really surprising that he cared so little. He banged the door + behind him and did not see her eyes as she watched him go. + </p> + <p> + Processions be damned! He wished that the wet, shining street were not so + strangely like the sea-road at Treliss, and that the omnibuses at a + distance did not murmur like the sea. People, black and funereal, were + filling stands down Oxford Street; soldiers were already lining the way, + the music of bands could be heard some streets away. + </p> + <p> + He was in a thoroughly bad temper and scowled at the people who passed + him. He hated Royal Processions, he hated the bookshop, he hated all his + friends and he wished that he were dead. Here he had been seven years, he + reflected, and nothing had been done. Where was his city paved with gold? + Where his Fame, where his Glory? + </p> + <p> + He even found himself envying those old Treliss days. There at any rate + things had happened. There had been an air, a spirit. Fighting his father—or + at any rate, escaping from his father—had been something vital. And + here he was now, an ill-tempered, useless youth, earning two pounds a + week, in love with some one who was scarcely conscious of his existence. + He cursed the futility of it all. + </p> + <p> + And so fuming, he crossed the threshold of the bookshop, and, unwitting, + heedless, left for ever behind him the first period of his history. + </p> + <p> + “Programme of the Royal Procession,” a man was shouting—“Coloured + 'Andkerchief with Programme of Royal Procession—” + </p> + <p> + Peter, stepping into the dark shop, was conscious of Mr. Zanti's white + face and that behind him was standing Stephen. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + At the sight of their faces, of their motionless bodies and at the solemn + odd expression of their eyes as they looked past him into the dark expanse + of the door through which he had entered, he knew that something was very + wrong. + </p> + <p> + He had known it, plainly enough, by the fact of Stephen's presence there, + but it seemed to him that he had known it from his first awakening that + morning and that he was only waiting to change into hard outline the misty + shapelessness of his earlier fears. But, there and then, he was to know + nothing— + </p> + <p> + Stephen greeted him with a great hand-shake as though he had met him only + the day before, and Mr. Zanti with a smile gave him his accustomed + greeting. In the doorway at the other end of the shop the Russian girl was + standing, one arm on the door-post, staring, with her dark eyes, straight + through into the gloomy street. + </p> + <p> + “What are you all waiting for?” Peter said to the motionless figures. With + his words they seemed at once to spring to life. Mr. Zanti rolled his big + body casually to the door and looked down the street, Stephen, smiling at + Peter said: + </p> + <p> + “I was just passing, so I thought to myself I'd just look in,” his voice + came from his beard like the roll of the sea from a cave. “Just for an + hour, maybe. It's a long day since we've 'ad a bit of a chat, Mr. Peter.” + </p> + <p> + Peter could not take it on that casual scale. Here was Stephen vanished + during all those years, returned now suddenly and with as little fuss as + possible, as though indeed he had only been hiding no farther than behind + the door of the shop and waiting merely to walk out when the right moment + should have arrived. If he had been no farther than that then it was + unkind of him—he might have known how badly Peter had wanted him; + if, on the other hand, he had been farther afield, then he should show + more excitement at his return. + </p> + <p> + But, Peter thought, it was impossible to recognise in the grave reserved + figure at his side that Stephen who had once given him the most glorious + evening of his life. The connection was there somewhere but many things + must have happened between those years. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go and have luncheon together?” Peter asked. + </p> + <p> + Stephen appeared to fling a troubled look in the direction of Mr. Zanti's + broad back. He hesitated. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “I don't rightly + know. I've got to be going out for an hour or two—I can't rightly + say as I'll be back. This afternoon, maybe—” + </p> + <p> + Peter did not press it any farther. They must settle these things for + themselves, but what was the matter with them all this morning was more + than he could pretend to discover. + </p> + <p> + Stephen, still troubled, went out. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately there was this morning a good deal of work for Peter to do. A + large number of second-hand books had arrived during the day before and + they must be catalogued and arranged. Moreover there were several + customers. A young lady wanted “something about Wagner, just a description + of the plays, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Of the Operas,” Peter corrected. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, the stories—that's what I want—something about two + shillings, have you? I don't think it's really worth more—but so + that one will know where one is, you know.” + </p> + <p> + She was bright and confidential. She had thought that everything would be + closed because of the Procession... <i>so</i> lucky— + </p> + <p> + A short red-faced woman, dressed in bright colours, and carrying + innumerable little parcels wanted “Under Two Flags,” by Mrs. Henry Wood. + </p> + <p> + “It's by Ouida, Madam,” Peter told her. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, don't tell me. As if I didn't know.” + </p> + <p> + Peter produced the volume and showed it to her. She dropped some of her + parcels—they both went to pick them up. + </p> + <p> + Red in the face, she glared at him. “Really it's too provoking, I know it + was Mrs. Henry Wood I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps 'East Lynne,' or 'The Channings'—” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense—don't tell me—it was 'Under Two Flags.'” + </p> + <p> + Finally the woman put both “Under Two Flags” and “East Lynne” into her bag + and departed. A silence fell upon the shop. Herr Gottfried was at his + desk, Mr. Zanti at the street door, the girl at the door of the inner + room, they were all motionless. Beyond the shop the murmur of the + gathering crowd was like the confused, blundering hum of bees; a band was + playing stridently in Oxford Street. + </p> + <p> + Once Peter said: “It passes about three-thirty, doesn't it? I think I'll + just go out and have a look later. It'll be fine if only the sun comes.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti turned slowly round. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid, boy,” he said, “you'll be wanted in ze shop. At two Herr + Gottfried must be going out for some business—zere will be no one—I + am zo zorry.” + </p> + <p> + They wanted to keep him there, that was evident. Or, at any rate, they + didn't want him to see the Procession. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said cheerfully, “I'll stay. There'll be plenty more + Processions before I die.” But why, why, why? What was there that they + wanted him to avoid? + </p> + <p> + He went on arranging the piles of dusty books, the sense of weighty + expectation growing on him with every instant. The clock struck one, but + he did not go out to luncheon; the others were still motionless in their + places. + </p> + <p> + Once Herr Gottfried spoke: “The people will have been waiting a + much-more-than-necessary long time,” he said. “The police doubtless have + frightened them, but there is still room to walk in the streets and there + have been some unfortunates, since early in the morning—” + </p> + <p> + The street beyond the shop was now deserted because soldiers guarded its + approach into Oxford Street; the shop seemed to be left high and dry, + beyond the noise and confusion of the street. + </p> + <p> + Then there came into the silence a sharp sound that made Peter amongst his + books, jump to his feet: the Russian girl was crying. + </p> + <p> + She stood there, leaning her thin dark body against the side of the door, + surely the most desolate figure in the world. Her hands were about her + face, her body heaved with her sobbing and the little sad noise came into + the dusty tangled room and hung amongst the old broken books as though + they only could sympathise and give it shelter. The band in Oxford Street + was blazing with sound but it did not hide her crying. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti crossed to her and spoke to her but she suddenly let her hands + fall from her face and turned upon him, furiously, wildly—“You ...” + she said, “You ...” and then as though the words choked her she turned + back into the inner room. Peter saw Mr. Zanti's face and it was puckered + with distress like a child's. It was almost laughable in its helpless + dismay. + </p> + <p> + Two o'clock struck. “They'll be starting in half an hour,” Herr Gottfried + said. + </p> + <p> + “Women,” Mr. Zanti said, still looking distressfully about him, “they are, + in truth, very difficult.” + </p> + <p> + And now there was no pretence, any longer, of disguising the nervous + tension that was with them in the room. They were all waiting for + something—what it might be Peter did not know, but, with every tick + of the old brass clock, some event crept more nearly towards them. + </p> + <p> + Then Stephen came back. + </p> + <p> + He came in very quietly as though he were trying to keep the note of + agitation that he must have felt on every side of him as near the normal + as possible. + </p> + <p> + His face above his beard was grey and streaky and his breath came rapidly + as though he had been running. When he saw Mr. Zanti his hand went up + suddenly in front of his face as though he would protect himself from the + other's questioning. + </p> + <p> + “I've 'eard nothing—” he said almost sullenly and then he turned and + looked at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Why must 'e be 'ere?” he said sharply to Zanti. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Where else?” the other answered and the two men watched each + other with hostility across the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I wish we'd all bloomin' wull kept out of it,” Stephen murmured to + himself it seemed. + </p> + <p> + Peter's eyes were upon Mr. Zanti. That gentleman looked more like a + naughty child than ever. In his eyes there was the piteous appeal of a + small boy about to be punished for some grievous fault. In some strange + way Peter was, it appeared, his court of appeal because he glanced towards + him again and again and then looked away. + </p> + <p> + Peter could stand it no longer. He got up from the place where he was and + faced them all. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What have you all done? What is the matter with you all?” + </p> + <p> + The Russian girl had come back. Her face was white and her hair fell + untidily about her eyes. She came forward fiercely as though she would + have answered Peter, but Mr. Zanti motioned her back with his hand. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” he said almost imploringly, “let the boy be—what has he to + do with all this? Leave him. He has nothing to do with it. He knows + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “But I ought to know,” Peter burst in. “Why have I been kept in the dark + all this time? What right have you—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off suddenly. Absolute silence fell amongst them all and they + stood looking at the door, motionless, in their places. There was a new + note in the murmuring of the crowd, and the swift steady passing of it + came up the street to the shop and in at the door. Voices could be heard + rising above others, and then the eager passing of some piece of news from + one to another. + </p> + <p> + No one in the shop spoke. Outside in the deserted street there was silence + and then the bands, as though driven by some common wave of feeling, + seemed at the same moment to burst into a blare of music. Some voice, from + the crowd, started “God save the Queen” and immediately it was taken up + and flung into the air by a thousand voices. They must give vent to their + feelings, some news had passed down the crowds like a flame setting fire + to a chain of beacons. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Peter pressed forwards to the door. And at once he was + answered. Men were running past the shop, crying out; one stopped for an + instant and, wild with excitement, his hands gesticulating, stammering, + the words tumbling from his lips, he shouted at them—“They've bin + flinging bombs ... dirty foreigners ... up there by the Marble Arch—flinging + them at the Old Lady. But it's all right, by Gawd—only blew 'imself + up, dirty foreigner—little bits of 'im and no one else 'urt and now + the Old Lady's comin' down the street—she'll be 'ere in quarter of + an 'our and won't we show 'er ... by Gawd ... flingin' their dirty bombs + up there by the Marble Arch and killin' nobody but 'imself—Gawd save + the Old Lady—” he rushed on. + </p> + <p> + So that was it. Peter, standing in the middle of the room, looked at them + all and understood at last amongst whom he had been working these seven + years. They were murderers, the lot of them—all of them—Gottfried, + Zanti ... Stephen—Oh God! Stephen! He understood now for what they + had been waiting. + </p> + <p> + He turned sick at the sudden realisation of it. It did not, at first, seem + to touch himself in any way. At the first immediate knowledge of it he had + been faced by its amazing incongruity. There by the Marble Arch, with + bands flying, flags waving, in all the tumult of a Royal Progress some one + had been blown into little pieces. Elsewhere there were people waiting, + eating buns out of paper bags, and here in the shop the sun lighted the + backs of rows of second-hand novels and down in Treliss the water was, + very gently, lapping the little wooden jetty. Oh! the silly jumbling of + things in this silly jumbling world! + </p> + <p> + And then he began to look more closely into it as it concerned himself. He + saw with amazing clearness. He knew that it was Oblotzky the tall Russian + who had been killed. He knew because Oblotzky was the lover of this + Russian girl and he turned round to watch her, curiously, as one who was + outside it all. She was standing with her back against the wall, her hands + spread out flat, looking through the door into the bright street, seeing + none of them. Then she turned and said something in Russian between her + clenched teeth to Mr. Zanti. He would have answered her but very quietly + and speaking now in English she flung at him, as though it had been a + stone: + </p> + <p> + “God curse you! You drove him to it!” Then she turned round and left the + room. But the tall man was blubbering like a child. He had turned round to + them all, with his hands outstretched, appealing: + </p> + <p> + “But it's not true!” he cried between his sobs, “it's not true! I did all + I could to stop them—I did not know that they would do things—not + really—until now, this morning, when it was too late. It is the + others, Sergius, Paslov, Odinsky—zey were always wild, desperate. + But we, the rest of us, with us it was only tall words.” + </p> + <p> + Little Herr Gottfried, who had been silent behind them, came forward now + and spoke: + </p> + <p> + “It is too late,” he said, “for this crying like a baby. We have no time—we + must consider what must be done. If it is true, what that man says that + Oblotzky has blown himself up and no other is touched then no harm is + done. Why regret the Russian? He wanted a violent end and he has got it—and + he has given it to no other. Often enough we are not so fortunate. He will + have spoken to no one. We are safe.” Then he turned to Peter: + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + But Peter was not there to be pitied. He had only one thought, “Stephen, + tell me—tell me. You did not know? You had nothing to do with this?” + </p> + <p> + Stephen turned and faced him. “No, Peter boy, nothing. I did not know what + they were at. They—Zanti there—'ad 'elped me when I was in + trouble years ago. They've given me jobs before now, but they've always + been bunglers and now, thank the Lord, they've bungled again. You come + with me, Mr. Peter—come along from it all. We'll manage something. + I've only been waiting until you wanted me.” + </p> + <p> + Zanti turned furiously upon him but the words that he would have spoken + were for the moment held. The Procession was passing. The roar of cheering + came up against the walls of the shop like waves against the rocks; the + windows shook. There she was, the little Old Lady in her black bonnet, + sitting smiling and bowing, and somewhere behind her a little dust had + been blown into the air, had hung for a moment about her and then had once + more settled down into the other dust from which it had come. + </p> + <p> + That was all. In front of her were the Royal Personages, on every side of + her her faithful subjects ... only a cloud of dust had given occasion for + a surer sign of her people's devotion. That, at any rate, Oblotzky had + done. + </p> + <p> + The carriage passed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti now faced Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Peter—Boy—you must believe me. I did not know, believe me, I + did not. They had talked and I had listened but there is so much talk and + never anything is done. Peter, you must not go, you must not leave me. You + would break my 'eart—” + </p> + <p> + “All these years,” Peter said, “you have let me be here while you have + deceived me and blinded me. I am going now and I pray to God that I may + never see you again.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Boy, listen. You must not go like this. 'Ave I not been good to you? + 'Ave I ever made you do anything wrong? 'Ave I not always kept you out of + these things? You are the only person zat I 'ave ever loved. You 'ave + become my son to me. I am not wicked. I was not one of these men—these + anarchists—but it is only that all my life I 'ave wanted adventure, + what you call Ro-mance. And I 'ave found it 'ere, there—one place, + anuzzer place. But it 'as never been wicked—I 'ave never 'armed a + soul. What zat girl says it is not true—I would 'ave done all to + stop it if I could. But you—if you leave me now, I am all alone. + There is no one in the world for me—a poor old man—but if you + will be with me I will show you wonderful things. + </p> + <p> + “See,” he went on eagerly, almost breathlessly, “we 'ave been socialists + 'ere, what you will. We 'ave talked and talked. It amuses me—to + intrigue, to pretend, to 'ave games—one day it is Treason, another + Brigands, another Travel—what you will. But never, never, never + danger to a soul. Now only this morning did I 'ear that they were going to + do this. Always it had been words before—but this morning I got a + rumour. But it was only rumour. I 'ad not enough to be sure of my news. + Stephen here and I—we could do nozzing—we 'ad no time—I + did not know where Oblotzky was—this girl 'ere did not know—I + could do nozzing—Peter, believe me, believe me—” + </p> + <p> + The man was no scoundrel. It was plain enough as he stood there, his eyes + simple as a child's, pleading still like a small boy. + </p> + <p> + A minute ago Peter had hated him, now he crossed over and put his hand on + his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You have been wonderfully good to me,” he said. “I owe you everything. + But I must go—all this has only made sure what I have been knowing + this long time that I ought to do. I can't—I mustn't—depend on + your charity any longer—it has been too long as it is. I must be on + my own and then one day, when I have proved myself, I will come back to + you.” + </p> + <p> + “No—Peter, Boy—come with me now. I will show you wonderful + things all over Europe; we will have adventures. There is gold in Cornwall + in a place I know. There is a place in Germany where there is treasure—ze + world is full of ze most wonderful things that I know and you and I—we + two—Oh! ze times we all 'ave—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” ... Peter drew back. “That is not my way. I am going to make my + living here, in London—or die for it.” + </p> + <p> + “No—you must not. You will succeed—you will grow fat and + sleepy and ze good things of the world and ze many friends will kill your + soul. I know it ... but come with me, first and we will 'ave adventures + ... and <i>zen</i> you shall write.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter's face was set. The time for the new life had come. Up to this + moment he had been passive, he had used his life as an instrument on which + others might play. From henceforward his should be the active part. + </p> + <p> + The crowds were pouring up the street on their homeward way. Bands were + playing the soldiers back to the barracks. Soon the streets would have + only the paper bags left to them for company. The little bookshop hung, + with its misty shelves about the three men.... Somewhere in another room, + a girl was staring with white set face and burning eyes in front of her, + for her lover was dead and the world had died with him. + </p> + <p> + After a little time amongst the second-hand novels Mr. Zanti sat, his + great head buried in his hands, the tears trickling down through his + fingers, and Herr Gottfried, motionless from behind his counter watched + him in silent sympathy. + </p> + <p> + Peter and Stephen had gone together. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + A NARROW STREET + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The bomb was, that evening, the dominant note of the occasion. Through the + illuminated streets, the slowly surging crowds—inhuman in their + abandon to the monotonous ebb and flow as of a sweeping river—the + cries and laughter and shouting of songs, that note was above all. An + eye-witness—a Mr. Frank Harris, butcher of 82 Cheapside—had + his veracious account journalistically doctored. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “I was standing quite close to the man, a foreigner of course, with a + dirty hanging black moustache—tall, big fellow, with coat up over + his ears—I must say that I wasn't looking at him. I had Mrs. Harris + with me and was trying to get her a place where she could see better, you + understand. Then suddenly—before one was expecting it—the + Procession began and I forgot the man, the foreigner, although he was + quite up close against me. One was excited of course—a most moving + sight—and then suddenly, when by the distant shouting we understood + that the Queen was approaching, I saw the man break through. I was + conscious of the man's vigour as he rushed past—he must have been + immensely strong—because there he was, through the soldiers and + everybody—out in the middle of the street. It all happened so + quickly of course. I heard vaguely that some one was shouting and I think + a policeman started forward, but anyhow the man raised his arm and in an + instant there was the explosion. It went off before he was ready I + suppose, but the ground rocked under one's feet. Two soldiers fell, + unhurt, I have learnt since. There was a hideous dust, horses plunging and + men shouting and then suddenly silence. The dust cleared and there was a + hole in the ground, stones rooted up ... no sign of the man but some + pieces of cloth and men had rushed forward and covered something up—a + limb I suppose.... I was only anxious of course that my wife should see + nothing ... she was considerably affected....” + </p> + <p> + So Mr. Harris of Cheapside, with the assistance of an eager and talented + young journalist. But the fact remained in the heart of the crowd—blasted + foreigner had had a shot at the Old Lady and missed her, therefore + whatever gaiety may have been originally intended let it now be redoubled, + shouted into frenzy—and frenzy it was. + </p> + <p> + “There was no clue,” an evening paper added to the criminal's identity.... + The police were blamed, of course.... Such a thing must never be allowed + to occur again. It was reported that the Queen had in no way suffered from + the shock—was in capital health. + </p> + <p> + Outside the bookshop Stephen and Peter had parted. + </p> + <p> + “I'll meet you about half-past ten, Trafalgar Square by the lion that + faces Whitehall; I must go back to Brockett's, have supper and get my + things, and say good-bye. Then I'll join you ... half-past ten.” + </p> + <p> + “Peter boy, we'll have to rough it—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! at last! Life's beginning. We'll soon get work, both of us—where + do you mean to go?” + </p> + <p> + “There's a place I been before—down East End—not much of a + place for your sort, but just for a bit....” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Peter's thoughts swept back to the shop. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Zanti!” He half turned. “After so many years ... the good old chap.” + Then he pulled himself up and set his shoulders. “Well, half-past ten—” + </p> + <p> + The streets were, at the instant, almost deserted. It was about five + o'clock now and at seven o'clock they would be closed to all traffic. Then + the surging crowds would come sweeping down. + </p> + <p> + Peter, furiously excited, hurried through the grimy deserts of Bloomsbury, + to Brockett's. To his singing, beating heart the thin ribbon of the grey + street with the faint dim blue of the evening sky was out of place, + ill-judged as a setting to his exultations. He had swept in the + tempestuous way that was natural to him, the shop and all that it had been + to him, behind him. Even Brockett's must go with the rest. Of course he + could not stay there now that the weekly two pounds had stopped. He quite + savagely desired to be free from all business. These seven years had been + well enough as a preparation; now at last he was to be flung, head + foremost, into life. + </p> + <p> + He could have sung, he could have shouted. He burst through the heavy + doors of Brockett's. But there, inside the quiet and solemn building, + another mood seized him. He crept quietly, on tiptoe, up to his room + because he did not want to see any of them before supper. After all, he + was leaving the best friends that he had ever had, the only home that he + had ever really known. Mrs. Brockett, Norah Monogue, Robin, the Signor.... + Seven years is a long time and one gets fond of a place. He closed his + bedroom door softly behind him. The little room had been very much to him + during all these years, and that view over the London roofs would never be + forgotten by him. But he wondered, as he looked at it, how he had ever + been able to sit there so quietly and write “Reuben Hallard.” Now, between + his writing and himself, a thousand things were sweeping. Far away he saw + it like the height of some inaccessible hill—his emotions, his + adventures, the excitement of life made his thoughts, his ideas, thinner + than smoke. He even, standing there in his little room and looking over + the London roofs, despised the writer's inaction.... Often again he was to + know that rivalry. + </p> + <p> + A quarter of an hour before supper he went down to say good-bye to Miss + Monogue. She was sitting quietly reading and he thought suddenly, as he + came upon her, there under the light of her candles in the grey room, that + she did not look well. He had never during their seven years' friendship, + noticed anything before, and now he could not have said what it was that + he saw except perhaps that her cheeks were flushed and that there were + heavy dark lines beneath her eyes. But she seemed to him, as he took her, + thus unprepared, with her untidy hair and her white cheap evening dress + that showed her thin fragile arms, to be something that he was leaving to + face the world alone, something very delicate that he ought not to leave. + </p> + <p> + Then she looked up and saw him and put her book down and smiled at him and + was the old cheerful Norah Monogue whom he had always known. + </p> + <p> + He stood with his legs apart facing her and told her: + </p> + <p> + “I've come to say good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I'm going to-night. What I've been expecting for so long has + happened at last. There's been a blow up at the bookshop and I've got to + go.” + </p> + <p> + For an instant the colour left her face; her book fell to the ground and + she put her hand back on the arm of the chair to steady herself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! how silly of me ... never mind picking it up.... Oh thank you, Peter. + You gave me quite a shock, telling me like that. We shall all miss you + dreadfully.” + </p> + <p> + His affection for her was strong enough to break in upon the great + overwhelming excited exultation that had held him all the evening. He was + dreadfully sorry to leave her!... dear Norah Monogue, what a pal she'd + been! + </p> + <p> + “I shall miss you horribly,” he said with that note in his voice that + showed that, above all things, he wished to avoid a scene. “We've been + such tremendous pals all this time—you've been such a brick—I + don't know what I should have done....” He pulled himself up. “But it's + got to be. I've felt it coming you know and it's time I really lashed out + for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I must keep that dark for a bit. There's been trouble at the + bookshop. It'll be all right I expect but I don't want Mother Brockett to + stand any chance of being mixed up in it. I shall just disappear for a + week or two and then I'll be back again.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him bravely: “Well, I won't ask what's happened, if you + don't want to tell me, but of course—I shall miss you. After seven + years it seems so abrupt. And, Peter, do take care of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall be all right.” He was very gruff. He felt now a furious angry + reluctance at leaving her behind. He stormed at himself as a fool; one of + the things that the strong man must learn of life is to be ruthless in + these partings and breaking of relations. He stood further away from her + and spoke as though he hated being there. + </p> + <p> + She understood him with wonderful tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said cheerfully, “I daresay it will be better for you to try + for a little and see what you can make of it all. And then if you want + anything you'll come back to us, won't you?... You promise that?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “And then there's the book. I know that man in Heriot and Lord's that I + told you about. I'll send it to them right away, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't they rather tremendous people for me to begin with? Oughtn't I to + begin with some one smaller?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! there's no harm in starting at the top. They can't do more than + refuse it. But I don't think they will. I believe in it. But how shall I + let you know what they say?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll come in a week or two and see what's happening—I'll be on + a paper by then probably. I say, I don't want the others to know. I'll + have supper with them as usual and just tell Mother Brockett afterwards. I + don't want to have to say good-bye lots of times. Well”—he moved off + awkwardly towards the door—“You've been most tremendously good to + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Rot, Peter: Don't forget me!” + </p> + <p> + “Forget you! The best pal I've ever had.” They clasped hands for a moment. + There was a pause and then Peter said: “I say—there <i>is</i> a + thing you can do if you like—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?—anything—” + </p> + <p> + “Well—about Miss Rossiter—you'll be seeing her I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, often—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you might just keep her in mind of me. I know it sounds silly but—just + a word or two, sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + He felt that he was blushing—their hands separated. She moved back + from him and pushed at her hair in the nervous way that she had. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course—she was awfully interested. She won't forget you. + Well, we'll meet at supper.” She moved back with a last little nod at him + and he went awkwardly out of the room with a curious little sense of + sudden dismissal. Would she rather he didn't know Miss Rossiter, he + vaguely wondered. Women were such queer creatures. + </p> + <p> + As he went downstairs he wondered with a sudden almost shameful confusion + whether he was responsible in some way for the awkwardness that the scene + had had. He had noticed lately that she had not been quite herself when he + had been with her—that she would stop in the middle of a sentence, + that she would be, for instance, vexed at something he said, that she + would look at him sometimes as though ... + </p> + <p> + He pulled himself up. He was angry with himself for imagining such a thing—as + though ... Well, women <i>were</i> strange creatures.... + </p> + <p> + And then supper was more difficult than he had expected. They would show + him, the silly things, that they were fond of him just when he would much + rather have persuaded himself that they hated him. It was almost, as he + told himself furiously, as though they knew that he was going; Norah + Monogue was the only person who chattered and laughed in a natural way; he + was rather relieved that after all she seemed to care so little. + </p> + <p> + He found that he couldn't eat. There was a silly lump in his throat and he + looked at the marble pillars and the heavy curtains through a kind of + mist.... Especially was there Robin.... + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Tressiter told him that Robin had something very important to say to + him and that he was going to stay awake until he, Peter, came up to him. + </p> + <p> + “I told him,” she said, “that he must lie down and go to sleep like a good + boy and that his father would punish him if he didn't. But there! What's + the use of it? He isn't afraid of his father the slightest. He would go on—something + about a lion....” + </p> + <p> + At any rate this gave Peter an excuse to escape from the table and it was, + indeed, time, for they had all settled, like a clatter of hens, on to the + subject of the bomb, and they all had a great deal to say about it and a + great many questions to ask Peter. + </p> + <p> + “It's these Foreigners... of course our Police are entirely inadequate.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that's what I say—the Police are really absurdly + inadequate—” + </p> + <p> + “If they will allow these foreigners—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, what can you expect—and the Police really can't—” + </p> + <p> + Peter escaped to Robin. He glowered down at the child who was sitting up + in his cot counting the flowers on the old wall-paper to keep himself + awake. + </p> + <p> + “I always am so muddled after fourteen,” he said. “Never mind, I'm <i>not</i> + sleeping—” + </p> + <p> + Peter frowned at him. “You ought to have been asleep long ago,” he said. + He wished the boy hadn't got his hair tousled in that absurdly fascinating + way and that his cheeks weren't flushed so beautiful a red—also his + nightgown had lost a button at the top and showed a very white little + neck. Peter blinked his eyes—“Look here, kid, you must go to sleep + right away at once. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “It's that lion—the one the lady had—I want it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't have it—the lady's got it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—take me to see them—the real ones—there are lots + somewhere Mother says.” Robin inserted his very small hand into Peter's + large one. + </p> + <p> + “All right, one day—we'll go to the 'Zoo.” + </p> + <p> + Robin sighed with satisfaction—he lay down and murmured sleepily to + himself, “I love Mister Peter and lions and Mother and God,” and was + suddenly asleep. + </p> + <p> + Peter bent down over the cot and kissed him. He felt miserably wretched. + He had known nothing like it since that day when he had said good-bye to + his mother. He wondered that he could ever have felt any exultation; he + wondered that writing and glory and ambition could ever have seemed worth + anything to him at all. Could he have had his prayer granted he would have + prayed that he might always stay in Brockett's, always have these same + friends, watch over Robin as he grew up, talk to Norah Monogue—and + then all the others ... and Mr. Zanti. He felt fourteen years old ... more + miserable than he had ever been. + </p> + <p> + He kissed Robin again—then he went down to find Mrs. Brockett. Here, + too, he was faced with an unexpected difficulty. The good lady, listening + to him sternly in her grim little sitting-room, refused to hear of his + departure. She sat upright in her stiff chair, her thin black dress in + folds about her, the gas-light shining on her neatly parted hair. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Mrs. Brockett,” he explained to her, “I'm no longer in the same + position. I can't be sure of my two pounds a week any more and so it + wouldn't be right for me to live in a place like this.” + </p> + <p> + “If it's expense that you're thinking about,” she answered him grimly, + “you're perfectly welcome to stay on here and pay me when you can. I'm + sure that one day with so clever a young man—” + </p> + <p> + “That's awfully good of you, Mrs. Brockett, but of course I couldn't hear + of anything like that.” For the third time that evening he had to fight + against a disposition to blow his nose and be absurd. They were, both of + them, increasingly grim with every word that they spoke and any outside + observer would have supposed that they were the deadliest of enemies. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she began again, “there's a room that I could let you have at + the back of the house that's only four shillings a week and really you'd + be doing me a kindness in taking it off my hands. I'm sure—” + </p> + <p> + “No, there's more in it than that,” he answered. “I've got to go away—right + away. It's time I had a change of scene. It's good for me to get along a + bit by myself. You've all been too kind to me, spoilt me—” + </p> + <p> + She stood up and faced him sternly. “In all my years,” she said, “I've + never spoilt anybody yet and I'm not likely to be going to begin now. + Spoilt you! Bah!” She almost snorted at him—but there were tears in + her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a philanthropist,” she went on more dryly than ever, “but I like + to have you about the house—you keep the lodgers contented and the + babies quiet. I'm sure,” and the little break in her voice was the first + sign of submission, “that we've been very good friends these seven years + and it isn't everywhere that one can pick up friends for the asking—” + </p> + <p> + “You've been splendid to me,” he answered. “But it isn't as though I were + going away altogether—you'll see me back in a week or two. And—and—I + say I shall make a fool of myself if I go on talking like this—” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly gripped her hand and wrung it again and again—then he + burst away from her, leaving her standing there in the middle of the room. + </p> + <p> + The old black bag was very soon packed, his possessions had not greatly + increased during these seven years, and soon he was creeping down the + stairs softly so that no one should hear. + </p> + <p> + The hall was empty. He gave it one last friendly look, the door had closed + behind him and he was in the street. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + In its exuberance and high spirits and general lack of self-control London + was similar to a small child taken to the Drury Lane Pantomime for the + first time. Of the numbers of young men who, with hats on the back of + their heads, passed arm-in-arm down the main thoroughfares announcing it + as their definite opinion that “Britons never shall be slaves,” of the + numbers of young women who, armed with feathers and the sharpest of + tongues, showed conclusively the superiority of their sex and personal + attractions, of the numbers of old men and old women who had no right + whatever to be out on a night like this but couldn't help themselves, and + enjoyed it just as much as their sons and daughters did, there is here no + room to tell. The houses were ablaze with light, the very lamp-posts + seemed to rock up and down with delight at the spirit of the whole affair + and the Feast of the Glorification of the Bomb that Didn't Come Off was + being celebrated with all the honours. + </p> + <p> + Peter was very soon in the thick of it. The grey silences of Bennett + Square and Bloomsbury were left behind and with them the emotions of those + tender partings. After all, it would only be a very few weeks before he + would be back again among them all, telling them of his success on some + paper and going back perhaps to live with them all when his income was + assured. + </p> + <p> + And, anyhow, here he was, out to seek his fortune and with Stephen to help + him! He battled with the crowd dragging the black bag with him and + shouting sometimes in sheer excitement and good spirits. Young women + tickled him with feathers, once some one linked arms with him and dragged + him along, always he was surrounded with this sea of shouting, exultant + humanity—this was life! + </p> + <p> + By the lion Stephen was waiting for him, standing huge and solemn as the + crowd surged past. He pressed Peter's arm to show that he was pleased to + see him and then, without speaking, they pushed through, past Charing + Cross station, and down the hill to the Underground. + </p> + <p> + Here, once again, there was startling silence. No one seemed to be using + the trains at all. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid it ain't much of a place that I'm taking yer to,” Stephen + said. “We can't pick and choose yer know and I was there before and she's + a good woman.” + </p> + <p> + A chill seemed to come with them into the carriage. Suddenly to Peter the + comforts of Brockett's stretched out alluring arms, then he pulled himself + together. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure it will be splendid,” he said, “and it will be just lovely being + with you after all this time.” + </p> + <p> + They got out and plunged into a city of black night. Around them, on every + side there was silence—even the broad central thoroughfare seemed to + be deserted and on either side of it, to right and left, black grim roads + like open mouths, lay waiting for the unwary traveller. + </p> + <p> + Down one of these they plunged; Peter was conscious of faces watching + them. “Bucket Lane” was the street's title to fame. Windows showed dim + candles, in the distance a sharp cry broke the silence and then fell away + again. The street was very narrow and from the running gutters there stole + into the air the odour of stale cabbage. + </p> + <p> + “This is the 'ouse.” Stephen stopped. Somewhere, above their heads, a + child was crying. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + THE WORLD AND BUCKET LANE + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + A light flashed in the upper windows, stayed for a moment, and + disappeared. There was a pause and then the door slowly opened and a + woman's head protruded. + </p> + <p> + She stared at them without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brant,” Stephen said. “I'm come back, Mrs. Williams 'oping you might + 'ave that same room me and my friend might use if it's agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + She stepped forward then and looked at them more carefully. She was a + stout red-faced woman, her hair hanging about her face, her dirty bodice + drawn tightly over her enormous bosom and her skirt pulled up in front and + hanging, draggled behind her. Her long, dirty fingers went up to her face + continually; she had a way of pushing at her teeth with them. + </p> + <p> + She seemed, however, pleased to see Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Brant,” she said, “come in. It's a surprise I must say but + Lord! as I'm always telling Mrs. Griggs oo's on the bottom floor when she + can afford 'er rent which 'asn't been often lately, poor thing, owing to + 'aving 'er tenth only three weeks back, quite unexpected, and 'er man + being turned off 'is 'ouse-painting business what 'e's been at this ten + year and more—well come along in, I'm sure—” + </p> + <p> + They <i>were</i> in by this time having been urged by their hostess into + the very narrowest, darkest and smelliest passage that Peter had ever + encountered. Somewhere behind the walls, the world was moving. On every + side of him above and below, children were crying, voices swearing, + murmuring, complaining, arguing; Peter could feel Mrs. Williams' breath + hot against his cheek. Up the wheezy stairs she panted, they following + her. Peter had never heard such loquacity. It poured from her as though + she meant nothing whatever by it and was scarcely aware indeed of the + things that she was saying. “And it's a long time, Mr. Brant, since we 'ad + the pleasure of seeing you. My last 'usband's left me since yer was 'ere—indeed + 'e 'av—all along of a fight 'e 'ad with old Colly Moles down Three + Barrer walk—penal servitude, poor feller and all along of 'is nasty + temper as I was always tellin' 'im. Why the very morning before it + 'appened I remember sayin' to 'im when 'e up and threw a knife at me for + contradictin' 'is words I remember sayin' to 'im that 'is temper would be + the settlin' of me but 'e wouldn't listen, not 'e. Obstinate! Lord! that + simply isn't the word for it ... but 'ere's the room and nobody been in it + since Sairy Grace and she was always bringin' men along with 'er, dirty + slut and that's a month since she's been and gone and I always like 'aving + yer, Mr. Brant, for you're quiet enough and no trouble at all—and + your friend looks pleasant I must say.” + </p> + <p> + The room was, indeed, remarkably respectable—not blessed with much + furniture in addition to two beds and two chairs but roomy and with a + large and moderately clean window. + </p> + <p> + “Now what about terms for me and my friend?” said Stephen. + </p> + <p> + Now followed friendly argument in which the lady and Stephen seemed + perfectly to understand one another. After asserting that under no + circumstances whatever could she possibly take less than at least double + the price that Stephen offered her she suddenly, at the sound of a child's + shrill crying from below, shrugged her shoulders with: “There's young + 'Lisbeth Anne again ... well, Mr. Brant, 'ave it your own way—I'm + contented enough I'm sure,” and vanished. + </p> + <p> + But the little discussion had brought Peter to a sharp realisation of the + immediate business of ways and means. Sitting on one of the beds + afterwards with Stephen beside him he inquired— + </p> + <p> + “How much have we got, Stephen? I've got thirty bob.” + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind, Peter. We'll soon be gettin' work.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course. I'll force 'em to take me. That's all you want in these + things—to look fierce and say you won't go until they give you + something—a trial anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + And sitting there on the bed with Stephen beside him he felt immensely + confident. There was nothing that he could not do. With one swift movement + he seemed to have flung from him all the things that were beginning to + crowd in between him and his work. He must never, never allow that to + happen again—how could one ever be expected to work if one were + always thinking of other people, interested in them and their doings, + involved with anarchists and bombs and romantic adventures. Why here he + was with nothing in the world to hold him or to interfere and no one + except dear old Stephen with whom he must talk. Ambition crept very close + to him that night—ambition with its glittering, shining rewards, its + music and colours—close to him as he sat in that bare, naked room. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather be with you than any one in the world—we'll have such + times, you and I.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Stephen knew more about the world; perhaps during the years that + he had been tumbled and knocked about he had realised that the world was + no easy nut to crack and that loaves and fishes don't come to the hungry + for the asking. But Peter that night was to be appalled by nothing. + </p> + <p> + They sat up into the early morning, talking. The noises in the house and + in the streets about them rose and fell. Some distant cry would climb into + the silence and draw from it other cries set like notes of music to tumble + back into a common scheme together. + </p> + <p> + “Steve, tell me about Zanti. Is he really a scoundrel?” + </p> + <p> + “A scoundrel? No, poor feller. Why, Mr. Peter, you ought to know better + than that. 'E ain't got a spark of malice in him but 'e's always after + adventure. 'E knows all the queer people in Europe—and more'n Europe + too. There's nothin' 'e don't put 'is nose into in a clumsy, childish way + but always, you understand, Mr. Peter, because 'e's after 'is romantic + fancies. It was when 'e was after gold down in Cornwall—some old + treasure story—that I came across 'im and 'e was kind to me.... 'E + was a kind-'earted man, Mr. Zanti, and never meant 'arm to a soul. And + 'e's very fond of you, Mr. Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” Peter was vaguely troubled. “I hope I haven't been unkind + about him. I suppose it was the shock of the whole thing. But it was time + I went anyway. But tell me, Stephen, what you've been doing all these + years. And why you let me be all that time without seeing you—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Peter, I didn't think it would be good for you—I was + knowing lots o' strange people time and again and then you might have been + mixed up with me. I'm safe enough now, I'm thinking, and I'd have been + safe enough all the time the way Cornwall was then and every one + sympathising with me—” + </p> + <p> + “But what have you been doing all the time?” + </p> + <p> + “I was in America a bit and there are few things I haven't worked at in my + time—always waiting for 'er to come—and she will come some + time—it's only patience that's wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever heard from her?” + </p> + <p> + “There was a line once—just a line—<i>she's</i> all right.” + His great body seemed to glow with confidence. + </p> + <p> + Peter would like then to have spoken about Clare Rossiter. But no—some + shyness held him—one day he would tell Stephen. + </p> + <p> + He unpacked his few possessions carefully and then, on a very hard bed, + dreaming of bombs, of Mrs. Brockett dressed as a ballet dancer, of Mr. + Zanti digging for treasure beneath the grey flags of Bennett Square, of + Clare Elizabeth Rossiter riding down Oxford Street amidst the shouts of + the populace, of the world as a coloured globe on which he, Peter + Westcott, the author of that masterpiece, “Reuben Hallard,” had set his + foot ... so, triumphant, he slept. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + On the next morning the Attack on London began. The house in Bucket Lane + was dark and grim when he left it—the street was hidden from the + light and hung like a strip of black ribbon between the sunshine of the + broader highways that lay at each end of it. It was a Jewish + quarter-notices in Yiddish were in all the little grimy shop windows, in + the bakers and the sweetshops and the laundries. But it was not, this + Bucket Lane, a street without its dignity and its own personal little + cleanliness. It had its attempts at such things. His own room and Mrs. + Williams' tea and bread and butter had been clean. + </p> + <p> + But as he came down out of these strange murmuring places with their sense + of hiding from the world at large the things that they were occupied in + doing, Bucket Lane stuck in his head as a dark little quarry into which he + must at the day's end, whatever gorgeous places he had meanwhile + encountered, creep. “Creeping” was the only way to get into such a place. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile he had put on his best, had blackened his shoes until they shone + like little mirrors, had brushed his bowler hat again and again and looked + finally like a sailor on shore for a holiday. Seven years in Charing Cross + Road had not taken the brown from his cheeks, nor bent his broad + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + At the Mansion House he climbed on to the top of a lumbering omnibus and + sailed down through the City. It was now that he discovered how seldom + during his seven years he had ventured beyond his little square of + country. Below him, on either side of him, black swarms stirred and moved, + now forming ahead of him patterns, squares, circles, then suddenly rising + it appeared like insects and in a cloud surging against the high stone + buildings. All men—men moving with eyes straight ahead of them, bent + furiously upon some business, but assembling, retreating, advancing, it + seemed, by the order of some giant hand that in the air above them played + a game. Imagine that, in some moment of boredom, the Hand were to brush + the little pieces aside, were to close the board and put it away, then, + with what ignominy and feeble helplessness would these little black + figures topple clumsily into heaps. + </p> + <p> + Down through the midst of them the omnibus, like a man with an impediment + in his speech, surrounded by the chatter of cabs and carts and bicycles, + stammered its way. The streets opened and shut, shouts came up to them and + fell away. Peter's heart danced—London was here at last and the + silence of Bennett Square, the dark omens of Bucket Lane and the clamour + of the city had together been the key for the unlocking of its gates. + </p> + <p> + Ludgate Hill caught them into its heart, held them for an instant, and + then flung them down in the confusion of Fleet Street. + </p> + <p> + Here it was at last then with its typewriters and its telephones and its + printing machines hurling with a whir and clatter the news of the world + into the air, and above it brooding, like an immense brain—the God + of its restless activity—the Dome of St. Paul's. + </p> + <p> + Peter climbed down from his omnibus because he saw on his right a Public + Reading Room. Here in tattered and anxious company, he studied the papers + and took down addresses in a note book. He was frightened for an instant + by the feet that shuffled up and down the floor from paper to paper. There + was something most hopeless in the sound of that shuffle. + </p> + <p> + “'Ave yer a cigarette on yer, Mister, that yer wouldn't mind—” + </p> + <p> + He turned round and at once, like blows, two fierce gaunt eyes struck him + in the face. Two eyes staring from some dirty brown pieces of cloth on + end, it seemed, by reason of their own pathetic striving for notice, + rather than because of any life inside them. + </p> + <p> + Peter murmured something and hurried away. Supposing that editors ... but + no, this was not the proper beginning of a successful day. But the place, + down steps under the earth, with its miserable shadows was not pleasant to + remember. + </p> + <p> + His first visit was to the office of <i>The Morning World</i>. He + remembered his remark to Stephen about self-assertion, but his heart sank + as he entered the large high room with its railed counter running round + the centre of it—a barrier cold, impassable. Already several people + were sitting on chairs that were ranged along the wall. + </p> + <p> + Peter went up boldly to the counter and a very thin young man with a stone + hatchet instead of a face and his hair very wonderfully parted in the + middle—so accurately parted that Peter could think of nothing else—watched + him coldly over the barrier. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do for you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see the Editor.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you an appointment?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm afraid that it would be impossible without an appointment.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there any one whom I could see?” + </p> + <p> + “If you could tell me your business, perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + Peter began to be infuriated with this young man with the hatchet face. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know if there's any place for me on this paper. If I can—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” The voice was very cold indeed and the iron barrier seemed to + multiply itself over and over again all round the room. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid in that case you had better write to the Editor and make an + appointment. No, I'm afraid there is no one...” + </p> + <p> + Peter melted away. The faces on the chairs were all very glad. The stone + building echoed with some voice that called some one a long way away. + Peter was in the street. He stood outside the great offices of <i>The + Morning World</i> and looked across the valley at the great dome that + squatted above the moving threads of living figures. He was absurdly upset + by this unfortunate interview. What could he have expected? Of what use + was it that he should fling his insignificance against that kind of wall? + Moreover he must try many times before his chance would be given him. It + was absurd that he should mind that rebuff. But the hatchet-faced young + man pursued him. He seemed to see now as he looked up and down the street, + a hostility in the faces of those that passed him. Moreover he saw, here + and there figures, wretched figures, moving in and out of the crowd, + bending into the gutter for something that had been dropped—lean, + haggard faces, burning eyes ... he began to see them as a chain that + wound, up and down, amongst the people and the carriages along the street. + </p> + <p> + He pulled himself together—If he was feeling these things at the + very beginning of his battle why then defeat was certain. He was ashamed + and, looking at his paper, chose the offices of <i>The Mascot</i>, a very + popular society journal that brightened the world with its cheerful + good-tempered smile, every Friday morning. Here the room in which he found + himself was small and cosy, it had a bright pink wall-paper, and behind a + little shining table a shining young woman beamed upon him. The shining + young woman was, however, very busy at her typewriter and Peter was + examined by a tiny office boy who seemed to be made entirely of shining + brass buttons and shining little boots and shining hair. + </p> + <p> + “And what can I do for you, sir?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see the Editor,” Peter explained. + </p> + <p> + “Your name?” said the Shining One. + </p> + <p> + Peter had no cards. He blamed himself for the omission and stammered in + his reply. + </p> + <p> + The Boy gave the lady at the typewriter a very knowing look and + disappeared. He swiftly returned and said that Mr. Boset could see Mr. + Westcott for a few minutes, but for a few minutes only. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boset sat resplendent in a room that was coloured a bright green. He + was himself stout and red-faced and of a surpassing smartness, his light + blue suit was very tight at the waist and very broad over the hips, his + white spats gleamed, his pearl pin stared like an eye across the room, his + neck bulged in red folds over his collar. Mr. Boset was eating chocolates + out of a little cardboard box and his attention was continually held by + the telephone that summoned him to its side at frequent intervals. He was + however exceedingly pleasant. He begged Peter to take a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute, Mr. Westcott, will you? Yes—hullo—yes—This + is 6140 Strand. Hullo! Hullo! Oh—is that you, Mrs. Wyman? Good + morning—yes, splendid, thank you—never fitter—Very busy + yes, of course—what—Lunch Thursday?... Oh, but delighted. Just + let me look at my book a moment? Yes—quite free—Who? The + Frasers and Pigots? Oh! delightful! 1.30, delightful!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boset, settled once more in his chair, was as charming as possible. + You would suppose that the whole day was at Peter's service. He wanted to + know a great many things. Peter's hopes ran high. + </p> + <p> + “Well—what have you got to show? What have you written?” + </p> + <p> + Peter had written a novel. + </p> + <p> + “Published?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well ... got anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “No—not just at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh well—must have something to show you know—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Peter's hopes were in his boots. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—must have something to show—” Mr. Boset's eyes were + peering into the cardboard box on a voyage of selection. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—well—when you've written something send it along—” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose there isn't anything I can do—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, our staff, you know, is filled up to the eyes as it is—fellows + waiting—lots of 'em—yes, you show us what you can do. Write an + article or two. Buy <i>The Mascot</i> and see the kind of thing we like. + Yes—Excuse me, the telephone—Yes—Yes 6140 Strand....” + </p> + <p> + Peter found himself once more in the outer room and then ushered forth by + the Shining Boy he was in the street. + </p> + <p> + He was hungry now and sought an A.B.C. shop and there over the cold + marble-topped tables consulted his list. The next attempt should be <i>The + Saturday Illustrated</i>, one of the leading illustrated weeklies, and + perhaps there he would be more successful. As he sat in the A.B.C. shop + and watched the squares of street opposite the window he felt suddenly + that no effort of his would enable him to struggle successfully against + those indifferent crowds. + </p> + <p> + Above the houses in the patch of blue sky that filled the window-pane soft + bundles of cloud streamed like flags before the wind. Into these soft grey + meshes the sun was swept and with a cold shudder Fleet Street fell into + shadow; beyond it and above it the great dome burned; a company of + sandwich men, advertising on their stooping bodies the latest musical + comedy, crept along the gutter. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + At the offices of <i>The Saturday Illustrated</i> they told him that if he + returned at four o'clock he would be able to see the Editor. He walked + about and at last sat down on the Embankment and watched the barges slide + down the river. The water was feathery and sometimes streamed into lines + like spun silk reflecting many colours, and above the water the clouds + turned and wheeled and changed against the limpid blue. The little slap + that the motion of the river gave to the stone embankment reminded him of + the wooden jetty at Treliss—the place was strangely sweet—the + roar of the Strand was far away and muffled. + </p> + <p> + As he sat there listening there seemed to come up to him, straight out of + the river, strange impersonal noises that had to do with no definite + sounds. He was reminded of a story that he had once read, a story + concerning a nice young man who caught the disease known as the Horror of + London. Peter thought that in the air, coming from nowhere, intangible, + floating between the river and the sky something stirred.... + </p> + <p> + Big Ben struck quarter to four and he turned once more into the Strand. + </p> + <p> + The editor of <i>The Saturday Illustrated</i> was a very different person + from Mr. Boset. At a desk piled with papers, stern, gaunt and + sharp-chinned, his words rattled out of his mouth like peas onto a plate. + But Peter saw that he had humorous twinkling eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what can you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I've never tried anything—but I feel that I should learn—” + </p> + <p> + “Learn! Do you suppose this office is a nursery shop for teaching + sucklings how to draw their milk? Are you ready for anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—they all say that. Journalism isn't any fun, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not looking for fun.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's the damnedest trade out. Anything's better. But you want to + write?” + </p> + <p> + “I must.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—exactly. Well, I like the look of you. More blood and bones + than most of the rotten puppies that come into this office. I've no job + for you at the moment though. Go back to your digs and write something—anything + you like—and send it along—leave me your address. Oh, ho! + Bucket Lane—hard up?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, I wasn't offering you charity—no need to put your pride + up. I shan't forget you ... but send me something.” + </p> + <p> + The clouds had now enveloped the sun. As Peter, a little encouraged by + this last experience but tired with a dull, listless fatigue, crept into + the dark channels of Bucket Lane, the rain began to fall with heavy solemn + drops. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <h3> + DEVIL'S MARCH + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + There could be nothing odder than the picture that Brockett's and Bennett + Square presented from the vantage ground of Bucket Lane. How peaceful and + happy those evenings (once considered a little dreary perhaps and + monotonous) now seemed! Those mornings in the dusty bookshop, Mr. Zanti, + Herr Gottfried, Mrs. Brockett, then Brockett's with its strange + kind-hearted company—the dining-room, the marble pillars, the green + curtains—Norah Monogue! + </p> + <p> + Not only did it seem another lifetime when he had been there but also + inevitably, one was threatened with never getting back. Bucket Lane was + another world—from its grimy windows one looked upon every tragedy + that life had to offer. Into its back courts were born muddled indecent + little lives, there blindly to wallow until the earth called them back to + itself again. + </p> + <p> + But it was in the attitude of Bucket Lane to the Great Inevitable that the + essential difference was to be observed. In Bennett Square things had been + expected and, for the most part, obtained. Catastrophes came lumbering + into their midst at times but rising in the morning one might decently + expect to go to rest at night in safety. In Bucket Lane there was no + safety but defiance—fierce, bitterly humorous, truculent defiance. + Bucket Lane was a beleaguered army that stood behind the grime and dirty + walls on guard. From the earliest moment there the faces of all the babies + born into Bucket Lane caught the strain of cautious resistance that was + always to remain with them. Life in Bucket Lane, for every one from the + youngest infant to the oldest idiot, was War. War against Order and + Civilised Force. War also against that great unseen Hand that might at any + moment swoop down upon any one of them and bestow fire, death and + imprisonment upon its victims. To the ladies and gentlemen from the + Mission the citizens of Bucket Lane presented an amused and cynical + tolerance. If those poor, meek, frightened creatures chose some + faint-hearted attempts at flattery and submission before this abominable + Deity—well, they did no harm. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Williams said to Miss Connacher, a bright-faced young woman from St. + Matthew's Mission—“And I'm sure we're always delighted to see you, + Miss. But you can't 'ave us goin' and being grateful on our bended knees + to the sort of person as according to your account of it gave me my first + 'usband 'oo was a blackguard if ever there was one, and my last child wot + 'ad rickets and so 'andsomely arranged me to go breakin' my leg one night + coming back from a party and sliding on the stairs, and in losin' my + little bit o' charin' and as near the workus as ever yer see—no—it + ain't common sense.” + </p> + <p> + To which Miss Connacher vaguely looking around for a list of Mrs. + Williams' blessings and finding none to speak of, had no reply. + </p> + <p> + But the astonishing thing was that Peter seemed at once to be seized with + the Bucket Lane position. He was now, he understood, in a world of + earthquake—wise citizens lived from minute to minute and counted on + no longer safety. He began also to eliminate everything that was not + absolutely essential. At Brockett's he had never consciously done without + anything that he wanted—in Bucket Lane he discarded to the last + possible shred of possession. + </p> + <p> + He had returned from his first day's hunting with the resolve that before + he ventured out again he would have something to show. With a precious + sixpence he bought a copy of <i>The Mascot</i> and studied it—there + was a short story entitled “Mrs. Adair's Co.”—and an article on + “What Society Drinks”—the remaining pages of the number were filled + with pictures and “Chatter from Day to Day.” This gaily-coloured + production lying on one of the beds in the dark room in Bucket Lane seemed + singularly out of place. Its pages fluttered in the breeze that came + through the window cracks—“Maison Tep” it cried feebly to the + screaming children in the court below, “is a very favourite place for + supper just now, with Maitre Savori as its popular chef and its admirably + stocked cellars....” + </p> + <p> + Peter gave himself a fortnight in which to produce something that he could + “show.” Stephen meanwhile had found work as a waiter in one of the small + Soho restaurants; it was only a temporary engagement but he hoped to get + something better within a week or two. + </p> + <p> + For the moment all was well. At the end of his fortnight, with four things + written Peter meant to advance once more to the attack. Meanwhile he sat + with a pen, a penny bottle of ink and an exercise book and did what he + could. At the end of the fortnight he had written “The Sea Road,” an essay + for which Robert Louis Stevenson was largely responsible, “The Redgate + Mill,” a story of the fantastic, terrible kind, “Stones for Bread,” + moralising on Bucket Lane, and the “Red-Haired Boy,” a somewhat bitter + reminiscence of Dawson's. Of this the best was undoubtedly “The Sea Road,” + but in his heart of hearts Peter knew that there was something the matter + with all of them. “Reuben Hallard” he had written because he had to write + it, these four things he had written because he ought to write them ... + difference sufficient. Nevertheless, he put them into halfpenny wrappes + and sent them away. + </p> + <p> + In the struggle to produce these things he had not found that fortnight + wearisome. Before him, every day, there was the evening when Stephen would + return, to which he might look forward. Stephen was always very late—often + it was two o'clock before he came in, but they had a talk before going to + sleep. And here in these evenings Stephen developed in the most wonderful + way, developed because Peter had really never known him before. + </p> + <p> + Stephen had never appeared to Peter as a character at all. In the early + days Peter had been too young. Stephen had, at that time, been simply + something to be worshipped, without any question or statement. Now that + worshipping had gone and the space that it left had to be filled by some + new relationship, something that could only come slowly, out of the close + juxtaposition that living together in Bucket Lane had provided. + </p> + <p> + And it was Stephen who found, unconsciously and quite simply, the shape + and colour of Peter's idea of him. Peter had in reality, nothing at all to + do with it, and had Stephen been a whit more self-conscious the effect + would have been spoiled. + </p> + <p> + In the first place Peter came quite freshly to the way that Stephen + looked. Stephen expressed nothing, consciously, with his body; it was + wonderful indeed considering its size and strength, the little that he + managed to do with it. His eyes were mild and amiable, his face largely + covered with a deep brown beard, once wildly flowing, now sharply pointed. + He was at least six foot four in height, the breadth of shoulder was + tremendous, but although he knew admirably what to do with it as a means + of conveyance, of sheer physical habit, he had no conception of the + possibilities that it held as the expression of his soul. That soul was to + be found, by those who cared to look for it, glancing from his eyes, + struggling sometimes through the swift friendliness of his smile—but + he gave it no invitation. It all came, perhaps, from the fact that he + treated himself—if anything so unconscious may be called treatment—as + the very simplest creature alive. The word introspection meant nothing to + him whatever, there were in life certain direct sharp motives and on these + he acted. He never thought of himself or of any one else in terms of + complexity; the body acted simply through certain clear and direct + physical laws ... so the spirit. He loved the woman who had dominated his + whole life and one day he would find her and marry her. He loved Peter as + he would love a son of his own if he possessed one, and he would be at + Peter's side so long as Peter needed him, and would rather be there than + anywhere else. For the rest life was a matter of birth and death, of + loving one man and hating another, of food and drink, and—but this + last uncertainly—of some strange thrill that was stirred in him, at + times, by certain sights and sounds. + </p> + <p> + He was glad to have been born ... he would be quite ready to die. He did + not question the reason of the one state or the other. For the very fact + that life was so simple and unentangled he clung, with the tenacity and + dumb force of an animal to the things that he had. Peter felt, vaguely, + from time to time, the strength with which Stephen held to him. It was + never expressed in word nor in action but it came leaping sometimes, like + fire, into the midst of their conversation—it was never tangible—always + illusive. + </p> + <p> + To Peter's progress this simplicity of Stephen was of vast importance. The + boy had now reached an age and a period where emotions, judgments, + partialities, conclusions and surmises were fighting furiously for + dominion. His seven years at Brockett's had been, introspectively, of + little moment. He had been too busy discovering the things that other + people had discovered and written down to think very much about himself. + </p> + <p> + Now released from the domination of books, he plunged into a whirlpool of + surmise about himself. During the fortnight that he sat writing his + articles in Bucket Lane he flew, he sank, according to his moods. It + seemed to him that as soon as he had decided on one path and set out + eagerly to follow it others crossed it and bewildered him. + </p> + <p> + He was now on that unwholesome, absorbing, thrilling, dangerous path of + self-discovery. Opposed to this was the inarticulate, friendly soul of + Stephen. Stephen understood nothing and at the same time understood + everything. Against the testing of his few simple laws Peter's + complexities often vanished ... but vanished only to recur again, + unsatisfied, demanding a subtler answer. It was during those days, through + all the trouble and even horror that so shortly came upon them both, that + Stephen realised with a dull, unreasoned pain, like lead at the heart, + that Peter was passing inevitably from him into a country whither Stephen + could not follow—to deal with issues that Stephen could not, in any + kind of way, understand. Stephen realised this many days before Peter even + dimly perceived it, and the older man by the love that he had for the boy + whom he had known from the very first period of his growth was enabled, + although dimly, to see beyond, above all these complexities, to a day when + Peter would once more, having learnt and suffered much in the meanwhile, + come back to that first simplicity. + </p> + <p> + But that day was far distant. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + On the evening of the day on which Peter finished the last of his five + attempts to take the London journals by storm Stephen returned from his + restaurant earlier than usual—so early indeed, that Peter, had he + not been so bent on his own immediate affairs, must have noticed and + questioned it. He might, too, have observed that Stephen, now and again, + shot an anxious, troubled glance at him as though he were uneasy about + something. + </p> + <p> + But Peter, since six o'clock that evening, at which moment he had written + the concluding sentence of “The Sea Road,” had been in deep and troubled + thought concerning himself, and broke from that introspection, on + Stephen's arrival, in a state of unhappy morbidity and entire + self-absorption. + </p> + <p> + Their supper was beer, sardines and cheese. + </p> + <p> + “It's been pretty awful here this evening,” Peter said. “Old Trubbit on + the floor below's been beating his wife and she's been screaming like + anything. I couldn't stand it, after a bit, and went down to see what I + could do. The family was mopping her head with water and he was sitting on + a chair, crying. Drunk again, of course, but he was turned off his job + apparently this afternoon. They're closing down.” + </p> + <p> + “'Ard luck,” said Stephen, looking at the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—it hasn't been altogether cheerful—and his getting the + chuck like that set me thinking. It's awfully lucky you've got your job + all right and of course now I've written these things and have got + 'something to show,' I'll be all right.” Peter paused for a moment a + little uncertainly. “But it does, you know, make one a bit frightened, + this place, seeing the way people get suddenly bowled over. There were the + Gambits—a fortnight ago he was in work and they were as fit as + anything ... they haven't had any food now for three days.” + </p> + <p> + “There ain't anything to be frightened about,” Stephen said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I know. But Stephen, suppose I <i>don't</i> get work, after all. I've + been so confident all this time, but I mightn't be able to do the job a + bit.... I suppose this place is getting on my nerves but—I could get + awfully frightened if I let myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you'll be all right. Of course you'll be getting something—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I hate spending your money like this. Do you know, Stephen, I'd + almost rather you were out of work too. That sounds a rotten thing to say + but I hate being given it all like this, especially when you haven't got + much of your own either—” + </p> + <p> + “Between friends,” said Stephen slowly, swinging his leg backwards and + forwards and making the bed creak under his weight, “there aren't any + giving or taking—it's just common.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I know,” said Peter hurriedly, frightened lest he should have + hurt his feelings, “of course it's all right between you and me. But all + the same I'm rather eager to be earning part of it.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a time. Bucket Lane too seemed silent and through + their little window, between the black roofs and chimneys, a cluster of + stars twinkled as though they had found their way, by accident, into a + very dirty neighbourhood and were trying to get out of it again. + </p> + <p> + Peter was busy fishing for his thoughts; at last he caught one and held it + out to Stephen's innocent gaze. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't,” he said, “like anything so much as catching a disease from an + infectious neighbourhood. I think if I lived here with five thousand a + year I should still be frightened. It's in the air.” + </p> + <p> + “Being frightened,” said Stephen rather hurriedly and speaking with a kind + of shame, as though he had done something to which he would rather not own + up, “is a kind of 'abit. Very soon, Peter, you'll know what it's like and + take it as it comes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Peter, “if it's that kind of being frightened—seeing I + mean quite clearly the things you're frightened of—why, that's + pretty easy. One of the first books I ever read—'Henry Lessingham,' + by Galleon, you know, I've talked about him to you—had a long bit + about it—courage I mean. He made it a kind of parable, countries + you'd got to go through before you'd learnt to be really brave; and the + first, and by far the easiest courage is the sort that you want when you + haven't got things—the sort the Gambits want—when you're + starving or out of a job. Well, that's I suppose the easiest kind and yet + I'm funking it. So what on earth am I going to do when the harder business + comes along? ... Stephen, I'm beginning to have a secret and uncomfortable + suspicion that your friend, Peter Westcott, is a poor creature.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank the Lord,” said Stephen furiously and kicking out with his leg as + though he had got some especial enemy's back directly in front of him, + “that you've finished them damned articles. You've been sittin' here + thinkin' and writin' till you've given yerself blue devils—down-along, + too, with all them poor creatures hittin' each other and drinkin'—I + oughtn't to have left yer up here so much alone—” + </p> + <p> + “No—you couldn't help it, Stephen—it's nothing to do with you. + It's all more than you can manage and nobody in the world can help me. + It's seven years and a bit now since I left Cornwall, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Stephen, looking across at him. + </p> + <p> + “All that time I've never had a word nor a sign from any one there. Well, + you might have thought that that would be long enough to break right away + from it.... Well, it isn't—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you go thinking about all that time. You've cleared it right away—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven't cleared it—that's just the point. I don't suppose one + ever clears anything. All the time I was with Zanti I was reading so hard + and living so safely that it was only at moments, when I was alone, that I + thought about Treliss at all. But these last weeks it's been coming on me + full tide.” + </p> + <p> + “What's been coming on you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Scaw House, I suppose ... and my father and grandfather. My + grandfather told me once that I couldn't escape from the family and I + can't—it's the most extraordinary thing—” + </p> + <p> + Stephen saw that Peter was growing agitated; his hands were clenched and + his face was white. + </p> + <p> + “Mind you, I've seen my grandfather and father both go under it. My father + went down all in a moment. It isn't any one thing—you can call it + drink if you like—but it's simply three parts of us aching to go to + the bad ... aching, that's the word. Anything rotten—women or drink + or anything you like—as long as we lose control and let the devil + get the upper hand. Let him get it once—<i>really</i> get it—and + we're really done—” + </p> + <p> + Peter paused for a moment and then went on hurriedly as though he were + telling a story and had only a little time in which to tell it. + </p> + <p> + “But that isn't all—it's worse than that. I've been feeling these + last weeks as though my father were sitting there in that beastly house + with that filthy woman—and willing me—absolutely with all his + might—to go under—” + </p> + <p> + “But what is it,” said Stephen, going, as always, to the simplest aspect + of the case, “that you exactly want to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know ... just to let loose the whole thing—I did break + out once at Brockett's—I've never told anybody, but I got badly + drunk one night and then went back with some woman.... Oh! it was all + filthy—but I was mad, wild, for hours ... insane—and that + night, in the middle of it all, sitting there as plainly as you please, + there in Scaw House, I saw my father—as plainly as I see you—” + </p> + <p> + “All young men,” said Stephen, “'ave got to go through a bit of filth. You + aren't the sort of fellow, Peter, that stays there. Your wanting not to + shows that you'll come out of it all right.” + </p> + <p> + Here was a case where Stephen's simplicities were obviously of little + avail. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but don't you see,” said Peter impatiently, “it's not the thing + itself that I feel matters so much, although that's rotten enough, but + it's the beastly devil—real, personal—I tell you I saw him + catch my grandfather as tight as though he'd been there in the room ... + and my father, too. I tell you, this last week or two I've been almost mad + ... wanting to chuck it all, this fighting and the rest and just go down + and grovel...” + </p> + <p> + “I expect it's regular work you're wanting,” said Stephen, “keeping your + mind busy. It's bad to 'ave your sort of brain wandering round with + nothing to feed on. It'll be all right, boy, in a day or two when you've + got some work.” + </p> + <p> + Peter's head dropped forward on to his hands. “I don't know—it's + like going round in a circle. You see, Stephen, what makes it all so + difficult is—well, I don't know ... why I haven't told you before + ... but the fact is—I'm in love—” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it a while back,” said Stephen quietly, “watching your face when + you didn't know I was lookin'—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's all hopeless, of course. I don't suppose I shall ever see her + again ... but that's what's made this looking for work so difficult—I've + been wanting to get on—and every day seems to place her further + away. And then when I get hopeless these other devils come round and say + 'Oh well, you can't get her, you know. That's as impossible as anything—so + you'd better have your fling while you can....' My God! I'm a beast!” + </p> + <p> + The cry broke from him with a bitterness that filled the bare little room. + </p> + <p> + Stephen, after a little, got up and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody ain't going to touch you while I'm here,” he said simply as though + he were challenging devils and men alike. + </p> + <p> + Peter looked up and smiled. “What an old brick you are,” he said. “Do you + remember that fight Christmas time, years ago? ... You're always like + that.... I've been an ass to bother you with it all and while we've got + each other things can't be so bad.” He got up and stretched his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's bedtime, especially as you've got to be off early to that old + restaurant—” + </p> + <p> + Stephen stepped back from him. + </p> + <p> + “I've been meaning to tell you,” he said, “that's off. The place ain't + paying and the boss shut four of us down to-night ... I'm not to go back + ... Peter, boy,” he finished, almost triumphantly. “We're up against it + ... I've got a quid in my pocket and that's all there is to it.” + </p> + <p> + They faced one another whilst the candle behind them guttered and blew in + the window cracks, and the cluster of stars, still caught in the dirty + roofs and chimneys of Bucket Lane, twinkled, desperately—in vain. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <h3> + STEPHEN'S CHAPTER + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + No knight—the hero of any chronicle—ever went forward to his + battle with a braver heart than did Peter now in his desperate adventure + against the world. His morbidity, his introspection, his irritation with + Stephen's simplicities fled from him... he was gay, filled with the + glamour of showing what one could do... he did not doubt but that a + fortnight would see him in a magnificent position. And then—the + fortnight passed and he and Stephen had still their positions to discover—the + money moreover was almost at an end... another fortnight would behold them + penniless. + </p> + <p> + It was absurd—it was monstrous, incredible. Life was not like that—Peter + bit his lip and set out again. Editors had not, on most occasions, + vouchsafed him even an interview. Then had come no answer to the four + halfpenny wrappers. The world, like a wall of shining steel, closed him in + with impenetrable silence. + </p> + <p> + It was absurd—it was monstrous. Peter fought desperately, as a bird + beats with its wings on the bars of its cage. They were having the worst + of luck. On several occasions he had been just too late and some one had + got the position before him. Stephen too found that the places where he + had worked before had now no job for him. “It was the worst time in the + world... a month ago now or possibly in a month's time....” + </p> + <p> + Stephen did not tell the boy that away from London there were many things + that he could do—the boy was not up to tramping. Indeed, nothing was + more remarkable than the way in which Peter's strength seemed to strain, + like a flood, away. It was, perhaps, a matter of nerves as much as + physical strength—the boy was burning with the anxiety of it, + whereas to Stephen this was no new experience. Peter saw it in the light + of some horrible disaster that belonged, in all the world's history, to + him alone. He came back at the end of one of his days, white, his eyes + almost closed, his fingers twitching, his head hanging a little ... very + silent. + </p> + <p> + He seemed to feel bitterly the ignominy of it as though he were realising, + for the first time, that nobody wanted him. He had come now to be ready to + do anything, anything in the world, and he had the look of one who was + ready to do anything. His blue coat was shiny, his boots had been patched + by Stephen—there were deep black hollows under his eyes and his + mouth had become thin and hard. + </p> + <p> + Stephen—having himself his own distresses to support—watched + the boy with acute anxiety. He felt with increasing unhappiness, that here + was an organism, a temperament, that was new to him, that was beyond his + grasp. Peter saw things in it all—this position of a desperate cry + for work—that he, Stephen, had never seen at all. Peter would sit in + the evening, in his chair, staring in front of him, silent, and hearing + nothing that Stephen said to him. With Stephen life was a case of having + money or not having it—if one had not money one went without + everything possible and waited until the money came again ... the tide was + sure to turn. But, with Peter, this was all a fight against his father who + sat, apparently, in the dark rooms at Scaw House, willing disaster. Now, + as Stephen and all the sensible world knew, this was nonsense— + </p> + <p> + It was also, in some still stranger way, a fight against London itself—not + London, a place of streets and houses, of Oxford Street and Piccadilly + Circus but London, an animal—a kind of dragon as far as Stephen + could make it out with scales and a tail— + </p> + <p> + Now what was one to make of this except that the boy's head was being + turned and that he ought to see a doctor. + </p> + <p> + There was also the further question of an appeal to Brockett's or Mr. + Zanti. Stephen knew that Herr Gottfried or Mr. Zanti would lend help + eagerly did they but know, and he supposed, from the things that Peter had + told him, that there were also warm friends at Brockett's; but the boy had + made him swear, with the last order of solemnity, that he would send no + word to either place. Peter had said that he would never speak to him + again should he do such a thing. He had said that should he once obtain an + independent position then he would go back ... but not before. + </p> + <p> + Stephen did not know what to do nor where to go. In another month's time + the rent could not be paid and then they must go into the street and Peter + was in no condition for that—he should rather be in bed. Mrs. + Williams, it is true, would not be hard upon them, for she was a kind + woman and had formed a great liking for Peter, but she had only enough + herself to keep her family alive and she must, for her children's sake, + let the room. + </p> + <p> + To Stephen, puzzling in vain and going round and round in a hopeless + circle, it seemed as though Peter's brains were locked in an iron box and + they could not find a key. For himself, well, it was natural enough! But + Peter, with that genius, that no one should want him! + </p> + <p> + And yet through it all, at the back of the misery and distress of it, + there was a wild pride, a fierce joy that he had the key with him, that he + was all in the world to whom the boy might look, that to him and to him + alone, in this wild, cold world Peter now belonged. + </p> + <p> + It was his moment.... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + At the end of a terrible day of disastrous rejections Peter, stumbling + down the Strand, was conscious of a little public-house, with a neat + bow-window, that stood back from the street. At the bottom of his trouser + pocket a tiny threepenny piece that Stephen had, that morning, thrust upon + him, turned round and round in his fingers. He had not spent it—he + had intended to restore it to Stephen in the evening. He had meant, too, + to walk back all the way to Bucket Lane but now he felt that he could not + do that unless he were first to take something. This little inn with its + bow-windows.... Down the Strand in the light of the setting sun, he saw + again that which he had often seen during these last weeks—that + chain of gaunt figures that moved with bending backs and twisted fingers, + on and out of the crowds and the carriages—The beggars!... He felt, + already, that they knew that he was soon to be one of their number, that + every day, every hour brought him nearer to their ranks. An old man, + dirty, in rags, stepped with an eager eye past him and stooped for a + moment into the gutter. He rose again, slipping something into his pocket + of his tattered coat. He gave Peter a glance—to the boy it seemed a + glance of triumphant recognition and then he had slipped away. + </p> + <p> + Peter had had very little to eat during these last days and to-night, for + the first time, things began to take an uncertain shape. As he stood on + the kerb and looked, it seemed to him that the Strand was the sea-road at + Treliss, that the roar of the traffic was the noise that the sea made, far + below them. If one could see round the corner, there where the sun flung a + patch of red light, one would come upon Scaw House in its dark clump of + trees—and through the window of that front room, Peter could see his + father and that old woman, one on each side of the fire-place, drinking. + </p> + <p> + But the sea-road was stormy to-night, its noise was loud in Peter's ears. + And then the way that people brushed against him as they passed recalled + him to himself and he slipped back almost into the bow-window of the + little inn. He was feeling very unwell and there was a burning pain in his + chest that hurt him when he drew a deep breath ... and then too he was + very cold and his teeth chattered in fits as though he had suddenly lost + control of them and they had become some other person's teeth. + </p> + <p> + Well, why not go into the little inn and have a drink? Then he would go + back to Bucket Lane and lie down and never wake again. For he was so tired + that he had never known before what it was to be tired at all—only + Stephen would not let him sleep.... Stephen was cruel and would not let + him alone. No one would let him alone—the world had treated him very + evilly—what did he owe the world? + </p> + <p> + He would go now and surrender to these things, these things that were + stronger than he ... he would drink and he would sleep and that should be + the end of everything ... the blessed end. + </p> + <p> + He swayed a little on his feet and he put his hand to his forehead in + order that he might think more clearly. + </p> + <p> + Some one had said once to him a great many years ago—“It is not life + that matters but the Courage that you bring to it.” Well, that was untrue. + He would like to tell the man who had said that that he was a liar. No + Courage could be enough if life chose to be hard. No Courage— + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, the thought of somewhere a long time ago when some one had + said that to him, slowly filled his tired brain with a distaste for the + little inn with the bow-windows. He would not go there yet, just a little + while and then he would go. + </p> + <p> + Almost dreaming—certainly seeing nothing about him that he + recognised—he stumbled confusedly down to the Embankment. Here there + was at any rate air, he drew his shabby blue coat more closely about him + and sat down on a wooden bench, in company with a lady who wore a large + damaged feather in her hat and a red stained blouse with torn lace upon it + and a skirt of a bright and tarnished blue. + </p> + <p> + The lady gave him a nod. + </p> + <p> + “Cheer, chucky,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Peter made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “Down on your uppers? My word, you look bad—Poor Kid! Well, never + say die—strike me blimy but there's a good day coming—” + </p> + <p> + “I sat here once before,” said Peter, leaning forward and addressing her + very earnestly, “and it was the first time that I ever heard the noise + that London makes. If you listen you can hear it now—London's a + beast you know—” + </p> + <p> + But the lady had paid very little attention. “Men are beasts, beasts,” she + said, scowling at a gap in the side of her boots, “beasts, that's what + they are. 'Aven't 'ad any luck the last few nights. Suppose I'm losin' my + looks sittin' out 'ere in the mud and rain. There was a time, young + feller, my lad, when I 'ad my carriage, not 'arf!” She spat in front of + her—“'E was a good sort, 'e was—give me no end of a time ... + but the lot of men I've been meetin' lately ain't fit to be called men—they + ain't—mean devils—leavin' me like this, curse 'em!” She + coughed. The sun had set now and the lights were coming out, like glass + beads on a string on the other side of the river. “Stoppin' out all night, + ducky? Stayin' 'ere? 'Cause I got a bit of a cough!—disturbs fellers + a bit ... last feller said as 'ow 'e couldn't get a bit o' sleep because + of it—damned rot I call it. 'Owever it isn't out of doors you ought + to be sittin', chucky. Feelin' bad?” + </p> + <p> + Peter looked at her out of his half-closed eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I can't bother any more,” he said to her sleepily. “They're so cruel—they + won't let me go to sleep. I've got a pain here—in my chest you know. + Have you got a pain in your chest?” + </p> + <p> + “My leg's sore,” she answered, “where a chap kicked me last week—just + because—oh well,” she paused modestly and spat again—“It's + comin' on cold.” + </p> + <p> + A cold little wind was coming up the river, ruffling the tips of the trees + and turning the leaves of the plane-trees back as though it wanted to + clean the other sides of them. + </p> + <p> + Peter got up unsteadily. “I'm going home to sleep,” he said, “I'm + dreadfully tired. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “So long, chucky,” the lady with the damaged feather said to him. He left + her eyeing discontentedly the hole in her boot and trying to fasten, with + confused fingers, the buttons of the red blouse. + </p> + <p> + Peter mechanically, as one walking in a dream, crept into an omnibus. + Mechanically he left it and mechanically climbed the stairs of the house + in Bucket Lane. There were two fixed thoughts in his brain—one was + that no one in the world had ever before been as thirsty as he was, and + that he would willingly commit murder or any violence if thereby he might + obtain drink, and the other thought was that Stephen was his enemy, that + he hated Stephen because Stephen never left him alone and would not let + him sleep—also in the back of his mind distantly, as though it + concerned some one else, that he was very unhappy.... + </p> + <p> + Stephen was sitting on one of the beds, looking in front of him. Peter + moved forward heavily and sat on the other bed. They looked at one + another. + </p> + <p> + “No luck,” said Stephen, “Armstrong's hadn't room for a man. Ricroft + wouldn't see me. Peter, I'm thinking we'll have to take to the roads—” + </p> + <p> + Peter made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Yer not lookin' a bit well, lad. I doubt if yer can stand much more of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Peter looked across at him sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Why can't you leave me alone?” he said. “You're always worrying—” + </p> + <p> + A slow flush mounted into Stephen's cheeks but he said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why don't you say something? Nothing to say—it isn't bad + enough that you've brought me into this—” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Mr. Peter,” Stephen answered slowly. “That ain't fair. I never + brought you into this. I've done my best.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, blame me, of course. That's natural enough. If it hadn't been for you—” + </p> + <p> + Stephen came into the middle of the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Peter boy, yer tired. Yer don't know what yer saying. Best go to + bed. Don't be saying anything that yer'd be regretting afterwards—” + </p> + <p> + Peter's eyes that had been closed, suddenly opened, blazing. “Oh, damn you + and your talk—I hate you. I wish I'd never seen you—a rotten + kind of friendship—” his voice died off into muttering. + </p> + <p> + Stephen went back to his bed. “This ain't fair, Mr. Peter,” he said in a + low voice. “You'll be sorry afterwards. I ain't 'ad any very 'appy time + myself these last weeks and now—” + </p> + <p> + Their nerves were like hot, jangling wires. Suddenly into the midst of + that bare room there had sprung between them hatred. They faced each other + ... they could have leapt at one another's throats and fought.... + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Peter gave a little cry that seemed to fill the room. His head + fell forward— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Stephen, Stephen, I'm so damned ill, I'm so damnably ill.” + </p> + <p> + He caught for a moment at his chest as though he would tear his shirt + open. Then he stumbled from the bed and lay in a heap on the floor with + his hands spread out— + </p> + <p> + Stephen picked him up in his arms and carried him on to his bed. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The little doctor who attended to the wants of Bucket Lane was discovered + at his supper. He was a dirty little man, with large dusty spectacles, a + red nose and a bald head. He wore an old, faded velveteen jacket out of + the pockets of which stuck innumerable papers. He was very often drunk and + had a shrew of a wife who made the sober parts of his life a misery, but + he was kind-hearted and generous and had a very real knowledge of his + business. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Williams volubly could not conceal her concern at Peter's condition—“and + 'im such a nice-spoken young genelman as I was saying only yesterday + tea-time, there's nothin' I said, as I wouldn't be willin' to do for that + there poor Mr. Westcott and that there poor Mr. Brant 'oo are as like two + 'elpless children in their fightin' the world as ever I see and 'ow ever + can I help 'em I said—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my good woman,” the little doctor finally interrupted, “you can + help here and now by getting some hot water and the other things I've put + down here.” + </p> + <p> + When she was gone he turned slowly to Stephen who stood, the picture of + despair, looking down upon Peter. + </p> + <p> + “'E's goin' to die?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “That depends,” the little doctor answered. “The boy's been starved—ought + never to have been allowed to get into this condition. Both of you hard + up, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “As 'ard up as we very well could be—” Stephen answered grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Well—has he no friends?” + </p> + <p> + There—the question at last. Stephen took it as he would have taken a + blow between the eyes. He saw very clearly that the end of his reign had + come. He had done what he could and he had failed. But in him was the + fierce furious desire to fight for the boy. Why should he give him up, + now, when they had spent all these weeks together, when they had struggled + for their very existence side by side. What right had any of these others + to Peter compared with his right? He knew very well that if he gave him up + now the boy would never be his again. He might see him—yes—but + that passing of Peter that he had already begun to realise would be + accomplished. He might look at him but only as a wanderer may look from + the valley up to the hill. The doctor broke in upon him as he stood + hesitating there— + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said roughly, “we have not much time. The boy may die. Has he + no friends?” + </p> + <p> + Stephen turned his back to Peter. “Yes,” he said, “I know where they are. + I will fetch them myself.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor had not lived in Bucket Lane all these years for nothing. He + put his hand on Stephen's arm and said: “You're a good fellow, by God. + It'll be all right.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen went. + </p> + <p> + On his way to Bennett Square a thousand thoughts filled his mind. He knew, + as though he had been told it by some higher power, that Peter was leaving + him now never to return. He had done what he could for Peter—now the + boy must pass on to others who might be able, more fittingly, to help him. + He cursed the Gods that they had not allowed him to obtain work during + these weeks, for then Peter and he might have gone on, working, prospering + and the parting might have been far distant. + </p> + <p> + But he felt also that Peter's destiny was something higher and larger than + anything that he could ever compass—it must be Peter's life that he + should always be leaving people behind him—stages on his road—until + he had attained his place. But for Stephen, a loneliness swept down upon + him that seemed to turn the world to stone. Never, in all the years of his + wandering, had he known anything like this. It is very hard that a man + should care for only two creatures in the world and that he should be + held, by God's hand, from reaching either of them. + </p> + <p> + The door of Brockett's was opened to him by a servant and he asked for + Mrs. Brockett. In the cold and dark hall the lady sternly awaited him, but + the sternness fell from her like a cloak when he told her the reason of + his coming— + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, and the poor boy so ill,” she said. “We have all been very + anxious indeed about poor Mr. Peter. We had tried every clue but could + hear nothing of him. We were especially eager to find him because Miss + Monogue had some good news for him about his book. There is a gentleman—a + friend of Mr. Peter's—who has been doing everything to find him—who + is with Miss Monogue now. He will be delighted. Perhaps you will go up.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen can have looked no agreeable object at this time, worn out by the + struggle of the last weeks, haggard and gaunt, his beard unkempt—but + Norah Monogue came forward to him with both her hands outstretched. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know something of Peter—tell us, please,” she said. + </p> + <p> + A stout, pleasant-faced gentleman behind her was introduced as Mr. + Galleon. + </p> + <p> + Stephen explained. “But why, why,” said the gentleman, “didn't you let us + know before, my good fellow?” + </p> + <p> + Stephen's brow darkened. “Peter didn't wish it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + But Norah Monogue came forward and put her hand on his arm. “You must be + the Mr. Brant about whom he has so often talked,” she said. “I am so glad + to meet you at last. Peter owes so much to you. We have been trying + everywhere to get word of him because some publishers have taken his novel + and think very well of it indeed. But come—do let us go at once. + There is no time to lose—” + </p> + <p> + So they had taken his novel, had they? All these days—all these + terrible hours—that starving, that ghastly anxiety, the boy's terror—all + these things had been unnecessary. Had they only known, this separation + now might have been avoided. + </p> + <p> + He could not trust himself to speak to Bobby Galleon and Norah Monogue. + These were the people who were going to take Peter away. + </p> + <p> + He turned and went, in silence, down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + At Bucket Lane Bobby Galleon took affairs into his own hands. At once + Peter should be removed to his house in Chelsea—it would not + apparently harm him to be moved that night. + </p> + <p> + Peter was still unconscious. Stephen stood in the back of the room and + watched them make their preparations. They had all forgotten him. For a + moment as they passed down the stairs Stephen had his last glimpse of + Peter. He saw the high white forehead, the long black eyelashes, the white + drawn cheeks.... At this parting Peter had no eye for him. + </p> + <p> + Bobby Galleon and Miss Monogue both spoke to Stephen pleasantly before + they went away. Stephen did not hear what they said. Bobby took Stephen's + name down on a piece of paper.... Then they were gone. They were all gone. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Williams looked through the door at him for a moment but something in + the man's face drove her away. Very slowly he put his few clothes + together. He must tramp the roads again—the hard roads, the glaring + sun, cold moon—always going on, always alone— + </p> + <p> + He shouldered his bag and went out.... + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK III — THE ROUNDABOUT + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <h3> + NO. 72, CHEYNE WALK + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Burnished clouds—swollen with golden light and soft and changing in + their outline—were sailing, against a pale green autumn evening sky, + over Chelsea. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly six o'clock and at the Knightsbridge end of Sloane Street a + cloud of black towers quivered against the pale green. + </p> + <p> + The yellow light that the golden clouds shed upon the earth bathed the + neat and demure houses of Sloane Street in a brief bewildered unreality. + Sloane Street, not accustomed to unreality, regretted amiably and with its + gentle smile that Nature should insist, once every day, for some half-hour + or so, on these mists and enchantments. The neat little houses called + their masters and mistresses within doors and advised them to rest before + dressing for dinner and so insured these many comfortable souls that they + should not be disturbed by any unwelcome violence on their emotions. Soon, + before looking-glasses and tables shining with silver hair-brushes bodies + would be tied and twisted and faces would be powdered and painted—meanwhile, + for that dying moment, Sloane Street was lifted into the hearts of those + burnished clouds and held for an instant in glory. Then to the relief of + the neat and shining houses the electric lights came out, one by one, and + the world was itself again.... + </p> + <p> + Beyond Sloane Square, however, the King's Road chattered and rattled and + minded not at all whether the sky were yellow or blue. This was the hour + when shopping must be done and barrows shone beneath their flaring gas, + and many ladies, with the appearance of having left their homes for the + merest minute, hurried from stall to stall. The King's Road stands like a + noisy Cheap Jack outside the sanctities of Chelsea. Behind its chatter are + the quietest streets in the world, streets that are silent because they + prefer rest to noise and not at all because they have nothing to say. The + King's Road has been hired by Chelsea to keep foreigners away, and the + faint smile that the streets wear is a smile of relief because that noisy + road so admirably achieves its purpose. In this mellow evening light the + little houses glow, through the river mists, across the cobbles. The + stranger, on leaving the King's Road behind him, is swept into a quiet + intimacy that has nothing of any town about it; he is refreshed as he + might be were he to leave the noisy train behind him and plunge into the + dark, scented hedge-rows and see before him the twinkling lights of some + friendly inn. As the burnished clouds fade from the sky on the dark + surface of the river the black barges hang their lights and in Cheyne Row + and Glebe Place, down Oakley Street, and along the wide spaces of Cheyne + Walk, lamps burn mildly in a hundred windows. Guarded on one side by the + sweeping murmur of the river, on the other by the loud grimaces of the + King's Road Chelsea sinks, with a sound like a whisper of its own name, + into evening.... + </p> + <p> + As the last trailing fingers of the golden clouds die before the + approaching army of the stars, as the yellow above the horizon gives way + to a cold and iron blue, lights come out in that house with the green door + and the white stone steps—No. 72, Cheyne Walk—that is now + Peter Westcott's home. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Peter had, on the very afternoon of that beautiful evening, returned from + the sea; there, during the last three weeks, he had passed his + convalescence and now, once again, he faced the world. Mrs. Galleon and + the Galleon baby had been with him and Bobby had come down to them for the + week-ends. In this manner Peter had had an opportunity of getting to know + Mrs. Galleon with a certainty and speed that nothing else could have given + him. During the first weeks after his removal from Bucket Lane, he had + been too ill to take any account of his neighbours or surroundings. He had + been sent down to the sea as soon as it was possible and it was here, + watching her quietly or listening to her as she read to him, walking a + little with her, playing with her baby, that he grew to know her and to + love her. She had been a Miss Alice du Cane, at first an intelligent, + cynical and rather trivial person. Then suddenly, for no very sure reason + that any one could discover, her character changed. She had known Bobby + during many years and had always laughed at him for a solemn, + rather-priggish young man—then she fell in love with him and, to his + own wild and delirious surprise, married him. The companions of her + earlier girlhood missed her cynicism and complained that brilliance had + given way to commonplace but you could not find, in the whole of London, a + happier marriage. + </p> + <p> + To Peter she was something entirely new. Norah Monogue was the only woman + with whom, as yet, he had come into any close contact, and she, by her + very humility, had allowed him to assume to her a superior, rather + patronising attitude. The brief vision of Clare Rossiter had been + altogether of the opposite kind, partaking too furiously of heaven to have + any earthly quality. But here in Alice Galleon he discovered a woman who + gave him something—companionship, a lively and critical + intelligence, some indefinable quality of charm—that was entirely + new to him. + </p> + <p> + She chaffed him, criticised him, admired him, absorbed him and nattered + him in a breath. She told him that he had a “degree” of talent, that he + was the youngest and most ignorant person for his age that she had ever + met, that he was conceited, that he was rough and he had no manners, that + he was too humble, that he was a “flopper” because he was so anxious to + please, that he was a boy and an old man at the same time and finally that + the Galleon baby—a solemn child—had taken to him as it had + never taken to any one during the eventful three years of its life. + </p> + <p> + Behind these contradictory criticisms Peter knew that there was a friend, + and he was sensible enough also to realise that many of the things that + she said to him were perfectly true and that he would do well to take them + to heart. At first she had made him angry and that had delighted her, so + he had been angry no longer; it seemed to him, during these days of + convalescence, that the solemn melodramatic young man of Bucket Lane was + an incredibility. + </p> + <p> + And yet, although he felt that that episode had been definitely closed—shut + off as it were by wide doors that held back at a distance, every sound, + the noise, the confusion, the terror, was nevertheless there, but for the + moment, the doors were closed. Only in his dreams they rolled back and, + night after night he awoke, screaming, bathed in sweat, trembling from + head to foot. Sometimes he thought that he saw an army of rats advancing + across the floor of their Bucket Lane room and Stephen and he beat them + off, but ever they returned.... + </p> + <p> + Once he thought that their room was invaded by a number of old toothless + hags who came in at the door and the window, and these creatures, with + taloned fingers fought, screeching and rolling their eyes.... + </p> + <p> + Twice he dreamt that he saw on a hill, high uplifted against a stormy sky, + the statue of the Man on the Lion, gigantic. He struggled to see the + Rider's face and it seemed to him that multitudes of other persons—men + and women—were pleading, with hands uplifted, that they too might + see the face. But always it was denied them, and Peter woke with a strange + oppression of crushing disappointment. Sometimes he dreamt of Scaw House + and it was always the same dream. He saw the old room with the marble + clock and the cactus plant, but about it all now there was dust and + neglect. In the arm-chair, by the fire, facing the window, his father, old + now and bent, was sitting, listening and waiting. The wind howled about + the place, old boards creaked, casements rattled and his father never + moved but leaning forward in his chair, watched, waited, eagerly, + passionately, for some news.... + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + They were having dinner now—Bobby, Mrs. Galleon and Peter—in + the studio of the Cheyne Walk House. Outside, a sheet of stars, a dark + river and the pale lamps of the street. The curtains of the studio were + still undrawn and the glow from the night beyond fell softly along the + gleaming black boards of the floor that stretched into shadow by the + farther wall, over the round mahogany table—without a cloth and + shining with its own colour—deep and liquid brown,—and out to + the pictures that hung in their dull gold frames along the wall. + </p> + <p> + About Peter was a sense of ease and rest, of space that was as new to him + as America was to Columbus. He was not even now completely recovered from + his Bucket Lane experiences and there was still about him that uncertainty + of life—when one sees it as though through gauze curtains—that + gives reality to the quality of dreams. Life was behind him, Life was + ahead of him, but meantime let him rest in this uncertain and beautiful + country until it was time for him to go forward again. This intangibility—walking + as it were in a fog round and round the Nelson monument, knowing it was + there but never seeing it—remained with him even when practical + matters were discussed. For instance, “Reuben Hallard” was to be published + in a week's time and Peter was to receive fifty pounds in advance on the + day of publication (unusually good terms for a first novel Bobby assured + him); also Bobby, through his father, thought that he could secure Peter + regular reviewing. The intention then was that Peter should remain with + the Galleons as a kind of paying guest, and so his pride would not be hurt + and they could have an eye upon him during this launching of him into + London. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Alice Galleon had liked him down + there at the sea, because she was a lady who had her own way at No. 72, + and she by no means liked every one. But perhaps the Galleon baby had had + more to do with everything than any one knew, and Mrs. Galleon assured her + friends that the baby's heart would most certainly be broken if “the wild + young guest” as she called Peter, were carried off. + </p> + <p> + And wild he was—of that seeing him now at dinner there in the studio + there could be no doubt. He was wearing Bobby's clothes and there was + still a look of suffering in his eyes and around his mouth, but the + difference—his difference from the things about him—went + deeper than that. The large high windows of the studio with the expanse of + wild and burning stars between their black frames answered Peter's eyes as + he faced them. Mrs. Galleon, as she watched him, was reminded of other + things, of other persons, of other events, that had marked his earlier + life. She glanced from Peter's eyes to Bobby's. She smiled, for on an + earlier day, she had seen that same antithesis—the gulf that is + fixed between Imagination and Reality—and had known its meaning. + </p> + <p> + But for Peter, all he asked now was that he might be allowed to rest in + the midst of this glorious comfort. His evil dreams were very far away + from him to-night. The food, the colour—the fruit piled high in the + silver dishes, the glittering of the great silver candelabra that stood on + the middle of the table, the deep red of the roses in the bowl at his + side, the deeper red of the Port that shone in front of Bobby and then, + beneath all this, as though the table were a coloured ship sailing on a + solemn sea, the dark, deep shining floor that faded into shadow—all + this excited him so that his hands trembled. + </p> + <p> + He spoke to Mrs. Galleon: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you will do me a favour,” he said very earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Anything in reason,” she answered, laughing back at his gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't call me Mr. Westcott any more. Because I'm going to live here + and because I'm too old a friend of Bobby's and because, finally, I hate + being called Mr. Westcott by anybody, might it be Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “Joseph calls him Peter as it is,” said Bobby quite earnestly looking at + his wife. + </p> + <p> + They were both so grave about it that Alice Galleon couldn't be anything + but grave too. She knew that it was really a definite appeal on behalf of + both of them that she should here and now, solemnly put her sign of + approval on Peter. It was almost in the way that they waited for her to + answer, a ceremony. She was even, as she looked at them, surprised into a + sudden burst of tenderness towards them both. Bobby so solemn, such a + dear, really quite an age and yet as young as any infant in arms. Peter + with forces and impulses that might lead to anything or wreck him + altogether, and yet, through it all younger even than Bobby. Oh! what an + age she, Alice Galleon, seemed to muster at the sight of their innocent + trust! Did every woman feel as old, as protecting, as tenderly indulgent, + towards every man?... + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course,” she answered quietly, “Peter it shall be—” + </p> + <p> + Bobby raised his port. “Here's to Peter—to Peter and 'Reuben + Hallard'—overwhelming success to both of them.” + </p> + <p> + Emotion, for an instant, held them. Then quietly, they stepped back again. + It was almost too good to be true that, after all the turnings and + twistings, life should have brought Peter to this. He did not look very + far ahead, he did not ask himself whether the book were likely to be a + success, whether his career would justify this beginning. If only they + would let him alone.... He did not, even to himself, name those powers. He + was wrapped about with comfort, he had friends, above all (and this he had + discovered at the sea) the Galleons knew Miss Rossiter ... this last + thought seemed, by the glorious clamour of it, to draw that sheet of stars + down through the window into the room, the air crackled with their + splendour. + </p> + <p> + He was drawn back, down into the world again, by hearing Bobby's voice: + </p> + <p> + “The evening post and a letter for you. Peter.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down and, with a sudden pang of accusing shame because he had + forgotten so easily, with also a sure knowledge that that easy escape from + his other life was already forbidden him, saw that the letter was from + Stephen. He felt that their eyes were upon him as he took the letter up + and he also felt that in Alice Galleon's gaze there was a wise and tender + understanding of the things that he must be feeling. The roughness of the + envelope, the rudeness of the hand-writing, a stain in one corner that + might be beer, the stamp set crookedly—these things seemed to him + like so many voices that called him back. Five minutes ago those days in + Bucket Lane had belonged to another life, now he was still there and + to-morrow he must tramp out again, to-morrow.... + </p> + <p> + The letter said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Writing here dear Peter at twelve o'clock noon, the Red Crown Inn, + Druttledge, on the road to Exeter, a little house where thiccy + bandy-legged man you've heard me tell about is Keeper and a good + fellow and there's queer enough company in kitchen now to please you. + A rough lot of fellows: and a storm coming up black over high woods + that'll make walkin' no easy matter on a slimy road, and, dear boy, + I've been thinkin' strange about you and 'ow you'll pull along with + your kind friends. That nice gentleman sent a telegram as he promised + to and says you pull finely along. Hopin' you really are better. But + dear boy, if you find you can give me just a word on paper sayin' that + hear there is no course for worryin' about your health, then I'm happy + because, dear boy, you'm always in my thoughts and I love you fine and + wish to God I could have made everything easier up along in thiccy + Bucket Lane. I go from hear by road to Cornwall and Treliss. I'm + expecting to find work there. Dear boy, don't forget me and see me + again one day and write a letter. They are getting too much into their + bellies and making the devil's own noise. There is Thunder coming the + air is that still over the roof of the barn and the road's dead white. + Dear Boy, I am your friend,</i> + + STEPHEN BRANT. +</pre> + <p> + The candles blew a little in the breeze from the open window and the + lighted shadows ran flickering in silver lines, along the dark floor. + Peter stood holding the letter in his hand, looking out on to the black + square of sky; the lights of the barges swung down the river and he could + hear, very faintly, the straining of ropes and the turning of some + mysterious wheel. + </p> + <p> + He saw Stephen—the great head, the flowing beard, the huge body—and + then the inn with the thunder coming over the hill, and then, beyond that + Treliss gleaming with its tiers of lights, above the breast of the sea. + And from here, from this wide Embankment, down to that sea, there + stretched, riding over hills, bending into valleys, always white and hard + and stony, the road.... + </p> + <p> + For an instant he felt as though the studio, the lights, the comforts were + holding him like a prison— + </p> + <p> + “It's a letter from Stephen Brant,” he said, turning back from the window. + “He seems well and happy—” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Eating bread and cheese at an inn somewhere—on the road down to + Cornwall.” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + On the following Tuesday “Reuben Hallard” was published and on the + Thursday afternoon Henry Galleon and Clare Rossiter were to come to tea. + “Reuben Hallard” arrived in a dark red cover with a white paper label. The + six copies lay on the table and looked at Peter as though he had had + nothing whatever to do with their existence. He looked down upon them, + opened one of them very tenderly, read half a page and felt that it was + the best stuff he'd ever seen. He read the rest of the page and thought + that the author, whoever the creature might be, deserved, imprisonment for + writing such nonsense. + </p> + <p> + The feeling of strangeness towards it all was increased by the fact that + Bobby had, with the exception of the final proofs—these Peter had + read down by the sea—done most of the proof-correcting. It was a + task for which his practical common sense and lack of all imagination + admirably fitted him. There, at any rate, “Reuben Hallard” was, ready to + face all the world, to go, perhaps, to the farthest Hebrides, to be lost + in all probability, utterly lost, in the turgid flood of contemporary + fiction. + </p> + <p> + There was a dedication “To Stephen”... How surprised Stephen would be! He + looked at the chapter headings—An Old Man with a Lantern—the + Road at Night.... Sun on the Western Moor—Stevenson—Tushery + all of it! How they'd tear it to bits, those papers! + </p> + <p> + He laughed to himself to think that there had once been a day when he had + thought that the thing would make his fortune! And yet—he turned the + pages over tenderly—there might be something to be said for it, Miss + Monogue had thought well of it. These publishers, blasé, cynical fellows, + surely believed in it. + </p> + <p> + It was fat and red and comfortable. It had a worldly, prosperous look. + “Reuben Hallard and His Adventures” ... Good Lord! What cheek. + </p> + <p> + There were five copies to give away. One between Bobby and Mrs. Galleon, + one for Stephen, one for Miss Monogue, one for Mrs. Brockett and one for + Mr. Zanti. “Reuben Hallard and His Adventures,” by Peter Westcott. They + would be getting it now at the newspaper offices. <i>The Mascot</i> would + have a copy and the fat little chocolate consumer. It would stand with a + heap of others, and be ticked off with a heap of others, for some youth to + exercise his wit upon. As to any one buying the book? Who ever saw any one + buying a six-shilling novel? It was only within the last year or so that + the old three volumes with their thirty-one-and-six had departed this + life. The publishers had assured Peter that this new six-shilling form was + the thing. “Please have you got 'Reuben Hallard' by Peter Westcott?... + Thank you, I'll take it with me.” + </p> + <p> + No, it was inconceivable. + </p> + <p> + There poor Reuben would lie—deserted, still-born, ever dustier and + dustier whilst other stories came pouring, pouring from endless presses, + covering, crowding it down, stamping upon it, burying it.... “Here lies + 'Reuben Hallard.'...” + </p> + <p> + Poor Peter! + </p> + <p> + On Thursday, however, there was the tea-party—a Thursday never to be + forgotten whilst Peter was alive. Bobby had told him the day before that + his father might be coming. “The rest of the family will turn up for + certain. They want to see you. They're always all agog for any new thing—one + of them's always playing Cabot to somebody else's Columbus. But father's + uncertain. He gets something into his head and then nothing whatever will + draw him out—but I expect he'll turn up.” + </p> + <p> + The other visitor was announced to Peter on the very day. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Peter, somebody's coming to tea this afternoon who's met you + before—met you at that odd boarding-house of yours—a Miss + Rossiter. Clare's an old friend of ours. I told you down at the sea about + her and you said you remembered meeting her.” + </p> + <p> + “Remembered meeting her!” Did Dante remember meeting Beatrice—did + Petrarch remember Laura? Did Keats forget his Fanny Brawne? Did Richard + Feverel forget his Lucy? + </p> + <p> + On a level with these high-thinking gentlemen was Peter, disguising his + emotions from Alice's sharp eyes but silent, breathless, wanting some + other place than that high studio in which to breathe. “Yes—she came + to tea once with a Miss Monogue there—I liked her....” + </p> + <p> + He was not there, but rather on some height alone with her and their hands + touched over a photograph. “The Man on the Lion.” There was something + worthy of his feeling for her! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, for the first part of the afternoon one must put up with the + Galleon family. Had Peter been sufficiently calm and sensible these + appendages to a great author would have been worth his attention. Behold + them in relation to “Henry Lessingham,” soaked in the works, bearing on + their backs the whole Edition de Luxe, decking themselves with the little + odds and ends of literary finery that they had picked up, bursting with + the good-nature of assured self-consequence—harmless, foolish, + comfortable. Mrs. Galleon was massive with a large flat face that jumped + suddenly into expression when one least expected it. There was a great + deal of silk about her, much leisurely movement and her tactics were + silence and a slow, significant smile—these she always contributed + to any conversation that was really beyond her. Had she not, during many + years of her life, been married to a genius she would have been an + intensely slow-moving but adequate housekeeper—as it was, her size + and her silence enabled her to keep her place at many literary dinners. + Peter, watching her, was consumed with wonder that Henry Galleon could + ever have married her and understood that Bobby was the child of both his + parents. Bobby had a brother and sister—Percival and Millicent. + Percival was twenty-five and had written two novels that were considered + promising by those who did not know that he was the son of his father. He + was slim and dark with a black thread of a moustache and rather fine white + fingers. His clothes were very well cut but his appearance was a little + too elaborately simple. His sister, a girl of about eighteen, was slim and + dark also; she had the eager appearance of one who has heard just enough + to make her very anxious to hear a great deal more. + </p> + <p> + One felt that she did not want to miss anything, but probably her + determination to be her father's daughter would prevent her from becoming + very valuable or intelligent. + </p> + <p> + Finally it was strange that Bobby had so completely escaped the shadow of + his father's mantle. These people were intended, of course, to be the + background of Peter's afternoon and it was therefore more than annoying + that that was the very last thing that they were. Millicent and Percival + made a ball and then flung it backwards and forwards throughout the + affair. Their mother watched them with appreciation and Alice Galleon, who + knew them, gave them tea and cake and let them have their way. Into the + midst of this Henry Galleon came—a little, round, fat man with a + face like a map, the body of Napoleon and a trot round the room like a + very amiable pony, eyes that saw everything, understood everything, and + forgave everything, a brown buff waistcoat with gilt buttons, white spats + and a voice that rolled and roared ... he was the tenderest, most alarming + person in any kind of a world. He was so gentle that any sparrow would + trust him implicitly and so terrific that an army would most certainly fly + from before him. He ate tea-cake, smiled and shook hands with Peter, + listened for half an hour to the spirited conversation of his two children + and trotted away again, leaving behind him an atmosphere of gentle + politeness and an amazing <i>savoir-faire</i> that one saw his children + struggling to catch. They finally gave it up about half-past five and + retreated, pressing Peter to pay them a call at the earliest opportunity. + </p> + <p> + This was positively all that Peter saw, on this occasion, of Henry + Galleon. It was quite enough to give him a great deal to think about, but + it could scarcely be called a meeting. + </p> + <p> + At quarter to six when Peter was in despair and Alice Galleon had ordered + the tea-things to be taken away Clare Rossiter rushed in. She stood a + whirlwind of flying colours in the middle of the Studio now sinking into + twilight. “Alice dear, I am most terribly sorry but mother <i>would</i> + stay. I couldn't get her to leave and it was all so awkward. How do you + do, Mr. Westcott? Do you remember—we met at Treliss—and now I + must rush back this very minute. We are dining at seven before the Opera, + and father wants that music you promised him—the Brahms thing. Oh! + is it upstairs? Well, if you don't mind....” + </p> + <p> + Alice Galleon left them together. Peter could say nothing at all. He stood + there, shifting from foot to foot, white, absolutely tongue-tied. + </p> + <p> + She felt his embarrassment and struggled. + </p> + <p> + “I hear that you've been very ill, Mr. Westcott. I'm so dreadfully sorry + and I do hope that you're better?” + </p> + <p> + He muttered something. + </p> + <p> + “Your book is out, isn't it? 'Reuben Hallard' is the name. I must get + father to put it down on his list. One's first books must be so dreadfully + exciting—and so alarming ... the reviews and everything—what + is it about?” + </p> + <p> + He murmured “Cornwall.” + </p> + <p> + “Cornwall? How delightful! I was only there once. Mullion. Do you know + Mullion?” She struggled along. The pain that had begun in his heart was + now at his throat—his throat was full of spiders' webs. He could + scarcely see her in the dark but her pale blue dress and her dark eyes and + her beautiful white hands—her little figure danced against the dark, + shining floor like a fairy's. + </p> + <p> + He heard her sigh of relief at Alice Galleon's return. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! thank you, dear, so much. Good-bye, Mr. Westcott—I shall read + the book.” + </p> + <p> + She was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Lights! Lights!” cried Alice Galleon. “How provoking of her not to come + to tea properly. Well, Peter? How was it all?” + </p> + <p> + He was guilty of abominable rudeness. + </p> + <p> + He burst from the room without a word and banged, desperately, the door + behind him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + A CHAPTER ABOUT SUCCESS I HOW TO WIN IT, HOW TO KEEP IT—WITH A NOTE + AT THE END FROM HENRY GALLEON + </p> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The shout of applause with which “Reuben Hallard” was greeted still + remains one of the interesting cases in modern literary history. At this + time of day it all seems ancient and distant enough; the book has been + praised, blamed, lifted up, hurled down a thousand times, and has finally + been discovered to be a book of promise, of natural talent, with a great + deal of crudity and melodrama and a little beauty. It does not stand of + course in comparison with Peter Westcott's later period and yet it has a + note that his hand never captured afterwards. How incredibly bad it is in + places, the Datchett incidents, with their flames and screams and murder + in the dark, sufficiently betray: how fine it can be such a delight as The + Cherry Orchard chapter shows, and perhaps the very badness of the + crudities helped in its popularity, for there was nothing more remarkable + about it than the fashion in which it captured every class of reader. But + its success, in reality, was a result of the exact moment of its + appearance. Had Peter waited a thousand years he could not possibly have + chosen a time more favourable. It was that moment in literary history, + when the world had had enough of lilies and was turning, with relief, to + artichokes. There was a periodical of this time entitled <i>The Green + Volume</i>. This appeared somewhere about 1890 and it brought with it a + band of young men and women who were exceedingly clever, saw the + quaintness of life before its reality and stood on tiptoe in order to + observe things that were really growing quite close to the ground. This + quarterly produced some very admirable work; its contributors were all, + for a year or two, as clever as they were—young and as cynical as + either. The world was dressed in a powder puff and danced beneath Chinese + lanterns and was as wicked as it could be in artificial rose-gardens. It + was all great fun for a year or two.... + </p> + <p> + Then <i>The Green Volume</i> died, people began to whisper about slums and + drainage, and Swedish drill for ten minutes every morning was considered + an admirable thing. On the edge of this new wave came “Reuben Hallard,” + combining as it did a certain amount of affectation with a good deal of + naked truth, and having the rocks of Cornwall as well as its primroses for + its background. It also told a story with a beginning to it and an end to + it, and it contained the beautiful character of Mrs. Poveret, a character + that was undoubtedly inspired by that afternoon that Peter had with his + mother.. + </p> + <p> + In addition to all this it must be remembered that the world was entirely + unprepared for the book's arrival. It had been in no fashion heralded and + until a long review appeared in <i>The Daily Globe</i> no one noticed it + in any way. Then the thing really began. The reviewers were glad to find + something in a dead season, about which a column or two might possibly be + written; the general public was delighted to discover a novel that was + considered by good judges to be literature and that, nevertheless, had as + good a story as though it weren't—its faults were many and some of + its virtues accidental, but it certainly deserved success as thoroughly as + did most of its contemporaries. Edition followed edition and “Reuben + Hallard” was the novel of the spring of 1896. + </p> + <p> + The effect of all this upon Peter may easily be imagined. It came to him + first, with those early reviews and an encouraging letter from the + publishers, as something that did not belong to him at all, then after a + month or so it belonged to him so completely that he felt as though he had + been used to it all his life. Then slowly, as the weeks passed and the + success continued, he knew that the publication of this book had changed + the course of his life. Letters from agents and publishers asking for his + next novel, letters from America, letters from unknown readers, all these + things showed him that he could look now towards countries that had not, + hitherto, been enclosed by his horizon. He breathed another air. + </p> + <p> + And yet he was astonishingly simple about it all—very young and very + naive. The two things that he felt about it were, first, that it would + please very much his friends—Bobby and his wife, Mrs. Brockett, + Norah Monogue, Mr. Zanti, Herr Gottfried and, above all, Stephen; and + secondly, that all those early years in Cornwall—the beatings, his + mother, Scaw House, even Dawson's—had been of use to him. One + remembers those extraordinary chapters concerning Reuben and his father—here + Peter had, for the first time, allowed some expression of his attitude to + it all to escape him. + </p> + <p> + He felt indeed as though the success of the book placed for a moment all + that other life in the background—really away from him. For the + first time since he left Brockett's he was free from a strange feeling of + apprehension.... Scaw House was hidden. + </p> + <p> + He gave himself up to glorious life. He plunged into it.... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + He stepped, at first timidly, into literary London. It was, at first + sight, alarming enough because it seemed to consist, so largely and so + stridently, of the opposite sex. Bobby would have had Peter avoid it + altogether. “There are some young idiots,” he said, “who go about to these + literary tea-parties. They've just written a line or two somewhere or + other, and they go curving and bending all over the place. Young Tony Gale + and young Robin Trojan and my young ass of a brother ... don't want you to + join that lot, Peter, my boy. The women like to have 'em of course, + they're useful for handing the cake about but that's all there is to it + ... keep out of it.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter had not had so many friends during the early part of his life + that he could afford to do without possible ones now. He wanted indeed + just as many as he could grasp. The comfort and happiness of his life with + Bobby, the success of the book, the opening of a career in front of him, + these things had made of him another creature. He had grown ten years + younger; his cheeks were bright, his eye clear, his step buoyant. He moved + now as though he loved his fellow creatures. One felt, on his entrance + into a room, that the air was clearer, and that one was in the company of + a human being who found the world, quite honestly and naturally, a + delightful place. This was the first effect that success had upon Peter. + </p> + <p> + And indeed they met him—all of them—with open arms. They saw + in him that burning flame that those who have been for the first time + admitted into the freemasonry of their Art must ever show. Afterwards he + would be accustomed to that country, would know its roads and hills and + cities and would be perhaps disappointed that they were neither as holy + nor as eternal as he had once imagined them to be—now he stood on + the hill's edge and looked down into a golden landscape whose bounds he + could not discern. But they met him too on the personal side. The fact + that he had been found starving in a London garret was of itself a + wonderful thing—then he had in his manner a rough, awkward charm + that flattered them with his youth and inexperience. He was impetuous and + confidential and then suddenly reserved and constrained. But, above it + all, it was evident that he wanted friendliness and good fellowship. He + took every one at the value that they offered to him. He first encouraged + them to be at their most human and then convinced them that that was their + natural character. He lighted every one's lamp at the flame of his own + implicit faith. + </p> + <p> + These ladies and gentlemen put very plainly before him the business side + of his profession. Their conversation was all of agents, publishers, the + sums that one of their number obtained and how lucky to get so much so + soon, and the sums that another of their number did not obtain and what a + shame it was that such good work was rewarded by so little. It was all—this + conversation—in the most generous strain. Jealousy never raised its + head. They read—these precious people—the works of one another + with an eager praise and a tender condemnation delightful to see. It was a + warm bustling society that received Peter. + </p> + <p> + These tea-parties and fireside discussions had not, perhaps, been always + so friendly and large-hearted but in the time when Peter first encountered + them they were influenced and moulded by a very remarkable woman—a + woman who succeeded in combining humour, common sense and imagination in + admirably adjusted qualities. Her humour made her tolerant, her common + sense made her wise, and her imagination made her tender—her name + was Mrs. Launce. + </p> + <p> + She was short and broad, with large blue eyes that always, if one watched + them, showed her thoughts and dispositions. Some people make of their + faces a disguise, others use them as a revelation—the result to the + observer is very much the same in either case. But with Mrs. Launce there + was no definite attempt at either one thing or the other—she was so + busily engaged in the matter in hand, so absorbed and interested, that the + things that her face might be doing never occurred to her. Her hair was + drawn back and parted down the middle. She liked to wear little straw + coal-scuttle bonnets; she was very fond of blue silk, and her frocks had + an inclination to trail. On her mother's side she was French and on her + father's English; from her mother she got the technique of her stories, + the light-hearted boldness of her conversation and her extraordinary + devotion to her family. She was always something of a puzzle to English + women because she was a great deal more domestic than most of them and yet + bristled with theories about morals and life in general that had nothing + whatever in common with domesticity. Some one once said of her that “she + was a hot water bottle playing at being a bomb....” + </p> + <p> + She belonged to all the London worlds, although she found perhaps especial + pleasure in the society of her fellow writers. This was largely because + she loved, beyond everything else, the business side of her profession. + There was nothing at all that she did not know about the publishing and + distribution of a novel. Her capacity for remembering other people's + prices was prodigious and she managed her agent and her publisher with a + deftness that left them gasping. There were very few persons in her world + who had not, at one time or another, poured their troubles into her ear. + She had that gift, valuable in life beyond all others, of giving herself + up entirely to the person with whom she was talking. When the time came to + give advice the combination of her common sense and her tenderness made + her invaluable. There was no crime black enough, no desertion, no cruelty + horrible enough to outspeed her pity. She hated and understood the sin and + loved and comforted the sinner. With a wide and accurate knowledge of + humanity she combined a deep spiritual belief in the goodness of God. + </p> + <p> + Everything, however horrible, interested her ... she adored life. + </p> + <p> + This little person in the straw bonnet and the blue dress gave Peter + something that he had never known before—she mothered him. He sat + next to her at some dinner-party and she asked him to come and have tea + with her. She lived in a little street in Westminster in a tiny house that + had her children on the top floor, a beautiful copy of the Mona Lisa and a + very untidy writing-table on the second, and a little round hall and a + tiny dining-room on the ground floor. Her husband and her family—including + an adorable child of two—were all as amiable as possible. + </p> + <p> + Peter told her most things on the first day that he had tea with her and + everything on the second. He told her about his boyhood—Treliss, + Scaw House, his father, Stephen. He told her about Brockett's and Bucket + Lane. He told her, finally, about Clare Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + He always remembered one thing that she said at this time. They were + sitting at her open window looking down into the blue evening that is in + Westminster quieter even than it is at Chelsea. Behind the faint green + cloud of trees the Abbey's huge black pile soared into space. + </p> + <p> + “You think you've made a tremendous break?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—this is an entirely new life—new in every way. I seem too + to be set amongst an entirely new crowd of people. The division seems to + me sharper every day. I believe I've left it all behind.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him sharply. “You're afraid of all that earlier time,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am.” + </p> + <p> + “It made you write 'Reuben Hallard.' Perhaps this life here in London...” + </p> + <p> + “It's safer,” he caught her up. + </p> + <p> + “Don't,” she answered him very gravely, “play for safety. It's the most + dangerous thing in the world.” She paused for a moment and then added: + “But probably they won't let you alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope to God they will,” he cried. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + He saw Clare Rossiter twice during this time and, on each occasion, it + seemed to him that she was trying to make up to him for his awkwardness at + their first meeting. On the first of these two occasions she had only a + few words with him, but there was a note in her voice that he fancied, + wildly, unreasonably, was different from the tone that she used to other + people. She looked so beautiful with her golden hair coiled above her + head. It was the most wonderful gold that he had ever seen. He could only, + in his excitement, think of marmalade and that was a sticky comparison. + “The Lady with the Marmalade Hair”—how monstrous! but that did + convey the colour. Her eyes seemed darker now than they had been before + and her cheeks whiter. The curve of her neck was so wonderful that it hurt + him physically. He wanted so terribly to kiss her just beneath her ear. He + saw how he would do it, and that he would have to move away some of the + shiny hair that strayed like sunlight across the white skin. + </p> + <p> + She did not seem to him quite so tiny when she smiled; it was exactly as + water ripples when the sun suddenly bursts dark clouds. He had a thousand + comparisons for her, and then sometimes she would be, as it were, caught + up into a cloud and he would only see a general radiance and be blinded by + the light. + </p> + <p> + He wished very much that he could think of something else—something + other than marmalade—that had that quality of gold. He often + imagined what it would be like when she let it all down—like a + forest of autumn trees—no, that spoke of decay—like the + sunlight on sand towards evening—like the fires of Walhalla in the + last act of Gotterdämmerung—like the lights of some harbour seen + from the farther shore—like clouds that are ready to burst with + evening sunlight. Perhaps, after all, amber was the nearest.... + </p> + <p> + “Peter, ask Miss Rossiter if she will have some more tea....” Oh! What a + fool he is! What an absolute ass! + </p> + <p> + On the second of these two meetings she had read “Reuben Hallard.” She + loved it! She thought it astounding! The most wonderful first novel she + had ever read. How had he been able to make one feel Cornwall so? She had + been once to Cornwall, to Mullion and it had been just like that! Those + rocks! it was like a poem! And then so exciting! + </p> + <p> + She had not been able to put it down for a single minute. “Mother was + furious with me because there I sat until I don't know how early in the + morning reading it! Oh! Mr. Westcott, how wonderful to write like that!” + </p> + <p> + Her praise inflamed him like wine. He looked at her with exultation. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you feel like that!” he said, drawing a great breath, “I did want you + to like it so!” He was enraptured—the world was heaven! He did not + realise that some young woman at a tea-party the day before had said + precisely these same things and he had said: “Of all the affected + idiots!”... + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + This might all be termed a period of preparation—that period was + fixed for Peter with its sign and seal on a certain evening of spring when + an enormous orange moon was in the sky, scents were in all the Chelsea + gardens, and the Chelsea streets were like glass in the silver luminous + light. + </p> + <p> + Peter was walking home after a party at the Rossiters'. It was the first + time that he had been invited to their house and it had been a great + success. Dr. Rossiter was a little round fat man with snow-white hair, red + cheeks and twinkling eyes. He cured his patients and irritated his + relations by his good temper. Mrs. Rossiter, Peter thought, had a great + resemblance to Bobby's mother, Mrs. Galleon, senior. They were, both of + them, massive and phlegmatic. They had both acquired that solemn dignity + that comes of living up to one's husband's reputation. They both looked on + their families—Mrs. Rossiter on Clare and Mrs. Galleon on Millicent, + Percival and Bobby—with curiosity, tolerance and a mild soft of + wonder. They were both massively happy and completely unimaginative. They + were, indeed, old friends, having been at school together, they were Emma + and Jane to one another and Mrs. Rossiter could never forget that Mrs. + Galleon came to school two years after herself and was therefore junior + still; whilst Mrs. Galleon had stayed two years longer than Mrs. Rossiter, + and was a power there when Mrs. Rossiter was completely forgotten; they + were fond of each other as long as they were allowed to patronise one + another. + </p> + <p> + Peter had spent a delicious evening. He had had half an hour in the garden + with Clare. They had spoken in an undertone. He had told her his + ambitions, she had told him her aspirations. Some one had sung in the + garden and there had been one wonderful moment when Peter had touched her + hand and she had not taken it away. At last they were both silent and the + garden flowed about them, on every side of them, with the notes and + threads that can only be heard at night. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter, heavily and solemnly, brought her daughter a shawl. There + was some one to whom she would like to introduce Mr. Westcott. Would he + mind? Eden was robbed of its glories.... + </p> + <p> + But he had had enough. He thought at one moment that already she was + beginning to care for him, and at another, that a lover's fancy made signs + out of the wind and portents out of the running water. + </p> + <p> + But he was happy with a mighty exultation, and then, as he turned down on + to the Embankment and felt the breeze from the river as it came towards + him, he met Henry Galleon. + </p> + <p> + The old man, in an enormous hat that was like a top hat only round at the + brim and brown in colour, was trotting home. He saw Peter and stopped. He + spoke to him in his slow tremendous voice and the words seemed to go on + after they had left him, rolling along the Embankment. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you, Mr. Westcott. I have thought that I would like to + have a chat with you. I have just finished your book.” + </p> + <p> + This was indeed tremendous—that Henry Galleon should have read + “Reuben Hallard.” Peter trembled all over. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether you would care to come and have a chat with me. I have + some things you might care to see. What time like the present? It is early + hours yet and you will be doing an old man who sleeps only poorly a + kindness.” + </p> + <p> + What a night of nights! Peter, trembling with excitement, felt Henry + Galleon put his arm in his, felt the weight of the great man's body. They + walked slowly along and the moon and the stars and the lights on the river + and the early little leaves in the trees and the stones of the houses and + the little “tish-tish” of the water against the Embankment seemed to say—“Oh! + Peter Westcott's going to have a chat with Henry Galleon! Did you ever + hear such a thing!” + </p> + <p> + Peter was sorry that his Embankment was deserted and that there was no one + to see them go into the house together. He drew a great breath as the door + closed behind them. The house was large and dark and mysterious. The rest + of the family were still out at some party. Henry Galleon drew Peter into + his own especial quarters and soon they were sitting in a lofty library, + its walls covered with books that stretched to the ceiling. Peter + meanwhile buried in a huge arm-chair and feeling that Henry Galleon's eyes + were piercing him through and through. + </p> + <p> + The old man talked for some time about other things—talked + wonderfully about the great ones of the earth whom he had known, the great + things that he had seen. It was amazing to Peter to hear the gods of his + world alluded to as “poor old S—— poor fellow!... Yes, indeed. + I remember his coming into breakfast one day...” or “You were asking about + T—— Old Wallie, as we used to call him—poor fellow, poor + fellow—we lived together in rooms for some time. That was before I + married—and perilously, dangerously—I might almost say + magnificently near starvation we were too....” + </p> + <p> + Peter already inflamed with that earlier half-hour in the garden now + breathed a portentous air. He was with the Gods ... there on the Olympian + heights he drank with them, he sang songs with them, with mighty voices + they applauded “Reuben Hallard.” He drank in his excitement many whiskies + and sodas and soon the white room with its books was like the inside of a + golden shell. The old man opposite him grew in size—his face was + ever larger and larger, his shirt front bulged and bulged—his hand + raised to emphasise some point was tremendous as the hand of a God. Peter + felt that he himself was growing smaller and smaller, would soon, in the + depths of that mighty arm-chair disappear altogether but that opposite him + two mighty burning eyes held him. And always like thunder the voice rolled + on.... “My son tells me that this book of yours is a success ... that they + are emptying their purses to fill yours. That may be a dangerous thing for + you. I have read your book, it has many faults; it is not written at all—it + is loose and lacking in all construction. You know nothing, as yet, about + life—you do not know what to use or what to reject. But the Spirit + is there, the right Spirit. It is a little flame—it will be very + easily quenched and nothing can kill it so easily as success—guard + it, my son, guard it.” + </p> + <p> + Peter felt as Siegfried must have felt when confronted by Wotan. + </p> + <p> + His poor little book was dwindling now before his eyes. He was conscious + of a great despair. How useless of him to attempt so impossible a task.... + </p> + <p> + The voice rolled on: + </p> + <p> + “I am an old man now and only twice before in my time nave I seen that + spirit in a young man's eyes. You may remember now an old man's words—for + I would urge you, I would implore you to keep nothing before you but the + one thing that can bring Life into Art. I will not speak to you of the + sacredness of your calling. Many will laugh at you and tell you that it is + pretentious to name it so. Others will come to you and will advise how + this is to be done and that is to be done. Others will talk to you of + schools, they will tell you that once it was in that manner and that now + it is in this manner. Some will tell you that you have no style—others + will tell you that you have too much. Some again will tempt you with money + and money is not to be despised. Again you will be tested with photographs + and paragraphs, with lectures and public dinners.... Worst of all there + will come to you terrible hours when you yourself know of a sure certainty + that your work is worthless. In your middle age a great barrenness will + come upon you. You have been a little teller of little tales, and on every + side of you there will be others who have striven for other prizes and + have won them. Sitting alone in your room with your poor strands of + coloured silk that had once been intended to make so beautiful a pattern, + poor boy, you will know that you have failed. That will be a very dreadful + hour—the only power that can meet it is a blind and deaf courage. + Courage is the only thing that we are here to show ... the hour will + pass.” + </p> + <p> + The old man paused. There was a silence. Then he said very slowly as + though he were drawing in front of him the earliest histories of his own + past life.... + </p> + <p> + “Against all these temptations, against these voices of the World and the + Flesh, against the glory of power and the swinging hammer of success, you, + sitting quietly in your room, must remember that a great charge has been + given you, that you are here for one thing and one thing only ... to + listen. The whole duty of Art is listening for the voice of God. + </p> + <p> + “I am not speaking in phrases. I am not pressing upon you any sensational + discoveries, but here at the end of my long life, I, with all the things + that I meant to do and have failed to do heavy upon me, can give you only + this one word. I have hurried, I have scrambled, I have fought and cursed + and striven, but as an Artist only those hours that I have spent + listening, waiting, have been my real life. + </p> + <p> + “So it must be with you. You are here to listen. Never mind if they tell + you that story-telling is a cheap thing, a popular thing, a mean thing. It + is the instrument that is given to you and if, when you come to die you + know that, for brief moments, you have heard, and that what you have heard + you have written, Life has been justified. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else can console you, nothing else can comfort you. There must be + restraint, austerity, discipline—words must come to you easily but + only because life has come to you with so great a pain ... the Artist's + life is the harshest that God can give to a man. Make no mistake about + that. Fortitude is the artist's only weapon of defence....” + </p> + <p> + Henry Galleon came over to Peter's chair and put his hand upon the boy's + arm. + </p> + <p> + “I am at the end of my work. I have done what I can. You are at the + beginning of yours. You will do what you can. I wish you good fortune.” + </p> + <p> + A vision came to Peter. Through the open window, against the sheet of + stars, gigantic, was the Rider on the Lion. + </p> + <p> + He could not see the Rider's face. + </p> + <p> + A great exultation inflamed him. + </p> + <p> + At that instant he was stripped bare. His history, the people whom he + knew, the things that he had done, they were all as though they had never + been. + </p> + <p> + His soul was, for that great moment, naked and alone before God. + </p> + <p> + “The whole duty of Art is listening for the voice of God....” + </p> + <p> + A sound, as though it came to him from another world, broke into the room. + </p> + <p> + There were voices and steps on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, they are back from their party,” Henry Galleon said, trotting happily + to the door. “Come up and have a chat with my wife, Westcott, before going + to bed.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + THE ENCOUNTER + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter was now the young man of the moment. He took this elevation with + frank delight, was encouraged by it, gave it all rather more, perhaps, + than its actual value, began a new novel, “The Stone House,” started + weekly reviewing on <i>The Interpreter</i> and yielded himself up entirely + to Clare Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + He had been in love with her ever since that first day at Norah Monogue's, + but the way that she gradually now absorbed him was like nothing so much + as the slow covering of the rocks and the sand by the incoming tide. At + first, in those days at Brockett's, she had seemed to him something + mysterious, intangible, holy. But after that meeting in Cheyne Walk he + knew her for a prize that some fortunate man might, one day, win. He did + not, for an instant, suppose that he could ever be that one, but the mere + imagined picture of what some other would one day have, sent the blood + rushing through him. Her holiness for him was still intact but for another + there would be human, earthly wonders. + </p> + <p> + Then, curiously, as he met her more often and knew her better there came a + certain easy, almost casual, intercourse. One Clare Rossiter still reigned + amongst the clouds, but there was now too another easy, fascinating, + humorous creature who treated him almost like Alice Galleon herself—laughed + at him, teased him, provoked him ... suddenly, like a shadow across a + screen, would slip away; and he be on his knees again before something + that was only to be worshipped. + </p> + <p> + These two shapes of her crossed and were confused and again were parted. + His thoughts were first worshipping in heaven, then dwelling with delight + on witty, charming things that she had said. + </p> + <p> + For that man, when he came, there would be a most wonderful treasure. + </p> + <p> + Peter now lost his appetite. He could not sleep at night. He would slip + out of his room, cross the silent Chelsea streets and watch her dark + window. He cultivated Mrs. Rossiter and that massive and complacent lady + took it entirely to herself. Indeed, nothing, at this time was more + remarkable than the little stir that Peter's devotion caused. It was + perhaps that Clare had always had a cloud of young men about her, perhaps + that Peter was thought to be having too wonderful a time, just now, to be + falling in love as well—that would be piling Life on to Life! ... no + one could live under it. + </p> + <p> + Besides Mrs. Rossiter liked him ... he was amazing, you see ... people + said.... + </p> + <p> + And the next stage arrived. + </p> + <p> + One May evening, at the Galleons' house, when some one was playing the + piano and all the world seemed to be sitting in corners Clare's hand lay + suddenly against his. The smooth outer curve of his hand lay against her + palm. Their little fingers touched. Sheets of fire rose, inflamed him and + fell ... rose again and fell. His hand began to shake, her hand began to + shake. He heard, a thousand miles away, some one singing about “the morn.” + </p> + <p> + Their hands parted. She rose and slowly, her white dress and red-gold hair + flung against a background that seemed to him black and infinite, crossed + the room. + </p> + <p> + That trembling of her hand had maddened him. It suddenly showed him that + he—as well as another—might run the race for her. Everything + that he had ever done or been—his sentiments, his grossnesses, his + restraints and his rebellions—were now concerned in this pursuit. No + other human being—Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice—now had + any interest for him. His reviews were written he knew not how, the + editions of “Reuben Hallard” might run into the gross for all he cared, + “The Stone House” lay neglected. + </p> + <p> + And he avoided seeing her. He was afraid to spoil that moment when her + hand had shaken at the touch of his, and yet he was tormented by the + longing for a new meeting that might provide some new amazement. Perhaps + he would hold her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his + own! And his heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a + splendid terror. + </p> + <p> + Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that + she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable + despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was + of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy. + </p> + <p> + For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the room—the + black bulk of Scaw House—the trees, the windows, his father.... + </p> + <p> + And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in + the town. He could get up and dress now—a cab would soon take him + there ... in the early morning he could slink back. + </p> + <p> + Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared. + </p> + <p> + He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he + still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house.... + </p> + <p> + And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey, + shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him—Stephen, walking + the road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and + the scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew. + </p> + <p> + He would write to Stephen in the morning—he lay down and went to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + By this time, meanwhile, Alice and Bobby had noticed. Alice, indeed, had a + number of young men over whose emotions she kept guard and Peter had + become, during these weeks, very valuable to her.... + </p> + <p> + She did not want him to marry anybody—especially she did not want + him to marry Clare. At breakfast, past Peter's ears, as though he were not + concerned at all, she talked to Bobby— + </p> + <p> + “Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare beyond all bounds—” + </p> + <p> + “Um?” + </p> + <p> + “He's taking her with him up to Glasgow to that Congress thing. He knows + perfectly well that she ought to stay with Mrs. Rossiter—and so does + she.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's no business of ours—” Bobby's usual tolerant + complacency. + </p> + <p> + “It is. Clare might be a fine creature if she didn't let herself be + spoiled in this way. She's perpetually selfish and she ought to be told + so.” + </p> + <p> + “We're all perpetually selfish,” said Bobby who began to be sorry for + Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, we're not. I'm very fond of Clare but I don't envy the man who + marries her. There's no one in the world more delightful when she has her + own way and things go smoothly, but they've wrapped her up in cotton wool + to such an extent that she simply doesn't know how to live out of it. + She's positively terrified of <i>Life</i>.” + </p> + <p> + This, as Alice had intended, was too much for Peter. He burst out— + </p> + <p> + “I think Miss Rossiter's the pluckiest girl I've ever met. She's afraid of + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Except of being uncomfortable,” Alice retorted. “That frightens her into + fits. Make her uncomfortable, Peter, and you'll see—” + </p> + <p> + And, red in the face, Peter answered—“I don't think you ought to + talk of any one who's so fond of you behind her back in that way—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I say just the same to her face. I'm always telling her these things + and she always agrees and then's just as selfish as ever. That absurd + little father of hers has spoilt her!” + </p> + <p> + Spoilt! Clare spoilt! Peter smiled darkly. Alice Galleon—delightful + woman though she was, of course couldn't endure that another woman should + receive such praise—Jealousy! Ah!... + </p> + <p> + And the aged and weighty author of “Reuben Hallard,” to whom the world was + naturally an open book, and life known to its foundations, nodded to + himself. How people, intelligent enough in other ways, could be so + short-sighted! + </p> + <p> + Afterwards, when they were alone, Bobby took him in hand— + </p> + <p> + “You're in love with Clare Rossiter, Peter,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” Peter answered defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “But you've known her so short a time!” + </p> + <p> + “What's that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing, of course. But do you think you're the sort of people likely + to get on?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Bobby, I don't—” + </p> + <p> + “I know—none of my business—quite true. But you see I've known + Clare pretty well all my life and you're the best friend I've got, so you + might allow me to take an interest.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, say what you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to say except that Clare isn't altogether an easy problem. You're + like all the other fellows I know—think because Clare's got red hair + and laughs easily she's a goddess—she isn't, not a bit! She's got + magnificent qualities and one day perhaps, when she's had a thoroughly bad + time, she'll show one the kind of things she's made of. But she's an only + child, she's been spoilt all her life and the moment she begins to be + unhappy she's impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “She shan't ever be unhappy if I can help it!” muttered Peter fiercely. + </p> + <p> + Bobby laughed. “You'll do your best of course, but are you the sort of man + for her? She wants some one who'll give her every kind of comfort, moral, + physical and intellectual. She wants somebody who'll accept her + enthusiasms as genuine intelligence. You'll find her out intellectually in + a week. Then she wants some one who'll give her his whole attention. You + think now that you will but you won't—you can't—you're not + made that way. By temperament and trade you're an artist. She thinks, at + the moment, that an artist would suit her very well; but, in reality, my + boy, he's the very last sort of person she ought to marry.” + </p> + <p> + Peter caught at Bobby's words. “Do you really think she cares about me?” + </p> + <p> + “She's interested. Clare spends her days in successive enthusiasms. She's + always being enthusiastic—dreadful disillusions in between the + heights. Mind you, there's another side of Clare—a splendid side, + but it wants very careful management and I don't know, Peter, that you're + exactly the sort of person—” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks very much,” said Peter grimly. + </p> + <p> + “No, but you're not—you don't, in the least, see her as she is, and + she doesn't see you as you are—hence these misguided attempts on my + part to show you one another.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter had not been listening. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think,” he muttered, “that she cares about me?” + </p> + <p> + Bobby looked at him, laughed and shrugged his shoulders in despair. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I see—it's no use,” he said, “poor dear Peter—well, I + wish you luck!” + </p> + <p> + And that was the end as far as Alice and Bobby were concerned. They never + alluded to it again and indeed now seemed to favour meetings between Clare + and Peter. + </p> + <p> + And now, through these wonderful Spring weeks, these two were continually + together. The Galleons had, at first, been inclined to consider Clare's + obvious preference for Peter as the simplest desire to be part of a + general rather heady enthusiasm. “Clare loves little movements....” And + Peter, throughout this Spring was a little movement. The weeks went on, + and Clare was not herself—silent, absorbed, almost morose. One day + she asked Alice Galleon a number of questions about Peter, and, after + that, resolutely avoided speaking of him. “Of course,” Alice said to Bobby—“Dr. + Rossiter will let her marry any one she likes. She'll have plenty of money + and Peter's going to have a great career. After all it may be the best + thing.” + </p> + <p> + Bobby shook his head. “They're both egoists,” he said. “Peter because he's + never had anything he wanted and Clare because she's always had everything + ... it won't do.” + </p> + <p> + But, after all, when May gave place to burning June, Bobby and Alice were + inevitably drawn into that romance. They yielded to an atmosphere that + both, by temperament, were too sentimental to resist. + </p> + <p> + Nearer and nearer was coming that intoxicating moment of Peter's final + plunge, and Clare—beautiful, these weeks, with all the excitement of + the wonderful episode—saw him as a young god who had leapt upon a + submissive London and conquered it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon played waiting chorus. Mrs. Launce from her + little house in Westminster, was, as usual, glowing with a piece of other + people's happiness. Bobby and Alice had surrendered to the atmosphere. All + were, of course, silent—until the word is spoken no movement must be + made—the little god is so easily alarmed. + </p> + <p> + At last towards the close of this hot June, Mrs. Launce proposed to Clare + a week-end at her Sussex cottage by the sea. She also told Peter that she + could put him up if he chose to come down at the same time. What could be + more delightful in this weather? + </p> + <p> + “Dear Clare, only the tiniest cottage as you know—no one else unless + Peter Westcott happens to come down—I suggested it, and you can see + the sea from your window and there's a common and a donkey, and you can + roll in the sand—” Mrs. Launce, when she was very happy betrayed her + French descent by the delightful way that she rolled her r's. + </p> + <p> + “Not a soul anywhere near—we can bathe all day.” + </p> + <p> + Clare would love to come so strangely enough would Peter—“The 5.30 + train then—Saturday....” Dear Mrs. Launce in her bonnet and blue + silk! Clare had never thought her so entirely delightful! + </p> + <p> + Peter, of course, plainly understood the things that dear Mrs. Launce + intended. His confidence in her had been, in no way, misplaced—she + loved a wedding and was the only person in the world who could bring to + its making so fine a compound of sentiment and common sense. She frankly + loved it all and though, at the moment, occupied with the work of at least + a dozen women, and with a family that needed her most earnest care, she + hastened to assist the Idyll. + </p> + <p> + Peter's own feelings were curiously confused. He was going to propose to + Clare; and now he seemed to face, suddenly, the change that this must mean + to him. Those earlier months, when it had been pursuit with no certainty + of capture had only shown him one thing desirable—Clare. But now + that he was face to face with it he was frightened—what did he know + of women?... + </p> + <p> + On the morning they were to go down, he sat in his room, this terrible + question confronting him. No, he knew nothing about women! He had left his + heroine very much alone in “Reuben Hallard” and those occasions when he + had been obliged to bring her on the stage had not been too successful. He + knew nothing about women! + </p> + <p> + There would be things—a great many—as a married man, he would + have to change. Sometimes he was moody for days together and wanted to see + no one. Sometimes he was so completely absorbed by his work that the real + people around him were shadows and wraiths. These moods must vanish. Clare + must always find him ready and cheerful and happy. + </p> + <p> + A dreadful sense of inadequacy weighed upon Peter. And then at the + concrete fact of her actual presence, at the thought of her standing + there, waiting for him, wanting him, his doubts left him and he was + wildly, madly happy. + </p> + <p> + And yet, before he left the room, his glance fell on his writing-table. + White against its shining surface lay a paper and on the top sheet, + written: “The Stone House”; a Novel; Chapter II. Months ago—he had + not touched it all these last weeks, and, at this moment he felt he would + never write anything again. He turned away with a little movement of + irritation.... + </p> + <p> + That morning he went formally to Dr. Rossiter. The little man received + him, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I want to marry your daughter, sir,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “You're very young,” said the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-six,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if she'll have you I won't stand in your way—” + </p> + <p> + Peter took the 5.30 train.... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Mrs. Launce, on Sunday afternoon, from the door of her cottage, watched + them both strike across the common towards the sea—Peter, “stocky,” + walking as though no force on earth could upset his self-possession and + sturdy balance, Clare with her little body and easy movement meant for + this air and sea and springing turf. Mrs. Launce having three magnificent + children of her own believed in the science of Eugenics heart and soul. + Here, before her eyes, was the right and proper Union—talk about + souls and spirit and temperament—important enough for the immediate + Two—but give Nature flesh and bones, with cleanliness and a good + straight stock to work on, and see what She will do! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Launce went into the cottage again and prepared herself for an + announcement at tea-time. She wiped her eyes before she settled down to + her work. Loving both of them the thought of their happiness hung about + her all the afternoon and made her very tender and forgiving when the + little parlourmaid arrived with a piece of the blue and white china + smashed to atoms. “I can't think 'ow it 'appened, Mum. I was just + standing....” + </p> + <p> + Peter and Clare, crossing the common, beheld the sea at their feet. It was + a hot misty afternoon and only the thin white line of tiny curling waves + crept out of the haze on to the gleaming yellow sand. Behind them, on + every side was common and the only habitation, a small cottage nearly + hidden by a black belt of trees, on their right. These black, painted + trees lay like a blot of ink against the blue sky. + </p> + <p> + Sitting down on the edge of the common they looked on to the yellow sand. + The air was remorselessly still as though the world were cased in iron; + somewhere deep within its silence, its heart might yet be beating, but the + depths hid its reverberation. + </p> + <p> + Peter lay flat on his back and instantly his world was full of clamour. + All about him insects were stirring, the thin stiff blades of grass were + very faintly rustling, a tiny blue butterfly flew up from the soil into + the bright air—some creature sang a little song that sounded like + the faint melody of a spinet. + </p> + <p> + “All praising the Lord, I suppose—” Peter listened. “Hymn and glory + songs and all the rest—” Then, clashing, out of the heart of the + sky, the thought followed. “There <i>must</i> be a God”—the tinkling + insect told him so. + </p> + <p> + He gazed into the great sheet of blue above him, so remote, so cruel ... + and yet the tiny blue butterfly flew, without fear, into its very heart. + </p> + <p> + Peter's soul was drawn up. He swung, he flew, he fled.... Down below, + there on the hard, brown soil his body lay—dust to the dust—there, + dead amongst the singing insects.... He looked down, from his great + heights and saw his body, with its red face and its suit of blue and its + up-turned boots, and here, in freedom his Soul exulted! + </p> + <p> + “Of course there is a God!” + </p> + <p> + They are praising him down there—the ground is covered with + creatures that are praising Him. Peter buried his eyes and instantly his + soul came swinging down to him, found his body again, filled once more his + veins with life and sound. After a vast silence he could hear, once more, + the life amongst the grass, the faint rustle of the thin line of foam + beneath him, and could smell the earth and the scent of the seaweed borne + up to them from the sand. + </p> + <p> + “It's so still,” he said suddenly, “that it's almost like thunder. + There'll be a storm later. On a day like this in Cornwall you would hear + the sound of the Mining Stamps for miles—” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she answered, “I am glad we're not in Cornwall—I hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “Hate it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. That sounds horrible to you, I suppose, and I'm quite ready to admit + that it's my cowardice. Cornwall frightens me. When I was there as a tiny + girl it was just the same. I always hated it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe you're ever frightened at anything.” + </p> + <p> + “I am. I'm under such a disadvantage, you see. If I'd been white-faced and + haggard every one would have thought it quite natural that I should scream + if I were left in the dark or hate being left alone with those horrible + black rocks that Cornwall's so full of, but just because I'm healthy and + was taught to hold my back up at school I have to pretend to a bravery + that simply doesn't exist—” He rejected, for the moment the last + part of her sentence. “Oh, but I understand perfectly what you mean by + your fear of Cornwall. Of course I understand it although I love the place + with all my soul and body. But it is terrifying—almost the only + terrifying place that civilisation has left to us—Central Africa is + nothing to it—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid of it?” she said, looking at him intently. + </p> + <p> + “Tremendously—because I suppose it won't let me alone. It's + difficult to put into words, but I think what I mean is that I want to go + on now in London, writing and seeing people and being happy and it's + pulling at me all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “What way pulling at you?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there. I + wasn't very happy, you know. I've told you something about it.... I want + to go back.... I want to go back. I mustn't, but I want to go back—and + it hurts—” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to have forgotten her—he stared out to sea, his hands + holding the grass on either side of him. + </p> + <p> + She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her + laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the + black trees reminded me of Scaw House a little.... But it's all right + really. I suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and + I've had such a rum life and been civilised so short a time....” + </p> + <p> + She said slowly: “I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of + it to be frightened of it—I don't want life to be like that. I don't + suppose I've got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one + to be hurt or damaged. Oh!”—her voice was suddenly like a cry—“Why + can't we just go through life without any one being frightened or made + miserable? I <i>believe</i> in cities and walls and fires and regulated + emotions—all those other things can only hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “They teach courage,” Peter answered gravely. “And that's about the only + thing we're here to learn, I expect. My mother died because she wasn't + brave enough and I want ... I want....” + </p> + <p> + He broke off—“There's only one thing I want and that's you, Clare. + You must have known all these weeks that I love you. I've loved you ever + since I met you that Good Friday afternoon years ago. Let me take care of + you, see that no one hurts you—love you ... love you—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really want me, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + He didn't speak but his whole body turned towards her, answered her + question. + </p> + <p> + “Because I am yours entirely. I became yours that day when your hand + touched mine. I wasn't sure before—I knew then—” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her. He saw her, he thought for the first time. She sat with + her hands pressing on the grass, her body bent back a little. + </p> + <p> + The curve from her neck to her feet was like the shadow of some colour + against the brown earth because he saw her only dimly. Her hair burnt + against the blue sky but her eyes—her eyes! His gaze caught hers and + he surrendered himself to that tenderness, that mystery, that passion that + she flung about him. In her eyes he saw what only a lover can see—the + terror and the splendour of a soul surprised for the first time into love. + She was caught, she was trapped, she was gorgeously delivered. In her eyes + he saw that he had her in the hollow of his hand and that she was glad to + be there. + </p> + <p> + But even now they had not touched—they had not moved from their + places. They were urged towards one another by some fierce power but also + some great suspense still restrained them. + </p> + <p> + Then Clare spoke, hurriedly, almost pleadingly. + </p> + <p> + “But Peter, listen—before I say any more—you must know me + better. I think that it is just because I love you so much that I see + myself clearly to-day as I have never seen myself before—although I + have, I suppose really known ... things ... but I have denied them to + myself. But now I know that all that I say is true—” + </p> + <p> + “I am ready,” he said, smiling. But she did not smile back at him, she was + intensely serious, she spoke without moving her eyes from his face. + </p> + <p> + “It is not altogether my fault. I have been an only child and everything + that I have wanted I have always had. I have despised my mother and even + my father because they have given in to me—that is not a pleasant + thing to know. And now comfort, happiness, an absence of all misery, these + things are essential—” + </p> + <p> + “I will look after you,” said Peter. It was almost with irritation that + she brushed aside his assurance. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know, but you must understand that it's more than that. If I + am unhappy I am another creature you haven't seen ... you don't know.... + If I am frightened—” + </p> + <p> + “But Clare, dear, we're all like that—” + </p> + <p> + “No, it's sheer wickedness with me. Oh! Peter I love you so much that you + <i>must</i> listen. You mustn't think afterwards, ah, if I'd only known—” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you making too much of it all? We've all got these things and it's + just because we can help each other that we marry. We give each the + courage—” + </p> + <p> + “I've always been frightened,” she said slowly, “always when anything big + comes along—always. And this is the biggest thing I've ever met. If + only it had been some ordinary man ... but you, Peter, that I should hurt + <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You won't hurt me,” he answered her, “and I'd rather be hurt by you than + helped by some one else—let's leave all this. If you love me, + there's nothing else to say.... Do you love me, Clare?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly before he could move towards her a storm that had been + creeping upon them, burst over their heads. Five minutes ago there had + been no sign of anything but the finest weather, but, in a moment the + black clouds had rolled up and the thunder broke, clashing upon the world. + The sea had vanished. + </p> + <p> + “We must run for it,” cried Peter, raising his voice against the storm. + “That cottage over there—it's the only place.” + </p> + <p> + They ran. The common was black now—the rain drove hissing, against + the soil, the air was hot with the faint sulphur smell. + </p> + <p> + Peter flung himself upon the cottage door and Clare followed him in. For a + moment they stood, breathless. Then Peter, conscious only that Clare was + beside him, wild with the excitement of the storm, caught her, held her + for a moment away from him, breathed the thunder that was about them all, + and then kissed her mouth, wet with the rain. + </p> + <p> + She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you're not frightened?” The sense of her helplessness filled him + with a delicious vigour. The way that her hand pressed in upon his + shoulder exalted him. Her wet golden hair brushed his cheek. Then he + remembered that they had invaded the cottage. For the first time it + occurred to him that their first embrace might have been observed; he + turned around. + </p> + <p> + The room was filthy, a huge black fire-place occupied most of it, the + floor was littered with pieces of paper, of vegetables and a disagreeable + smell protested against the closed and dirty windows. At first it seemed + that this place was empty and then, with a start, he was aware that two + eyes were watching them. The thunder pealed above them, the rain lashed + the roof and ran streaming from the eaves; the cottage was dark; but he + saw in a chair, a bundle of rags from which those eyes were staring. + </p> + <p> + Clare gave a little cry; an old woman with a fallen chin and a face like + yellow parchment sat huddled in the chair. + </p> + <p> + Peter spoke to her. “I hope you don't mind our taking shelter here, whilst + the storm passes.” She had seen them embrace; it made him uncomfortable, + but the storm was passing away, already the thunder was more distant. + </p> + <p> + The old woman made no reply, only her eyes glared at them. Peter put his + hand in Clare's—“It's all right; I think the old thing's deaf and + dumb and blind—look, the storm's passing—there's a bit of blue + sky. Isn't it odd an old thing like that...” + </p> + <p> + Clare, shuddered a little. “I don't like it—she's horrid—this + place is so dirty. I believe the rain's stopped.” + </p> + <p> + They opened the door and the earth met them, good and sweet, after the + shower. The sky was breaking, the mists were leaving the sea and as the + storm vanished, the sun, dipping towards the horizon flung upon the blue a + fleet of tiny golden clouds. + </p> + <p> + Peter bent down to the old woman. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said, “for giving us shelter.” He placed a shilling on her + lap. + </p> + <p> + “She's quite deaf and blind,” he said. “Poor old thing!” + </p> + <p> + They closed the door behind them and passed down a little path to the + seashore. Here wonders met them. The sand, wet with the recent storm + catching all the colours of the sky shone with mother of pearl—here + a pool of blue, there the fleet of golden clouds. + </p> + <p> + It stretched on every side of them, blazing with colour. Behind them the + common, sinking now into the dull light of evening. + </p> + <p> + They stood, little pigmies, on that vast painted floor. Before them the + breeze, blowing back the waves into the sun again turned the spray to + gold. + </p> + <p> + Tiny figures, in all this glory, they embraced. In all the world they + seemed the only living thing.... + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + They had their witness. The old woman who lived in the heart of those + black trees, was deaf and dumb indeed, but her eyes were alive in her + fading and wrinkled body. + </p> + <p> + When the door had closed she rose slowly from her chair, and her face was + wrinkled with the passion of the hatred that her old soul was feeling. + </p> + <p> + What did they mean, those two, coming there and haunting her with their + youth and strength and love. Kissing there before her as though she were + already dead—she to whom kisses were only bitter memories. + </p> + <p> + Her face worked with fury—she hobbled, painfully, to the door and + opened it. + </p> + <p> + Below her, on a floor of gold, two black figures stood together. + </p> + <p> + Gazing at them she raised her thin and trembling hand; she flung with a + passionate, furious gesture, something from her. + </p> + <p> + A small silver coin glittered in the air, whistled for a moment and fell. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + THE ROUNDABOUT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon sat solemnly, with the majesty of spreading + skirts and Sunday Best hats, in the little drawing-room of The Roundabout, + awaiting the return from the honeymoon. + </p> + <p> + The Roundabout is the name that Peter has given to the little house in + Dorset Street, Chelsea, that he has chosen to live in with his bride. High + spirits lead to nicknames and Peter was in the very highest of spirits + when he took the house. The name alluded both to the shape—round + bow-windowed like—fat bulging little walls, lemon-coloured, and to + the kind of life that Peter intended to lead. All was to be Happiness. + Life is challenged with all the high spirits of a truly happy ceremony. + </p> + <p> + It is indeed a tiny house—tiny hall, tiny stairs, tiny rooms but + quaint with a little tumble-down orchard behind it and that strange + painted house that old mad Miss Anderson lives in on the other side of the + orchard. Such a quiet little street too ... a line of the gravest trees, + cobbles with only the most occasional cart and a little church with a sleepy + bell at the farthest end ... all was to be Happiness. + </p> + <p> + Wedding presents—there had been six hundred or so—filled the + rooms. People had, on the whole, been sensible, had given the right thing. + The little drawing-room with its grey wall-paper, roses in blue jars, its + two pictures—Velasquez' Maria Theresa in an old silver frame and + Rembrandt's Night Watch—was pleasant, but overwhelmed now by the + presence of these two enormous ladies. The evening sun, flooding it all + with yellow light, was impertinent enough to blind the eyes of Mrs. + Rossiter. She rose and moved slowly to draw down the blinds. A little + silver clock struck half-past four. + </p> + <p> + “They must soon be here,” said Mrs. Galleon gloomily. Her gloom was happy + and comfortable. She was making the very most of a pleasant business with + the greatest satisfaction in the world. She had done exactly the same at + Bobby's wedding, and, in her heavy, determined way she would do the same + again before she died. Alice Galleon would be there in a moment, meantime + the two ladies, without moving in their chairs, flung sentences across at + one another and smoothed their silk skirts with their white plump hands. + </p> + <p> + “It's not really a healthy house—” + </p> + <p> + “No—with the orchard—and it's much too small—” + </p> + <p> + “Poor dears, hope they'll be happy. But one can't help feeling, Jane dear, + that it was a little rash of you ... your only girl ... and one knows so + little about Mr. Westcott, really—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, your own Bobby vouched for him. He'd known him at school after all, + and we all know how cautious Bobby is about people—besides, Emma, no + one could have received him more warmly—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Oh! of course ... but still, having no family—coming out + of nowhere, so to speak—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's to be hoped they'll get on. I must say that Clare will miss + her home terribly. It takes a lot to make up for that—And her father + so devoted too....” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we must make the best of it.” + </p> + <p> + The sun's light faded from the room—the clock and the pictures stood + out sharply against the gathering dusk. Two ladies filled the room with + their shadows and the little fire clicked and rattled behind the murmuring + voices. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Alice Galleon burst in upon them. “What! Not arrived yet! the train must + be dreadfully late. Lights! Lights! No, don't you move, mother!” + </p> + <p> + She returned with lamps and flooded the room with light. The ladies + displayed a feeble protest against her exultant happiness. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure, my dear, I hope that nothing has happened.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear mother, what <i>could</i> happen?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you never know with these trains—and a honeymoon, too, is + always rather a dangerous time. I remember—” + </p> + <p> + “I hear them!” Alice cried and there indeed they were to be heard bumping + and banging in the little hall. The door opened and Peter and Clare, + radiant with happiness, appeared. + </p> + <p> + They stood in the doorway, side by side, Clare in a little white hat and + grey travelling dress and Peter browner and stronger and squarer than + ever. + </p> + <p> + All these people filled the little room. There was a crackling fire of + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but we've had a splendid time—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't think Clare's in the least tired—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, isn't the house a duck?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't we just love being back!” + </p> + <p> + “... hoping you hadn't caught colds—” + </p> + <p> + “... besides we had the easiest crossing—” + </p> + <p> + “... How's Bobby?” + </p> + <p> + “... were so afraid that something must have happened—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter took Clare upstairs to help her to take her hat off. + </p> + <p> + Mother and daughter faced one another—Clare flung herself into her + mother's arms. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Mother dear, he's wonderful, wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + Downstairs Alice watched Peter critically. She had not realised until this + marriage, how fond she had grown of Peter. She had, for him, very much the + feeling that Bobby had—a sense of tolerance and even indulgence for + all tempers and morosities and morbidities. She had seen him, on a day, + like a boy of eighteen, loving the world and everything in it, having, + too, a curious inexperience of the things that life might mean to people, + unable, apparently, to see the sterner side of life at all—and then + suddenly that had gone and given place to a mood in which no one could + help him, nothing could cheer him... like Saul, he was possessed with + Spirits. + </p> + <p> + Now, as he stood there, he looked not a day more than eighteen. Happiness + filled him with colour—his eyes were shining—his mouth + smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Alice, old girl—she's splendid. I couldn't have believed that life + could be so good—” + </p> + <p> + A curious weight was lifted from her at his words. She did not know what + it was that she had dreaded. Perhaps it had been merely a sense that Clare + was too young and inexperienced to manage so difficult a temperament as + Peter's—and now, after all, it seemed that she had managed it. But + in realising the relief that she felt she realised too the love that she + had for Peter. When he was young and happy the risks that he ran seemed + just as heavy as when he was old and miserable. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Peter! I'm so glad—I know she's splendid—Oh! I believe + you are going to be happy—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” he answered her confidently, “I believe we are—” + </p> + <p> + The ladies—Mrs. Galleon, Mrs. Rossiter and Alice—retired. + Later on Clare and Peter were coming into Bobby's for a short time. + </p> + <p> + Left alone in their little house, he drew her to the window that + overlooked the orchard and silently they gazed out at the old, friendly, + gnarled and knotted tree, and the old thick garden-wall that stretched + sharply against the night-sky. + </p> + <p> + Behind them the fire crackled and the lamps shed their pleasant glow and + that dear child with the great stiff dress that Velasquez painted smiled + at them from the wall. + </p> + <p> + Peter gave a deep sigh of happiness. + </p> + <p> + “Our House...” he said and drew her very close to him. The two of them, as + they stood there outlined against the window were so young and so pleasant + that surely the Gods would have pity! + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + In the days that followed he watched it all with incredulity. So swiftly + had he been tossed, it seemed, from fate to fate, and so easily, also, did + he leave behind him the things that had weighed him down. No sign now of + that Peter—evident enough in the Brockett days—morose, silent, + sometimes oppressed by a sense of unreasoned catastrophe, stepping into + his bookshop and out again as though all the world were his enemy. + </p> + <p> + Peter knew now that he was loved. He had felt that precious quality on the + day that his mother died, he had felt it sometimes when he had been in + Stephen's company, but against these isolated emotions what a world of + hate and bitterness. + </p> + <p> + Now he felt Clare's affection on every side of him. They had already in so + short a time a store of precious memories, intimacies, that they shared. + They had been through wild, passionate wonders together and standing now, + two human beings with casual words and laughing eyes, yet they knew that + perfect holy secrets bound them together. + </p> + <p> + He stood sometimes in the little house and wondered for an instant whether + it was all true. Where were all those half cloudy dreams, those impulses, + those dread inheritances that once he had known so well? Where that other + Peter Westcott? Not here in this dear delicious little house, with Love + and Home and great raging happiness in his heart. + </p> + <p> + He wrote to Stephen, to Mr. Zanti, to Norah Monogue and told them. He + received no answers—no word from the outer world had come to him. + That other life seemed cut off, separated—closed. Perhaps it had + left him for ever! Perhaps, as Clare said, walls and fires were better + than wind and loneliness—comfort more than danger.... Meanwhile, in + his study at the top of the house, “The Stone House” was still lying, + waiting, at Chapter II— + </p> + <p> + But it was Clare who was the eternal wonder. He could not think of her, + create her, pile up the offerings before her altar, sufficiently. That he + should have had the good fortune... It never ceased to amaze him. + </p> + <p> + As the weeks and months passed his life centred more and more round Clare + and the house that they shared together. He knew now many people in + London; they were invited continually to dinners, parties, theatres, + dances. Clare's set in London had been very different from Peter's + literary world, and they were therefore acclaimed citizens of two very + different circles. Peter, too, had his reviewing articles in many papers—the + whole whirligig of Fleet Street. (How little a time, by the way, since + that dreadful day when he had sat on that seat on the Embankment and + talked to the lady with the Hat!) + </p> + <p> + His days during this first year of married life were full, varied, + exciting as they could be—and yet, through it all, his eye was + always upon that little house, upon the moment when the door might be + closed, the fire blazing and they two were alone, alone— + </p> + <p> + He was, indeed, during this year, a charming Peter. He loved her with the + hero worship of a boy, but also with a humour, a consciousness of success, + a happy freedom that denied all mawkish sham sentiment. He studied only to + please her. He found that, after all, she did not care very greatly for + literature or music or pictures. Her enthusiasm for these things was the + enthusiasm of a child who is bathed in an atmosphere of appreciation and + would return it on to any object that she could find. + </p> + <p> + He discovered that she loved compliments, that she cared about dress, that + she loved to have crowds of friends about her, and that parties excited + her as though these were the first that she had ever known. But he found, + too, that in those half-hours when she was alone with him she showed her + love for him with a passion and emphasis that was almost terrifying. + Sometimes when she clung to him it was as though she was afraid that it + was not going to last. He discovered in the very beginning that below all + her happy easy life, an undercurrent of apprehension, sometimes only + vaguely felt, sometimes springing into sight like the eyes of some beast + in the dark, kept company with her. + </p> + <p> + It was always the future—a perfectly vague, indefinite future that + terrified her. Every moment of her life had been sheltered and happy and, + by reason of that very shelter, her fears had grown upon her. He + remembered one evening when they had been present at some party and she + had been radiant, beautiful, in his eyes divine. Her little body had been + strung to its utmost energy, she had whirled through the evening and at + last as they returned in the cab, she had laid her head on his shoulder + and suddenly flung her arms about him and kissed him—his eyes, his + cheeks, his mouth—again and again. “Oh! I'm so safe with you, Peter + dear,” she had cried to him. + </p> + <p> + He loved those evenings when they were alone and she would sit on the + floor with her head on his knee and her hand against his. Then suddenly + she would lean back and pull his head down and kiss his eyes, and then + very slowly let him go. And the fierceness, the passion of her love for + him roused in him a strength of devotion that all the years of unhappiness + had been storing. He was still only a boy—the first married year + brought his twenty-seventh birthday—but his love for Clare had the + depth and reserve that belongs to a man. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Launce, watching them both, was sometimes frightened. “God help them + both if anything interferes,” she said once to her husband. “I've seen + that boy look at Clare with a devotion that hurts. Peter's no ordinary + mortal—I wonder, now and again, whether Clare's worth it all.” + </p> + <p> + But this year seemed to silence all her fears. The happiness of that + little house shone through Chelsea. “Oh, we're dining with the Westcotts + to-night—they'll cheer us up—they're always so happy”—“Oh! + did you see Clare Westcott? I never saw any one so radiant.” + </p> + <p> + And once Bobby said to Alice: “We made a mistake, old girl, about that + marriage. It's made another man of Peter. He's joy personified.” + </p> + <p> + “If only,” Alice had answered, “destiny or whatever it is will let them + alone. I feel as though they were two precious pieces of china that a + housemaid might sweep off the chimney piece at any moment. If only nobody + will touch them—” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Peter had forgotten, utterly forgotten, the rest of the world. + Walls and fires—for a year they had held him. The Roundabout versus + the World.... What of old Frosted Moses, of the Sea Road, of Stephen, of + Mr. Zanti? What of those desperate days in Bucket Lane? All gone for + nothing? + </p> + <p> + Clare, perhaps, with this year behind her, hardly realised the forces + against which she was arrayed. Beware of the Gods after silence.... + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + And, after all, it was Clare herself who flung down the glove. + </p> + <p> + On a winter's evening she was engaged to some woman's party. Peter had + planned an evening, snug and industrious, alone with a book. “The Stone + House” awaited his attention—he had not worked at it for months. + Also he knew that he owed Henry Galleon a visit. Why he had not been to + see the old man lately he scarcely knew. + </p> + <p> + Clare, standing in the little hall, waiting for a cab, suggested an + alternative. + </p> + <p> + “Peter dear, why don't you go round to Brockett's if you've nothing to + do?” + </p> + <p> + “Brockett's!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You've never been since we married, and I had a letter from Norah + this morning—not at all cheerful—I'm afraid she's been ill for + months. They'd love to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Brockett's!” He stood astounded. Well, why not? A strange emotion—uncomfortable, + alien, stirred him. He kissed her and saw her go with a half-distracted + gaze. What a world away Brockett's seemed! Old Mrs. Lazarus, Norah (poor + Norah!) Mrs. Brockett, young Robin Tressiter. They would be glad to see + him—it was a natural thing enough that he should go—what was + it that held him back? For the first time since his marriage, as he slowly + and thoughtfully put on his greatcoat, he was distressed. He reproached + himself—Norah, Stephen, Mr. Zanti!... he had not given them a + thought. + </p> + <p> + He felt, as he went out, as though he were going, with key and candle, to + unlock some old rusty door that led into secret rooms. It was a wet, windy + night. The branches of the little orchard rattled and groaned, and doors + and windows were creaking. + </p> + <p> + As he passed into the shadows and silence of Bloomsbury the impression + weighed with increasing heaviness upon him that the old Peter had come + back and that his married life with Clare had been a dream. He was still + at Brockett's, still silent, shy, awkward, still poring over pages of + “Reuben Hallard” and wondering whether any one would ever publish it—still + spending so many hours in the old musty bookshop with Herr Gottfried's + wild mop of hair coming so madly above the little counter. + </p> + <p> + The wind tugged at his umbrella, the rain lashed his face and at last, + breathless, with the sharp corner of his upturned collar digging into his + chin, he pulled the bell of the old grey remorseless door that he knew so + well. There was no one in Bennett Square, only the two lamps dimly marked + its desolation. + </p> + <p> + The door was opened by Mrs. Brockett herself and she stood there, stern + and black peering into his face. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What do you want?” she asked grimly. + </p> + <p> + He brushed past her laughing and stood back under the gas in the hall + looking at her. + </p> + <p> + She gave a little cry. “No! It can't be! Why, Mr. Westcott!” + </p> + <p> + He had never, in all the seven years that he had been with her, seen her + so strongly moved. + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. Westcott! To think of it! And the times we've talked of you! And + you never coming near us all this while. You might have been dead for all + we knew, and indeed if it hadn't been for Miss Monogue the other day we'd + have heard no news since the day that wild man with the beard came walking + in,” she broke off suddenly—“and there you are, holding your + umbrella with the point down and making a great pool on the carpet as + though—” She took the umbrella from him but her hand rested for an + instant on his arm and she said gruffly— + </p> + <p> + “But all the same, Mr. Peter, I'm more glad to see you than I can say—” + She took him into her little room and looked at him. “But you've not + changed in the least,” she said, “not in the very least. And where, pray, + Mr. Peter, have you been all this time and come nowhere near us?” + </p> + <p> + He tried to explain; he was confused, he said something about marriage and + stopped. The room was filled with that subtle odour that brought his other + life back to him in a torrent. He was bathed in it, overwhelmed by it—roast-beef, + mutton, blacking, oil-cloth, decayed flowers, geraniums, damp stone, bread + being toasted—all these things were in it. + </p> + <p> + He filled his nostrils with the delicious pathos and intimacy of it. + </p> + <p> + She regarded him sternly. “Now, Mr. Peter, it's of no use. Oh, yes, we've + heard about your wedding. You wrote to Miss Monogue. But there were days + before that, many of them, and never so much as a postcard. With some of, + my boarders it would be natural enough, because what could you expect? <i>We</i> + didn't want <i>them</i>, <i>they</i> didn't want <i>us</i>—only + habit as you might say. But you, Mr. Peter—why just think of the way + we were fond of you—Mrs. Lazarus and little Robin and Miss Monogue—as + well as myself.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped and pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you're a famous man,” she went on, “with your books and your + marriage and the rest of it, but that doesn't alter your old friends being + your old friends and it never will. There, I'm getting cross when all I + mean to say is that I'm more delighted to see you than words.” + </p> + <p> + He was humble before her. He felt, indeed, that he had been the most + unutterable brute. How could he have stayed away all this time with these + dear people waiting for him? He simply hadn't realised— + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Monogue?” he asked at last, “I'm afraid she's not been very + well?” + </p> + <p> + “She's been very ill indeed—for months. At one time we were afraid + that she would go. It's her heart. Poor dear, and she's been worrying so + about her work—but she's better now and she'll be truly glad to see + you, Mr. Peter—but you mustn't stay more than a few minutes. She's + up on the sofa but it's the excitement that's bad for her.” + </p> + <p> + But first Peter went to pay a visit to the Tressiter establishment. He + knew, from old custom, that this would be the hour when the family would + be getting itself, by slow and noisy degrees, to bed. So tremendous, + indeed, was the tumult that he was able to open the door and stand, within + the room, watching and un-noticed. Mrs. Tressiter was attempting to bathe + a fat and very strident baby. Two small boys were standing on a bed and + hitting one another with pillows; a little girl lay on her face on the + floor and howled for no apparent reason; Robin, but little older than + Peter's last impression of him had painted, was standing, naked save for + his shirt and looking down, gravely, at his screaming sister. + </p> + <p> + Every now and again, Mrs. Tressiter, without ceasing from her work on the + baby who slipped about in her hands like a stout eel, cried in a shrill + voice: “Children, if you don't be quiet,” or “Nicholas, in a moment I'll + give you such a beating,”—or “Agatha, for goodness' sake!”... + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly Robin, looking up, caught sight of Peter, he gave a shout + and was across the room in an instant. There was never a moment's doubt in + his eyes. He flung himself upon Peter's body, he wound his arms round + Peter's leg, he beat upon his chest with his bullet head, he cried: “Oh! + Mr. Peter has come! Mr. Peter has come!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Tressiter let the baby fall into the bath with a splash and there it + lay howling. The other members of the family gathered round. + </p> + <p> + But Peter thought that he had known no joy so acute for years as the + welcome that the small boy gave him. He hoisted Robin on to his shoulder, + and there Robin sat with his naked little legs dangling over, his hands in + the big man's neck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Mr. Westcott, I'm sure...” said Mrs. Tressiter, smiling from ear to + ear and wiping her wet hands on her apron—Robin bent his head and + bit Peter's ear. + </p> + <p> + “Get on, horse,” he cried and for a quarter of an hour there was wild riot + in the Tressiter family. Then they were all put to bed, as good as gold,—“you + might have heard a pin drop,” said Mrs. Tressiter, “when Agatha said her + prayers”—and at last the lights were put out. + </p> + <p> + Peter bent down over Robin's bed and the boy flung his arms round his + neck. + </p> + <p> + “I dreamed of you—I knew you'd come,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I send you as a present to-morrow?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Soldiers—soldiers on horses. Those with cannons and shiny things on + their backs....” Robin was very explicit—“You'll be here to-morrow?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No—not to-morrow,” Peter answered. + </p> + <p> + “Soon?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, soon.” + </p> + <p> + “I love you, more than Agatha, more than Dick, more than any one 'cept + Daddy and Mummy.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll be a good boy until I come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Promise ... but come back soon.” + </p> + <p> + Peter gave him a long kiss and left him. Supposing, one day, he had a boy + like that? A little boy in a shirt like that? Wouldn't it be simply too + wonderful? A boy to give soldiers to.... + </p> + <p> + He went across to Miss Monogue's door. A faint voice answered his knock + and, entering the room, the scent of medicine and flowers that he always + connected with his mother, met him. Norah Monogue, very white, with dark + shadows beneath her eyes, was lying on the sofa by the fire. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Brockett had prepared her for Peter's coming and she smiled up at him + with her old smile and gave him her hand. How thin and white it was with + its long slender fingers! He sat down by her sofa and he knew by the way + that she looked at him that she was reproaching him— + </p> + <p> + “Naughty Peter,” she said, “all these months and you have been nowhere + near us.” + </p> + <p> + “I, too, have a bone—you never sent me a word about my wedding.” + </p> + <p> + She turned her head away. “I was frightfully ill just then. They didn't + think I'd pull through. I did write afterwards to Clare, I told her how + ill I'd been—” + </p> + <p> + “She never told me.” + </p> + <p> + Peter bent over the sofa. “But I am ashamed, Norah, more ashamed than I + can say. After I got well and went to live with the Galleons a new life + seemed to begin for me and I was so eager and excited about it all. And + then—” he hesitated for a moment—“there was Clare.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know there was Clare and I am so delighted about it—I know + that you will both be so happy.... But, when one is lying here week after + week and is worried and tired things take such a different outline. I + thought that you and Clare—that you ... had given me up altogether + and—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly hiding her face in her hands she began to cry. It was + inexpressibly desolate there in the dim bare little room, and the sharp + sense of his neglect and the remembrance of the good friend that she had + been to him for so many years overwhelmed Peter. + </p> + <p> + He knelt down and put his arms round her. “Norah—don't, please, I + can't bear it. It's all right. I've been a beast, a selfish cad. But it + shan't happen again. I'll come often—I'm ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + She cried for a little and then she smiled at him. “I'm a fool to cry like + that but you see I'm weak and ill—and seeing you again after all + this time and your being so successful and happy upset me I suppose. + Forgive it, Peter, and come again one day when I'm better and stronger—and + bring Clare too.” + </p> + <p> + She held tightly to his hand and her grasp was hot and feverish. He + reassured her, told her that he would come soon again, that he would bring + Clare and so left her. + </p> + <p> + He took a cab and drove back to Chelsea in a storm of agitation. Suddenly, + out of nothing as it were, all these people, this old life had been thrust + up in front of him—had demanded, made claims. About him once again + was the old atmosphere: figures were filling his brain, the world was a + wild tossing place ... one of those Roundabouts with the hissing lights, + the screaming music, the horses going up and down. Plain enough now that + the old life was not done with. Every moment of his past life seemed to + spring before him claiming recognition. He was drunk with the desire for + work. He flung the cabman something, dashed into the little house, was in + his room. The lamp was lighted, the door was shut, there was silence, and + in his brain figures, scenes, sentences were racing—“The Stone + House,” neglected for so long, had begun once more, to climb. + </p> + <p> + The hours passed, the white sheets were covered and flung aside. Dimly + through a haze, he saw Clare standing in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Bad old boy!” + </p> + <p> + He scarcely glanced up. “I'm not coming yet—caught by work.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be at it too late.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. + </p> + <p> + She closed the door softly behind her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + THE IN-BETWEENS + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Then, out of the wind and rain, came Mr. Zanti. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Three days after Peter's visit to Brockett's he was finishing a letter + before dressing for dinner. He and Clare were going on to a party later in + the evening but were dining quietly alone together first. The storms that + had fallen upon London three days before were still pommelling and + buffeting the city, the trees outside the window groaned and creaked with + a mysterious importance as though they were trying to tell one another + secrets, and little branches tapped at the dripping panes. He was writing + in the little drawing-room—warm and comfortable—and the Maria + Theresa, so small a person in so much glory, looked down on him from her + silver frame and gave him company. + </p> + <p> + Then Sarah—a minute servant, who always entered a room as though + swept into it by a cyclone—breathlessly announced that there was a + gentleman to see Mr. Westcott. + </p> + <p> + “'E's drippin' in the 'all,” she gasped and handed Peter a very dirty bit + of paper. + </p> + <p> + Peter read:—“Dear Boy, Being about to leave this country on an + expedition of the utmost importance I feel that I must shake you by the + hand before I go. Emilio Zanti.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti, enormous, smiling from ear to ear, engulfed in a great coat + from which his huge head, buffeted by wind and rain—his red cheeks, + his rosy nose, his sparkling eyes—stood out like some strange and + cheerful flower—filled the doorway. + </p> + <p> + He enfolded Peter in his arms, pressed him against very wet garments, + kissed him on both cheeks and burst into a torrent of explanation. He was + only in London for a very few days—he must see his dearest Peter—so + often before he had wanted to see his Peter but he had thought that it + would be better to leave him—and then he had heard that his Peter + was married—well, he must see his lady—it was entirely + necessary that he should kiss her hand and wish her well and congratulate + her on having secured his “own, own Peter,” for a life partner. Yes, he + had found his address from that Pension where Peter used to live; they had + told him and he had come at once because at once, this very night, he was + away to Spain where there was a secret expedition—ah, very secret—and + soon—in a month, two months—he would return, a rich, rich man. + This was the adventure of Mr. Zanti's life and when he was in England + again he, Mr. Zanti, would see much of Peter and of his beautiful wife—of + course she was beautiful—and of the dear children that were to come— + </p> + <p> + Here Peter interrupted him. He had listened to the torrent of words in an + odd confusion. The last time that he had seen Mr. Zanti he had left him, + sitting with his head in his hands sobbing in the little bookshop. Since + then everything had happened. He, Peter, had had success, love, position, + comfort—the Gods had poured everything into his hands—and now, + to his amazement as he sat there, in the little room opposite his huge + fantastic friend he was almost regretting all those glorious things that + had come to him and was wishing himself back in the dark little bookshop—dark, + but lighted with the fire of Mr. Zanti's amazing adventures. + </p> + <p> + But there was more than this in his thoughts. As he looked at Mr. Zanti, + at his wild black locks, his flaming cheeks, his rolling eyes, his large + red hands, he was aware suddenly that Clare would not appreciate him. It + was the first time since his marriage that there had been any question of + Clare's criticism, but now he knew, with absolute certainty, that Mr. + Zanti was entirely outside Clare's range of possible persons. For the + first time, almost with a secret start of apprehension, he knew that there + were things that she did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid,” he said, “that my wife is dressing. But when you come back + you shall meet of course—that will be delightful.” And then he went + on—“But I simply can't tell you how splendid it is to look at you + again. Lots of things have happened to me since I saw you, of course, but + I'm just the same—” + </p> + <p> + Whilst he was speaking his voice had become eager, his eyes bright—he + began to pace the room excitedly— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Zanti! ... the days we used to have. I suppose the times I've been + having lately had put it all out of my head, but now, with you here, it's + all as though it happened yesterday. The day we left Cornwall, you and I—the + fog when we got to London ... everything.” He drew a great breath and + stood in the middle of the room listening to the rain racing down the + pipes beyond the dark windows. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti, getting up ponderously, placed his hands on Peter's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Still the same Peter,” he said. “Now I know zat I go 'appy. Zat is all I + came for—I said I must zee my Peter because Stephen—” + </p> + <p> + “Stephen—” broke in Peter sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, our Stephen. He goes with me now to Spain. He is now, until + to-night, in London but he will not come to you because 'e's afraid—” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes 'e says you are married now and 'ave a lovely 'ouse and 'e says you + 'ave not written for a ver' long time, and 'e just asked me to give you + 'is love and say that when 'e comes back from Spain, per'aps—” + </p> + <p> + “Stephen!” Peter's voice was sharp with distress. “Zanti, where is he now? + I must go and see him at once.” + </p> + <p> + “No, 'e 'as gone already to the boat. I follow 'im.” Then Mr. Zanti added + in a softer voice—“So when he tell me that you 'ave not written I + say 'Ah! Mr. Peter forgets his old friends,' and I was zorry but I say + that I will go and make sure. And now I am glad, ver' glad, and Stephen + will be glad too. All is well—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I am ashamed. I don't know what has come over me all this time. But + wait—I will write a note that you shall take to him and then—when + he comes back from Spain—” + </p> + <p> + He went to his table and began to write eagerly. Mr. Zanti, meanwhile, + went round the room on tip-toe, examining everything, sometimes shaking + his huge head in disapproval, sometimes nodding his appreciation. + </p> + <p> + Peter wrote: + </p> + <p> + <i>Dear, Dear Stephen,—I am furious, I hate myself. What can I have + been doing all this time? I have thought of you often, but my marriage and + all the new life have made me selfish, and always I put off writing to you + because I thought the quiet hour would come to me—and it has never + come. But I have no excuse—except that in the real part of myself I + love you, just the same as ever—and it will be always the same. I + have been bewildered, I think, by all the things that have happened to me + during this last year—but I will never be bewildered again. Write to + me from Spain and then as soon as you come back I will make amends for my + wickedness. I am now and always, Your loving Peter.</i> + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti took the letter. + </p> + <p> + “How is he?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “I found 'im—down in Treliss. He wasn't 'appy. 'E was thinking of + that woman. And then 'e was all alone. 'E got some work at a farm out at + Pendragon and 'e was just goin' there when I came along and made 'im come + to Spain. 'E was thinkin' of you a lot, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti cast one more look round the room. “Pretty,” he said. “Pretty. + But not my sort of place. Too many walls—all too close in.” + </p> + <p> + In the hall he said once more—a little plaintively:— + </p> + <p> + “I <i>should</i> like to see your lady, Peter,” and then he went on + hurriedly, “But don't you go and disturb her—not for anything—<i>I</i> + understand....” + </p> + <p> + And, with his finger on his lip, wrapt in the deepest mystery, he departed + into the rain. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed behind him, Peter felt a wave of chill, unhappy + loneliness. He turned back into the cheerful little hall and heard Clare + singing upstairs. He knew that they were going to have a delightful little + dinner, that, afterwards, they would be at a party where every one would + be pleased to see them—he knew that the evening in front of him + should be wholly charming ... and yet he was uneasy. He felt now as though + he ought to resign his evening, climb to his little room and work at “The + Stone House.” And yet what connection could that possibly have with Mr. + Zanti? + </p> + <p> + His uneasiness had begun, he thought, after his visit to Brockett's. It + seemed to him as he went upstairs to dress that the world was too full of + too many things and that his outlook on it all was confused. + </p> + <p> + Throughout dinner this uneasiness remained with him. Had he been less + occupied with his own thoughts he would have noticed that Clare was not + herself; at first she talked excitedly without waiting for his answers—there + were her usual enthusiasms and excitements. Everything in the day's + history had been “enchanting” or “horrible,” as a rule she waited for him + to act up to her ecstasies and abhorrencies; to-night she talked as though + she had no audience but were determined to fill up time. Then suddenly she + was silent; her eyes looked tired and into them there crept a strange + secret little shudder as though she were afraid of some thought or + mysterious knowledge. She looked now like a little girl who knew, that + to-morrow—the inevitable to-morrow—she must go to the + dentist's to be tortured. + </p> + <p> + The last part of the meal was passed in silence. Afterwards she came into + his study and sat curled upon the floor at his feet watching him smoke. + </p> + <p> + She thought as she looked up at him, that something had happened to make + him younger. She had never seen him as young as he was to-night—and + then because his thoughts were far away and because her own troubled her + she made a diversion. She said:— + </p> + <p> + “Who <i>was</i> that extraordinary man you were talking to this evening?” + </p> + <p> + He came back, with a jerk, from Stephen. + </p> + <p> + “What man?” + </p> + <p> + “Why the man with all the black hair and a funny squash hat. I saw Sarah + let him in.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that,” said Peter, looking down at her tenderly, “that was a great + friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + She moved her head away. + </p> + <p> + “Don't touch my hair, Peter—it's all been arranged for the party. A + friend of yours? What! That horrible looking man? Oh! I suppose he was one + of those dreadful people you knew in the slums or in Cornwall.” + </p> + <p> + Peter saw Mr. Zanti's dear friendly face, like a moon, staring at him, and + heard his warm husky voice: “Peter, my boy....” + </p> + <p> + He moved a little impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, old girl, you mustn't call him that. He's one of the very best + friends I've ever had—and I've been rather pulled up lately—ever + since that night you sent me to Brockett's. I've felt ashamed of myself. + All my happiness and—you—and everything have made me forget my + old friends and that won't do.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. “And now I suppose you're going to neglect me for them—for + horrid people like that man who came to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was shaking a little—he saw that her hands were clenched + on her lap. He looked down at her in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Clare, what do you mean? How could you say a thing like that even + in jest? You know—” + </p> + <p> + She broke in upon him almost fiercely—“It wasn't jest. I meant what + I said. I hate all these earlier people you used to know—and now, + after our being so happy all this time, you're going to take them up again + and make the place impossible—” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Clare, you mustn't speak of them like that—they're my + friends and they've got to be treated as such.” His voice was suddenly + stern. “And by the way as we are talking about it I don't think it was + very kind of you to tell me nothing at all about poor Norah's being so + ill. She asked you to tell me and you never said a word. That wasn't very + kind of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I did speak to you about it but you forgot—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think you did—I am quite sure that I should not have + forgotten—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course you contradict me. Anyhow there's no reason to drag Norah + Monogue into this. The matter is perfectly clear. I will not have dirty + old men like that coming into the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Clare, you shall not speak of my friends—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shan't I? When I married you I didn't marry all your old horrid + friends—” + </p> + <p> + “Drop it, Clare—or I shall be angry—” + </p> + <p> + She sprang to her feet, faced him. He had never in his life seen such + fury. She stood with her little body drawn to its full height, her hands + clenched, her breast heaving under her white evening dress, her eyes + glaring— + </p> + <p> + “You shan't! You shan't! I won't have any of them here. I hate Cornwall + and all its nasty people and I hate Brockett's and all those people you + knew there. When you married me you gave them all up—all of them. + And if you have them here I won't stay in the house—I'll leave you. + All that part of your life is nothing to do with me. <i>Nothing</i>—and + I simply won't have it. You can do what you like but you choose between + them and me—you can go back to your old life if you like but you go + without me!” + </p> + <p> + She burst from the room, banging the door behind her. She had behaved + exactly like a small child in the nursery. As he looked at the door he was + bewildered—whence suddenly had this figure sprung? It was some one + whom he did not know. He could not reconcile it with the dignified Clare, + proud as a queen, crossing a ball-room or the dear beloved Clare nestling + into a corner of his arm-chair, her face against his, or the gentle + friendly Clare listening to some story of distress. + </p> + <p> + The fury, the tempest of it! It was as though everything in the room had + been broken. And he, with his glorious, tragical youth felt that the end + of the world had come. This was the conclusion of life—no more cause + for living, no more friendship or comfort or help anywhere. Clare had said + those things to him. He stood, for ten minutes there, in the middle of the + room, without moving—his face white, his eyes full of pain. + </p> + <p> + Sarah came to tell him that the hansom was there. He moved into the hall + with the intention of sending it away; no party for him to-night—when, + to his amazement he saw Clare coming slowly down the stairs, her cloak on, + buttoning her gloves. + </p> + <p> + She passed him without a word and got into the hansom. He took his hat and + coat, gave the driver the address, and climbed in beside her. + </p> + <p> + Once as they drove he put out his hand, touched her dress and said—“Clare + dear—” + </p> + <p> + She made no reply, but sat looking, with her eyes large and black in her + little white face, steadfastly in front of her. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Lady Luncon was a rich, good-natured woman who had recently published a + novel and was anxious to hear it praised, therefore she gave a party. + Originally a manufacturer's daughter, she had conquered a penniless + baronet—spent twenty years in the besieging of certain drawing-rooms + and now, tired of more mundane worlds, fixed her attention upon the Arts. + She was a completely stupid woman, her novel had been exceedingly vulgar, + but her good heart and a habit of speaking vaguely in capital letters + secured her attention. + </p> + <p> + When Clare and Peter arrived people were filling her drawing-rooms, + overflowing on to the stairs and pouring into the supper room. Some one, + very far away, was singing “Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix,” a babel of + voices rose about Clare and Peter on every side, every one was flung + against every one; heat and scent, the crackle and rustle of clothes, the + soft voices of the men and sharp strident voices of the women gave one the + sensation of imminent suffocation; people with hot red faces, unable to + move at all, flung agonised glances at the door as though the entrance of + one more person must mean death and disaster. + </p> + <p> + There were, Peter soon discovered, three topics of conversation: one was + their hostess' novel and this was only discussed when Lady Luncon was + herself somewhere at hand—the second topic concerned the books of + somebody who had, most unjustly it appeared, been banned by the libraries + for impropriety, and here opinions were divided as to whether the author + would gain by the advertisement or lose by loss of library circulation. + Thirdly, there was a new young man who had written a novel about the love + affairs of a crocus and a violet—it was amazingly improper, full of + poetry—“right back,” as somebody said “to Nature.” Moreover there + was much talk about Form. “Here is the new thing in fiction that we are + looking for ...” also “Quite a young man—oh yes, only about eighteen + and so modest. You would never think....” + </p> + <p> + His name was Rondel and Peter saw him, for a moment, as the crowds parted, + standing, with a tall, grim, elderly woman, apparently his mother, beside + him. He was looking frightened and embarrassed and stood up straight + against the wall as though afraid lest some one should come and snatch him + away. + </p> + <p> + But Peter saw the world in a dream. He walked about, with Clare beside + him, and talked to many people; then she was stopped by some one whom she + knew and he went on alone. Now there had come back to him the old terror. + If he went back, after this was over, and Clare was still angry with him, + he did not know what he would do. He was afraid.... + </p> + <p> + He smiled, talked, laughed and, in his chest, there was a sharp acute pain + like a knife. He had still with him that feeling that nothing in life now + was worth while and there followed on that a wild impulse to let go, to + fling off the restraints that he had retained now for so long and with + such bitter determination. + </p> + <p> + He wanted to cast aside this absurd party, to hurry home alone with Clare, + to sit alone with her in the little house and to reach the divine moment + when reconciliation came and they were closer to one another than ever + before—and then there was the horrible suggestion that there would + be no reconciliation, that Clare would make of this absurd quarrel an + eternal breach, that things would never be right again. + </p> + <p> + He looked back and saw Clare smiling gaily, happily, at some friend. He + saw her as she had faced him, furiously, an hour earlier ... oh God! If + she should never care for him again! + </p> + <p> + He recognised many friends. There were the two young Galleons, Millicent + and Percival, looking as important and mysterious as possible, taxing + their brains for something clever to say.... + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's Life!” Peter heard Percival say to some one. Young fools, he + thought to himself, let them have my trouble and then they may talk. But + they were nice to him when he came up to them. The author of “Reuben + Hallard,” even though he did look like a sailor on leave, was worth + respecting—moreover, father liked him and believed in him—nevertheless + he was just a tiny bit “last year's sensation.” “Have you read,” said + Percival eagerly, “'The Violet's Redemption'? It really is the most + tremendous thing—all about a violet. There's the fellow who wrote it + over there—young chap standing with his back to the wall....” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Maradick, let's get somewhere out of this crush and have a + cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Maradick was capable of sitting, quite happily for hours, without saying + anything at all. For some time they were both silent. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you do,” said Peter, “if it ever gets too much for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Do? How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, hold on, hold on—” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Fortitude—Courage. Clinging on with your nails, setting your + teeth.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Maradick put his hand on Peter's knee. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + “Treliss!” Peter almost shouted. “Why that's where I come from. I was born + there—that's my town—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—you'll never guess, if I give you a hundred guesses—it's + most exciting—come along—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look at Mr. Horset,” cried the woman next to him—“Isn't he absurd?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + “Cards!” he cried. “Of all wonderful things!” + </p> + <p> + 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 + covered with perfect equality the ends of his white tie. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They were enough. They didn't want anybody else—Room for Mr. + Cardillac! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! won't we have a reconciliation afterwards? How could I have said + those things? Don't we just love one another?” + </p> + <p> + When they went upstairs again Peter and Cards exchanged a word: + </p> + <p> + “You'll come and see us?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “You! Why you can do anything!” + </p> + <p> + “Can't write 'Reuben Hallard,' old boy....” and so, with a laugh, they + parted. + </p> + <p> + In the cab, afterwards, Clare's head was buried in Peter's coat, and she + sobbed her heart out. “How I <i>could</i> have been such a beast, Peter, + Peter!” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, it was nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but it was! It shall never, never happen again...but I was frightened—” + </p> + <p> + “Frightened!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But nobody can take me away—nobody—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>mustn't</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>such</i> + a wife!” + </p> + <p> + Then she drew his head down. His lips touched her body just above her + dress, where her cloak parted. + </p> + <p> + She whispered: + </p> + <p> + “There's something else.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He caught her very close. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?...” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That night, long after he, triumphant with the glory of her secret, had + fallen asleep, she lay, staring into the dark, with frightened eyes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + BIRTH OF THE HEIR + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + She who loved comfort, who feared any pain, who would have Life safe and + easy, that she should be forced— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And there, before him—what mockery! the neat pages of “The Stone + House” now almost completed. + </p> + <p> + He stared into the wall and saw her face, her red-gold hair upon the + pillow, her dark staring eyes— + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 beast 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The little man said, “Good evening, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Good evening,” said Peter, staring desperately in front of him. + </p> + <p> + “It's all this blasted government—” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon—” + </p> + <p> + “This blasted government—This income tax and all—” + </p> + <p> + “It's more than that,” said Peter, wishing that the man would cease + beating his knees with his hands— + </p> + <p> + “It's them blasted stars—it's Gawd. That's what it is. Curse Gawd—that's + what I say—Curse Gawd!” + </p> + <p> + “What's He done?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “I've just broken in my wife's 'ead with a poker. Killed 'er I expect—I + dunno—going back to see in a minute—” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “'Ad to—always nagging—that's what she was—always + nagging. Wanted things—all sorts o' things—and there were + always children coming—So we 'ad a blasted argyment this evening and + I broke 'er 'ead open—Gawd did it—that's what I say—” + </p> + <p> + Peter said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “You can call a bloomin' copper if you want to,” the little man said. + </p> + <p> + “It's no business of mine,” said Peter and he got up and left him. All + shadows—only the sinister noise that London makes is real, that and + Clare's suffering. + </p> + <p> + He left the Park turned into Knightsbridge and came upon a toyshop. The + shutters had not been put up and the lights of a lamp shone full upon its + windows. Against the iron railings opposite and the high white road these + toys stood with sharp, distinct outline behind the slanting light of the + glass. There were dolls—a fine wedding doll, orange blossom, lace + and white silk, and from behind it all, the sharp pinched features and + black beady eyes stared out.... There was a Swiss doll with bright red + cheeks, red and green clothing and shoes with shining buckles. Then there + were the more ordinary dolls—and gradually down the length of the + window, their clothing was taken from them until at last some wooden + creatures with flaring cheeks and brazen eyes kicked their limbs and + defied the proprieties. + </p> + <p> + He would be a Boy ... he would not care about dolls.... + </p> + <p> + There were soldiers—rows and rows of gleaming soldiers. They came + from a misty distance at the top of the shop window, came marching from + the gates of some dark, mediæval castle. Their swords caught the + lamplight, shining in a line of silver and the precision with which they + marched, the certainty with which they trod the little bridge ... ah, + these were the fellows! He would be a Boy ... soldiers would enchant him! + He should have boxes, boxes, boxes! + </p> + <p> + There were many other things in the window; teddy bears and animals with + soft woolly stomachs and fat comfortable legs—and there were ugly, + modern Horrors with fat bulging faces and black hair erect like wire; + there were little devils with red tails, there were rabbits that rode + bicycles and monkeys that climbed trees. There were drums—big drums + and little drums—trumpets with crimson tassels, and in one corner a + pyramid of balls, balls of every colour, and at the top of the pyramid a + tiny ball of peacock blue, hanging, balancing, daintily, supremely right + in pose and gesture. + </p> + <p> + It had gesture. It caught Peter's eye—Peter stood with his nose + against the pane, his heart hammering—“Oh! she is suffering—My + God, how she is suffering!”—and there the little blue ball caught + him, held him, encouraged him. + </p> + <p> + “I will belong to your boy one day” it seemed to say. + </p> + <p> + “It shall be the first thing I will buy for him—” thought Peter. + </p> + <p> + He turned now amongst the light and crowds of Piccadilly. He walked on + without seeing and hearing—always with that thought in his heart—“She + is in terrible pain. How can God be so cruel? And she was so happy—before + I came she was so happy—now—what have I done to her?” + </p> + <p> + Never, before to-night, had he felt so sharply, so irretrievably his sense + of responsibility. Here now, before him, at this birth of his child, + everything that he had done, thought, said—everything that he had + been—confronted him. He was only twenty-seven but his shoulders were + heavy with the confusion of his past. Looking back upon it, he saw a + helpless medley of indecisions, of sudden impulses, sudden refusals; into + the skeins of it, too, there seemed to be dragged the people that had made + up his life—they faced him, surrounded him, bewildered him! + </p> + <p> + What right had he, thus encompassed, to hand these things on to another? + His father, his grandfather ... he saw always that dark strain of hatred, + of madness, of evil working in their blood. Suppose that as his boy grew + he should see this in the young eyes? Suppose, most horrible of all, that + he should feel this hatred for his son that his grandfather had felt for + his father, that his father had felt for him. + </p> + <p> + What had he done?... He stopped, staring confusedly about him. The people + jostled him on every side. The old devils were at him—“Eat and drink + for to-morrow we die.... Give it up ... We're too strong for you and we'll + be too strong for your son. Who are you to defy us? Come down—give + it up—” + </p> + <p> + His white face caught attention. “Move along, guv'nor,” some one shouted. + A man took him by the arm and led up a dark side street. He turned his + eyes and saw that the man was Maradick. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The elder man felt that the boy was trembling from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter, Westcott? Anything I can do for you?” + </p> + <p> + Peter seemed to take him in slowly, and then, with a great effort, to pull + himself together. + </p> + <p> + “What, you—Maradick? Where was I? I'm afraid I've been making a fool + of myself....” A church clock struck somewhere in the distance. “Hullo, I + say, what's that? That's eleven. I must get back, I ought to be at home—” + </p> + <p> + “I'll come with you—” + </p> + <p> + Maradick hailed a hansom and helped Peter into it. + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was silence—then Maradick said— + </p> + <p> + “I hope everything's all right, Westcott? Your wife?” + </p> + <p> + Peter spoke as though he were in a dream. “I've been waiting there all the + afternoon—she's been suffering—My God!... It got on my + nerves.... She's so young—they oughtn't to hurt her like that.” He + covered his face with his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I know. I felt like that when my first child came. It's terrible, awful. + And then it's over—all the pain—and it's magnificent, glorious—and + then—later—it's so commonplace that you cannot believe that it + was ever either awful or magnificent. Fix your mind on the glorious part + of it, Westcott. Think of this time to-morrow when your wife will be so + proud, so happy—you'll both be so proud, so happy, that you'll never + know anything in life like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know—of course it's sure to be all right—but I + suppose this waiting's got on my nerves. There was a fellow in the Park + just broken his wife's head in—and then everything was so quiet. I + could almost hear her crying, right away in her room.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped a moment and then went on. “It's what I've always wanted—always + to have a boy. And, by Jove, he'll be wonderful! I tell you he shall be—We'll + be such pals!” He broke off suddenly—“You haven't a boy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, mine are both girls. Getting on now—they'll soon be coming out. + I should like to have had a boy—” Maradick sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Are they an awful lot to you?” + </p> + <p> + “No—I don't suppose they are. I should have understood a boy better,—but + they're good girls. I'm proud of them in a way—but I'm out so much, + you see.” + </p> + <p> + Peter faced the contrast. Here this middle-aged man, with his two girls—and + here too he, Peter, with his agonising, flaming trial—to slip, so + soon, into dull commonplace? + </p> + <p> + “But didn't you—if you can look so far—didn't you, when the + first child came, funk it? Your responsibility I mean. All the things + one's—one's ancestors—it's frightening enough for oneself but + to hand it on—” + </p> + <p> + “It's nothing to do with oneself—one's used, that's all. The child + will be on its own legs, thrusting you away before you know where you are. + It <i>will</i> want to claim its responsibilities—ancestors and all—” + </p> + <p> + Peter said nothing—Maradick went on: + </p> + <p> + “You know we were talking one night and were interrupted—you're in + danger of letting the things you imagine beat the things you know. Stick + to the thing you can grasp, touch—I know the dangers of the others—I + told you that once in Cornwall, I—the most unlikely person in the + world—was caught up by it. I've never laughed at morbidity, or + nerves, or insanity since. There's such a jolly thin wall between the + sanest, most level-headed beef-eating Squire in the country and the + maddest poet in Bedlam. <i>I</i> know—I've been both in the same + day. It's better to be both, I believe, if you can keep one under the + other, but you <i>must</i> keep it under—” + </p> + <p> + Maradick talked on. He saw that the boy's nerves were jumping, that he was + holding himself in with the greatest difficulty. + </p> + <p> + Peter said: “You don't know, Maradick. I've had to fight all my life—my + father, grandfather, all of them have given in at last—and now this + child ... perhaps I shall see it growing, see him gradually learning to + hate me, see myself hating him ... at last, my God, see him go under—drink, + deviltry—I've fought it—I'm always fighting it—but + to-night—” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, man—you're not going to tell me that your father, + your grandfather—the rest of them—are stronger than you. What + about your soul, your own blessed soul that can't be touched by any living + thing or dead thing either if you stick to it? Why, every man's got power + enough in himself to ride heaven and earth and all eternity if he only + believed he'd got it! Ride your scruples, man—ride 'em, drive 'em—send + 'em scuttling. Believe in yourself and stick to it—Courage!...” + </p> + <p> + Maradick pulled himself in. They were driving now, down the King's Road. + The people were pouring in a thick, buzzing crowd, out of the Chelsea + Palace. Middle-aged stockbrokers in hansom cabs—talking like the + third act of a problem play!—but Maradick had done his work. As they + drove round the corner, past the mad lady's painted house, he saw that + Peter was calmer. He had regained his self-control. The little house where + Peter lived was very still—the trees in the orchard were stiff and + dark beneath the stars. + </p> + <p> + Peter spoke in a whisper—“Good-night, Maradick, you've done me a lot + of good—I shan't forget it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good luck to you,” Maradick whispered back. Peter stole into the house. + </p> + <p> + The little drawing-room looked very cosy; the fire was burning, the lamp + lighted, the thick curtains drawn. Maria Theresa smiled, with all her + finery, from the wall. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down in front of the fire. Maradick was right. One must have + one's hand on the bridle—the Rider on the Lion again. It's better + that the beast under you should be a Lion rather than a Donkey, but let it + once fling you off its back and you're done for. And Maradick had said + these things! Maradick whom once Peter had considered the dullest of his + acquaintances. Well, one never knew about people—most of the + Stay-at-homes were Explorers and vice versa, if one only understood them. + </p> + <p> + How still the house was! What was happening upstairs? He could not go and + see—he could not move. He was held by the stillness. The doctor + would come and tell him.... + </p> + <p> + He thought of the toyshop—that blue ball—it would be the first + thing that he would buy for the boy—and then soldiers—soldiers + that wouldn't hurt him, that he couldn't lick the paint from— + </p> + <p> + Now the little silver clock ticked! He was so terribly tired—he had + never been tired like this before.... + </p> + <p> + The stillness pressed upon the house. Every sound—the distant + rattling of some cab, the faint murmur of trams—was stifled, + extinguished. The orchard seemed to press in upon the house, darker and + darker grew the forest about it—The stars were shut out, the moon... + the world was dead. + </p> + <p> + Then into this sealed and hidden silence, a voice crying from an upper + room, suddenly fell—a woman in the abandonment of utter pain, pain + beyond all control, was screaming. Somewhere, above that dark forest that + pressed in upon the house, a bird of prey hovered. It hung for a moment; + it descended—its talons were fixed upon her flesh... then again it + ascended. Shriek after shriek, bursting the silence, chasing the shadows, + flooding the secrecy with horrible light, beat like blows upon the walls + of the house—rose, fell, rose again. Peter was standing, his back + against the wall, his hands spread out, his face grey. + </p> + <p> + “My God, my God... Oh! my God!” + </p> + <p> + The sweat poured from his forehead. Once more there was silence but now it + was ominous, awful.... + </p> + <p> + The little silver clock ticked—Peter's body stood stretched against + the wall—he faced the door. + </p> + <p> + Hours, hours passed. He did not move. The screaming had, many years ago, + ceased. The doctor—a cheerful man with blue eyes and a little + bristling moustache—came in. + </p> + <p> + “A fine boy, Mr. Westcott—I congratulate you. You might see your + wife for a moment if you cared—stood it remarkably well—” + </p> + <p> + Slowly the forest, dark and terrible, moved away from the house. Very + faintly again could be heard the distant rattling of some cab, the murmur + of trams. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <h3> + DECLARATION OF HAPPINESS + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Extracts from letters that Bobby Galleon wrote to Alice Galleon about this + time: + </p> + <p> + “... But, of course, I am sorrier than I can say that it's so dull. That's + due to charity, my dear, and if you will go and fling yourself into the + depths of Yorkshire because a girl like Ola Hunting chooses to think she's + unhappy and lonely you've only yourself to thank. Moreover there's your + husband to be considered. I don't suppose, for a single instant, that he + really prefers to be left alone, with his infant son, mind you, howling at + the present moment because his nurse won't let him swallow the glass + marbles, and you can picture to yourself—if you want to make + yourself thoroughly unhappy—your Robert sitting, melancholy + throughout the long evening, alone, desolate, creeping to bed somewhere + about ten o'clock. + </p> + <p> + “So there we are—you're bored to death and I've no one to growl at + when I come back from the City—all Ola Hunting's fault—wring + the girl's neck. Meanwhile here I sit and every evening I'll write + whatever comes into my head and never look back on it again but stick it + into an envelope and send it to you. You know me too well by now to be + disappointed at anything. + </p> + <p> + “I'm quite sure that, if you were here with me now, sitting in that chair + opposite me and sewing for all you were worth, that the thing that we'd be + talking about would be Peter. If, therefore, these scrawls are full of + Peter you won't mind, I know. He's immensely occupying my attention just + now and you love him as truly and deeply as I do, so that if I go on at + length about him you'll excuse it on that score. You who know me better + than any one else in the world know that, in my most secret heart, I + flatter myself on my ability as a psychologist. I remember when I told you + first how you laughed but I think since then you've come round not a + little, and although we both keep it to ourselves, it's a little secret + that you're a tiny bit proud of. I can see how brother Percival, or young + Tony Gale, or even dear Peter himself would mock, if I told them of this + ambition of mine. 'Good, dear, stupid, old Bobby' is the way they think of + me, and I know it's mother's perpetual wonder (and also, I think, a little + her comfort) that I should be so lacking in brilliance when Percival and + Millie are so full of it. + </p> + <p> + “You know Peter's attitude to me in these things—you've seen it + often enough. He's patronising—he can't help it. That isn't, he + considers, my line in the least, and, let me once begin to talk to him of + stocks and shares and he'll open all his ears. Well, I can't blame him—but + I do think these writers and people are inclined to draw their line a + little too sharply with their Philistines—great big gulf, please—and + Artists. At any rate, here goes for my psychology and good luck to it. + Peter, in fact, is so interesting a subject if one sees anything of him at + all that I believe he'd draw speculation out of any one. There was old + Maradick talking about him the other night—fascinated by him and + understanding him most amazingly well—another instance of your + Philistine and Artist mixed. + </p> + <p> + “But I knew him—and knew him jolly well too—when he was about + twelve, so that I really get a pull over the rest of you there, for it + adds of course immensely to the interest and if ever child was Father of + the Man, Peter was. You know how we both funked that marriage of his for + him—you because you knew Clare so well, I because I knew Peter. And + then for a time it really seemed that we were both entirely wrong. Clare's + is a far simpler personality than Peter's, and if you work along one or + two recognised lines—let her have her way, don't frighten her, above + all keep her conventional—it's all right. Clare was, and is, awfully + in love with him, and he madly with her of course—and that helped + everything along. You know how relieved we both were and indeed it seemed, + for a time, that it was going to be the making of both of them—going + to make Clare braver and Peter less morbid. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's since you've been away that everything's happened. Although + the baby was born some weeks before you went, it's only lately that Clare + has been up and about. She's perfectly well and the baby's splendid—promises + to be a tremendous fellow and as healthy as possible. You can imagine, a + little, the effect of it all on Clare. I don't suppose there's any girl in + London been so wrapped in cotton wool all her life, and that old ass of a + father and still more irritating ass of a mother would go on wrapping her + still if they had their way. The fuss they've both made about this whole + business is simply incredible—especially when the man's a doctor and + brings Lord knows how many children into the world every week of his life. + But it's all been awfully bad for Clare. Of course, she was frightened—frightened + out of her wits. It's the very first time life ever had its wrappings off + for her, and that in itself of course is a tremendously good thing. But + you can't, unfortunately, wrap any one up for all those years and then + take the wrappings off and not deliver a shock to the system. Of course + there's a shock, and it's just this shock that I'm so afraid of. I'm + afraid of it for one thing because Peter's so entirely oblivious of it. He + was in an agony of terror on the day that the baby was born, but once it + was there—well and healthy and promising—fear vanished. He + could only see room for glory—and glory he does. I cannot tell you + what that boy is like about the baby; at present he thinks, day and night, + of nothing else. It is the most terrific thing to watch his feeling about + it—and meanwhile he takes it for granted that Clare feels the + same.... Well, she doesn't. I have been in a good deal during these last + few days and she's stranger than words can say—doesn't see the child + if she can help it—loves it, worships it, when it is there, and—is + terrified of it. I saw a look in her eyes when she was nursing it + yesterday that was sheer undiluted terror. She's been frightened out of + her life, and if I know her the least little bit she's absolutely made up + her mind never to be frightened like that again. She is going to hurl + herself into a perfect whirlpool of excitement and entertainment and drag + Peter with her if she can. Meanwhile, behind that hard little head of + hers, she's making plans just as fast as she can make them. I believe she + looks on life now as though it had broken the compact that she made with + it—a compact that things should always be easy, comfortable, above + all, never threatening. The present must be calm but the Future's + absolutely got to be—and I believe, although she loves him devotedly + in the depths of her strange little soul, that she half blames Peter for + all of this disturbance, and that there are a great many things about him—his + earlier life, his earlier friends, even his work—that she would + strip from him if she could. + </p> + <p> + “Well, enough for the present. I don't know <i>what</i> nonsense there + isn't here. Into the envelope it all goes. I've been talking to you for an + hour and a half and that's something....” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + “... I've just come in from dinner with Peter and Clare and feel inclined + to talk to you for hours ahead. However, that I can't do, so I shall write + to you instead and you're to regard it all as a continuation of the things + that I said in last night's letter. I am as interested as ever and indeed, + after this evening's dinner more interested. The odd thing about it all is + that Peter is so completely oblivious to any change that may be going on + in Clare. His whole mind is centred now on the baby, he cannot have enough + of it and it was he, and not Clare, who took me up after dinner to see it + sleeping. + </p> + <p> + “You remember that they had some kind of a dispute about the name of the + boy at the time of the christening. Peter insisted that it should be + Stephen, after, I suppose, that odd Cornish friend of his, and Clare, weak + and ill though she was, objected with all her might. I don't know why she + took this so much to heart but it was all, I suppose, part of that odd + hatred that she has of Peter's earlier life and earlier friends. She has + never met the man Brant, but I think that she fancies that he is going to + swoop down one of these days and carry Peter off on a broomstick or + something. She gave in about the name—indeed I have never seen Peter + more determined—but I think, nevertheless, that she broods over it + and remembers it. My dear, I am as sorry for her as I can be. There she + stands, loving Peter with all her heart and soul, terrified out of her + wits at the possibilities that life is presenting to her, hating Peter's + friends at one moment, his work the next, the baby the next—exactly + like some one, walking on a window-ledge in his sleep and suddenly waking + and discovering— + </p> + <p> + “Peter's a more difficult question. He's too riotously happy just at the + moment to listen to a word from any one. His relation to the child is + really the most touching thing you ever saw, and really the child, + considering that it has scarcely begun to exist, has a feeling for him in + the most wonderful way. It is as good as gold when he is there and follows + him with its eyes—it doesn't pay much attention to Clare. I think it + knows that she's frightened of it. Yes, Peter is quite riotously happy. + You know that 'The Stone House' is coming out next week. There is to be a + supper party at the Galleons'—myself, Mrs. Launce. Maradick, the + Gales, some woman he knew at that boarding-house, Cardillac and Dr. and + Mrs. Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Cardillac is there a great deal and I am both glad and sorry. + He is very good for Clare and not at all good for Peter. He seems to + understand Clare in the most wonderful way—far better than Peter + does. He brings her out, helps her to be broader and really I think + explains Peter to her and helps things along. His influence on Peter is + all the other way. Peter, of course, worships him, just as he used to do + in the old days at school, and Cards always liked being worshipped. He has + an elegance, a savoir-faire that dear, square-shouldered rough-and-tumble + Peter finds entrancing, but, of course, Peter's worth the dozen of him any + day of the week. He drags out all Peter's worst side. I wonder whether + you'll understand what I mean when I say that Peter isn't <i>meant</i> to + be happy—at any rate not yet. He's got something too big, too + tremendous in him to be carved easily into any one of our humdrum, + conventional shapes. He takes things so hard that he isn't intended to + take more than one thing at a time, and here he is with Clare and Cards + both, as it seems to me, in a conspiracy to pull him into a thousand + little bits and to fling each little bit to a different tea-party. + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be getting at his work and he isn't getting at it at all. + 'The Stone House' is coming out next week and it may be all right, but I + don't mind betting that the next one suffers. If he weren't in a kind of + dream he'd see it all himself, and indeed I think that he'll wake one day + soon and see that a thousand ridiculous things are getting in between him + and his proper life. + </p> + <p> + “He was leading his proper life in those days at Dawson's when they were + beating him at home and hating him at school, and it was that old bookshop + and the queer people he met in it that produced 'Reuben Hallard.' + </p> + <p> + “He's so amazingly young in the ways of the world, so eager to make + friends with everybody, so delighted with an entirely superficial + butterfly like Cards, so devotedly attached to his wife, that I must + confess that the outlook seems to me bad. There's going to be a tremendous + tug-of-war in a minute and it's not going to be easy for the boy—nor, + indeed for Clare. + </p> + <p> + “I hope that you don't feel so far removed from this in your Yorkshire + desert that it has no interest for you, but I know how devoted you are to + Peter and one doesn't want to see the boy turned into the society novelist + creature—the kind of creature, God forgive me, that brother Percival + is certain to become. You'll probably say when you read this that I am + trying to drag out all the morbid side of Peter and make him the + melancholy, introspective creature that he used to be, in fits and starts, + when you first knew him. Of course that's the last thing I want to do, but + work to a man of Peter's temperament is the one rock that can save him. He + has, I do believe, a touch of genius in him somewhere, and I believe that + if he's allowed to follow, devoutly and with pain and anguish, maybe, his + Art, he'll be a great creature—a great man and a great writer. But + he's in the making—too eager to please, too eager to care for every + one, too desperately down if he thinks things are going badly with him. I + notice that he hasn't been to see my father lately—I think too that + all this reviewing is bad for him—other people's novels pouring upon + him in an avalanche must take something from the freshness of his own. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow I, Robert Galleon, your clever and penetrating husband, scent much + danger and trouble ahead. Clare, simply out of love for him and anxiety + for herself, will I know, do all she can to drag him from the thing that + he should follow—and Cards will help her—out of sheer + mischief, I verily believe. + </p> + <p> + “On their own heads be it. As to the carpets you asked me to go and look + at....” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + “... And now for the supper party. Although there's a whole day behind me + I'm still quivering under the excitement of it. As I tell you about it it + will in all probability, declare itself as a perfectly ordinary affair, + and, indeed, I think that you should have been there yourself to have + realised the emotion of it. But I'll try and give it you word for word. I + was kept in the city and arrived late and they were all there. Mrs. + Launce, twinkling all over with kindness, Maradick in his best Stock + Exchange manner, the Gales (Janet Gale perfectly lovely), the old + Rossiters, Cards, shining with a mixture of enterprise and knowledge of + the world and last of all a very pale, rather nervous, untidy Irish woman, + a Miss Monogue. Clare was so radiantly happy that I knew that she wasn't + happy at all, had obviously taken a great deal of trouble about her hair + and had it all piled up on the top of her head and looked wonderful. I + can't describe these things, but you know that when she's bent on giving + an impression she seems to stand on her toes all the time—well, she + was standing on every kind of toe, moral, physical, emotional last night. + Finally there was Peter, looking as though his evening dress had been made + for something quite different from social dinner parties. It fitted all + right, but it was too comfortable to be smart—he looked, beside + Cards, like a good serviceable cob up against the smartest of hunters. + Peter's rough, bullet head, the way that he stands with his legs wide + apart and his thick body holding itself deliberately still with an effort + as though he were on board ship—and then that smile that won all our + hearts ages ago right out of the centre of his brown eyes first and then + curving his mouth, at last seizing all his body—but always, in spite + of it, a little appealing, a little sad somewhere—can't you see him? + And Cards, slim, straight, dark, beautifully clothed, beautifully witty + and I am convinced, beautifully insincere. Can't you see Cards say 'good + evening' to me—with that same charm, that same ease, that same + contempt that he had when we were at school together? Bobby Galleon—an + honest good fellow—but dull—mon Dieu—dull (he rather + likes French phrases)—can't you hear him saying it? Well from the + very first, there was something in the air. We were all excited, even old + Mrs. Rossiter and the pale Irish creature whom I remembered afterwards I + had met that day when I went to that boarding—house after Peter. + Clare was quite extraordinary—I have never seen her anything like it—she + talked the whole time, laughed, almost shouted. The only person she + treated stiffly was Cards—I don't think she likes him. + </p> + <p> + “He was at his most brilliant—really wonderful—and I liked him + better than I've ever liked him before. He seemed to have a genuine + pleasure in Peter's happiness, and I believe he's as fond of the boy as + he's able to be of any one. A copy of 'The Stone House' was given to each + of us (I haven't had time to look at mine yet) and I suppose the + combination of the baby and the book moved us all. Besides, Clare and + Peter both looked so absurdly young. Such children to have had so many + adventures already. You can imagine how riotous we got when I tell you + that dessert found Mrs. Rossiter with a paper cap on her head and Janet + Gale was singing some Cornish song or other to the delight of the company. + Miss Monogue and I were the quietest. I should think that she's one of the + best, and I saw her look at Peter once or twice in a way that showed how + strongly she felt about him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, old girl, I'm bothered if I can explain the kind of anxiety that + came over me after a time. You'll think me a regular professional croaker + but really I suppose, at bottom, it was some sort of feeling that the + whole thing, this shouting and cheering and thumping the table—was + premature. And then I suppose it was partly my knowledge of Peter. It + wasn't like him to behave in this sort of way. He wasn't himself—excited, + agitated by something altogether foreign to him. I could have thought that + he was drunk, if I hadn't known that he hadn't touched any liquor + whatever. But a man of Peter's temperament pays for this sort of thing—it + isn't the sort of way he's meant to take life. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever the reason may have been I know that I felt suddenly outside the + whole business and most awfully depressed. I think Miss Monogue felt + exactly the same. By the time the wine was on the table all I wanted was + to get right away. It was almost as though I had been looking on at + something that I was ashamed to see. There was a kind of deliberate + determination about their happiness and Clare's little body with her hair + on the verge, as it seemed, of a positive downfall, had something quite + pitiful in its deliberate rejoicing; such a child, my dear—I never + realised how young until last night. Such a child and needing some one so + much older and wiser than Peter to manage it all. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there I was hating it when the final moment came. Cards got up and + in one of the wittiest little speeches you ever heard in your life, + proposed Peter's health, alluded to 'Reuben Hallard,' then Clare, then the + Son and Heir, a kind of back fling at old Dawson's, and then last of all, + an apostrophe to 'The Stone House' all glory and honour, &c.:—well, + it was most neatly done and we all sat back, silent, for Peter's reply. + </p> + <p> + “The dear boy stood there, all flushed and excited, with his hair pushed + back off his forehead and began the most extraordinary speech I've ever + heard. I can't possibly give you the effect of it at secondhand, in the + mere repetition of it there was little more than that he was wildly, madly + happy, that there was no one in the world as happy as he, that now at last + the gods had given him all that he had ever wanted, let them now do their + worst—and so crying, flung his glass over his shoulder, and smashed + it on to the wall behind him. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot possibly tell you how sinister, how ominous the whole thing + suddenly was. It swooped down upon all of us like a black cloud. Credit + me, if you will, with a highly—strung bundle of nerves (not so solid + matter-of-fact as I seem, <i>you</i> know well enough) but it seemed to + me, at that moment, that Peter was defying, consciously, with his heart in + his mouth, a world of devils and that he was cognisant of all of them. The + thing was conscious—that was the awful thing about it, I could swear + that he was seeing far beyond all of us, that he was hurling his happiness + at something that he had there before him as clearly as I have you before + me now. It was defiance and I believe the minute after uttering it he + would have liked to have rushed upstairs to see that his baby was safe.... + </p> + <p> + “Be that as it may, we all felt it—every one of us. The party was + clouded. Cards and Clare did their best to brighten things up again, and + Peter and Tony and Janet Gale played silly games and made a great deal of + noise—but the spirit was gone. + </p> + <p> + “I left very early. Miss Monogue came away at the same time. She spoke to + me before she said good-night: 'I know that you are an old friend of + Peter's. I am so fond of him—we all are at Brockett's, it isn't + often that we see him—I know that you will be his true friend in + every sense of the word—and help him—as he ought to be helped. + It is so little that I can do....' + </p> + <p> + “Her voice was sad. I am afraid she suffers a great deal. She is evidently + greatly attached to Peter—I liked her. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you in your sober way will say that this is all a great deal of + nonsense. Why shouldn't Peter, if he wishes, say that he is happy? All I + can say is that if you yourself had been there....” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <h3> + BLINDS DOWN + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + It was not until Stephen Westcott had rejoiced in the glories (so novel + and so thrilling) of his first birthday and “The Stone House” had been six + months before the public eye that the effect of this second book could be + properly estimated. Second books are the most surely foredoomed creatures + in all creation and there are many excellent reasons for this. They will + assuredly disappoint the expectations of those who enjoyed the first work, + and the author will, in all probability, have been tempted by his earlier + success to try his wings further than they are, as yet, able to carry him. + </p> + <p> + Peter's failure was only partial. There was no question that “The Stone + House” was a remarkable book. Had it been Peter's first novel it must have + made an immense stir; it showed that he was, in no kind of way, a man of + one book, and it gave, in its London scenes, proof that its author was not + limited to one kind of life and one kind of background. There were + chapters that were fuller, wiser, in every way more mature than anything + in “Reuben Hallard.” + </p> + <p> + But it was amazingly unequal. There were places in it that had no kind of + life at all; at times Peter appeared to have beheld his scenes and + characters through a mist, to have been dragged right away from any kind + of vision of the book, to have written wildly, blindly. + </p> + <p> + The opinion of Mrs. Launce was perhaps the soundest that it was possible + to have because that good lady, in spite of her affection for Peter, had a + critical judgment that was partly literary, partly commercial, and partly + human. She always judged a book first with her brain, then with her heart + and lastly with her knowledge of her fellow creatures. “It may pay better + than 'Reuben Hallard,'” she said, “there's more love interest and it ends + happily. Some of it is beautifully written, some of it quite unspeakably. + But really, Peter, it's the most uneven thing I've ever read. Again and + again one is caught, held, stirred—then, suddenly, you slip away + altogether—you aren't there at all, nothing's there, I could put my + ringer on the places. Especially the first chapters and the last chapters—the + middle's splendid—what happened to you?... But it will sell, I + expect. Tell your banker to read it, go into lots of banks and tell them. + Bank clerks have subscriptions at circulating libraries always given them + ... but the wild bits are best, the wild bits are splendid—that bit + about the rocks at night ... you don't know much about women yet—your + girls are awfully bad. By the way, do you know that Mary Hollins is only + getting £100 advance next time? All she can get, that last thing was so + shocking. I hear that that book about an immoral violet, by that new young + man—Rondel, isn't it?—is still having a most enormous success—I + know that Barratt's got in a whole batch of new copies last night—I + hear....” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Launce was disappointed—Peter could tell well enough. He + received some laudatory reviews, some letters from strangers, some + adulation from people who knew nothing whatever. He did not know what it + was exactly that he had expected—but whatever it was that he wanted, + he did not get it—he was dissatisfied. + </p> + <p> + He began to blame his publishers—they had not advertised him enough; + he even, secretly, cherished that most hopeless of all convictions—that + his book was above the heads of the public. He noticed, also, that + wherever he might be, this name of Rondel appeared before him, Mr. Rondel + with his foolish face and thin mother in black, was obviously the young + man of the moment—in the literary advertisements of any of the + weekly papers you might see The Violet novel in its tenth edition and “The + Stone House” by Peter Westcott, second edition selling rapidly. + </p> + <p> + He was again bewildered, as he had been after the publication of “Reuben + Hallard” by the extraordinary variance of opinions amongst reviewers and + amongst his own personal friends. One man told him that he had no style, + that he must learn the meaning and feeling of words, another told him that + his characters were weak but that his style was “splendid—a real + knowledge of the value and meaning of words.” Some one told him that he + knew nothing at all about women and some one else that his women were by + far the best part of his work. The variety was endless—amongst those + who had appeared to him giants there was the same uncertainty. He seemed + too to detect with the older men a desire to praise those parts of his + work that resembled their own productions and to blame anything that gave + promise of originality. + </p> + <p> + For himself it seemed to him that Mrs. Launce's opinion was nearest the + truth. There were parts of it that were good, chapters that were better + than anything in “Reuben Hallard” and then again there were many chapters + where he saw it all in a fog, groped dimly for his characters, pushed, as + it seemed to him, away from their lives and interests, by the actual lives + and interests of the real people about him. This led him to think of Clare + and here he was suddenly arrested by a perception, now only dimly grasped, + of a change in her attitude to his writings. He dated it, thinking of it + now for the first time, from the birth of young Stephen—or was it + not earlier than that, on that evening when they had met Cards at that + supper party, on that evening of their first quarrel? + </p> + <p> + In the early days how well he remembered Clare's enthusiasm—a little + extravagant, it seemed now. Then during the first year of their married + life she had wanted to know everything about the making of “The Stone + House.” It was almost as though it had been a cake or a pie, and he knew + that he had found her questions difficult to answer and that he had had it + driven in upon him that it was not really because she was interested in + the subtleties of his art that she enquired but because of her own + personal affection for him; if he had been making boots or a suit of + clothes it would have been just the same. Then when “The Stone House” + appeared her eagerness for its success had been tremendous—there was + nothing she would not do to help it along—but that, he somewhat + ironically discovered, was because she liked success and the things that + success brought. + </p> + <p> + Then when the book had not succeeded—or only so very little—her + interest had, of a sudden, subsided. “Oh! I suppose you've got to go and + do your silly old writing ... I think you might come out with me just this + afternoon. It isn't often that I ask anything of you....” He did not + believe that she had ever really finished “The Stone House.” She pretended + that she had—“the end was simply perfect,” but she was vague, + nebulous. He found the marker in her copy, some fifty pages before the + end. + </p> + <p> + She was so easily impressed by every one whom she met that perhaps the + laughing attitude of Cards to Peter's books had something to do with it + all. Cards affected to despise anything to do with work, here to-day, gone + to-morrow—let us eat and drink ... dear old Peter, grubbing away + upstairs—“I say, Mrs. Westcott, let's go and rag him....” And then + they had come and invaded his room at the top of the house, and sometimes + he had been glad and had flung his work down as though it were of no + account ... and then afterwards, in the middle of some tea-party he had + been suddenly ashamed, deeply, bitterly ashamed, as though he had actually + wounded those white pages lying up there in his quiet room. + </p> + <p> + He was at this time, like a man jostled and pushed and turned about at + some riotous fair; looking, now this way, now that, absorbed by a thousand + sights, a thousand sounds—and always through it all feeling, + bitterly in his heart, that something dear to him, somewhere in some place + of silence, was dying— + </p> + <p> + Well, hang it all, at any rate there was the Child! + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + At any rate there was the Child! + </p> + <p> + And what a child! Did any one ever have a baby like it, so fat and round + and white, with its head already covered with faint golden silk, its eyes + grey and wondering—with its sudden gravities, its amazing joys and + terrific humour, the beauty of its stepping away, as it did, suddenly + without any warning, behind a myriad mists and curtains, into some other + land that it knew of. How amazing to watch it as it slowly forgot all the + things that it had come into the world remembering, as it slowly realised + all the laws that this new order of things demanded of its obedience. + Could any one who had been present ever forget its crow of ecstasy at the + first shaft of sunlight that it ever beheld, at its first realisation of + the blue, shining ball that Peter bought, at its first vision, through the + window, of falling snow! + </p> + <p> + Peter was drunk with this amazing wonder. All the facts of life—even + Clare and his work—faded before this new presence for whose + existence he had been responsible. It had been one of the astonishing + things about Clare that she had taken the child so quietly. He had seen + her thrilled by musical comedy, by a dance at the Palace Music Hall, by + the trumpery pathos of a tenth-rate novel—before this marvel she + stood, it seemed to him, without any emotion. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he thought that if it had not been for his reminder she would + not have gone to kiss the child goodnight. There were many occasions when + he knew—with wonder and almost dismay—that she was afraid of + it; and once, when they had been in the nursery together and young Stephen + had cried and kicked his heels in a tempest of rage, she had seemed almost + to cling to Peter for protection. + </p> + <p> + There were occasions when Peter fancied that the baby seemed the elder of + the two, it was at any rate certain that Stephen Westcott was not so + afraid of his mother as his mother was of him. And yet, Peter fancied, + that could Clare only get past this strange nervous fear she would love + the baby passionately—would love him with that same fierceness of + passion that she flung, curiously, now and again upon Peter himself. “Let + me be promised,” she seemed to say, “that I will never have any trouble or + sorrow with my son and I will love him devotedly.” Meanwhile she went into + every excitement that life could provide for her.... + </p> + <p> + It was on a March afternoon of early Spring after a lonely tea (Clare was + out at one of her parties) that Peter went up to the nursery. He had just + finished reading the second novel by that Mr. Rondel whose Violet + sensation had occurred some two years before. This second book was good—there + was no doubt about it—and Peter was ashamed of a kind of dim + reluctance in his acknowledgment of its quality. The fellow had had such + reviews; the book, although less sensational than its predecessor had hit + the public straight in the middle of its susceptible heart. Had young + Rondel done it all with bad work-well, that was common enough—but + the book was good, uncommonly good. + </p> + <p> + He sent the nurse downstairs and began to build an elaborate fortress on + the nursery floor. The baby lay on his back on a rug by the fire and + contemplated his woollen shoe which he slowly dragged off and disdainfully + flung away. Then, crowing to himself, he watched his father and the world + in general. + </p> + <p> + He was amazingly like Peter—the grey eyes, the mouth a little stern, + a little sulky, the snub nose, the arms a little short and thick, and that + confident, happy smile. + </p> + <p> + He watched his father. + </p> + <p> + To him, lying on the rug, many, many miles away there was a coloured glory + that ran round the upper part of the wall—as yet, he only knew that + they gave him, those colours, something of the same pleasure that his milk + gave him, that the warm, glowing, noisy shapes beyond the carpet gave him, + that the happy, comfortable smell of the Thing playing near him on the + floor gave him. About the Thing he was eternally perplexed. It was + Something that made sounds that he liked, that pressed his body in a way + that he loved, that took his fingers and his toes and made them warm and + comfortable. + </p> + <p> + It was Something moreover from which delicious things hung—things + that he could clutch and hold and pull. He was perplexed but he knew that + when this Thing was near him he was warm and happy and contented and + generally went to sleep. His eyes slowly travelled round the room and + rested finally upon a round blue ball that hung turning a little from side + to side, on a nail above, his bed. This was, to him, the final triumph of + existence—to have it in his hand, to roll it round and round, to + bang it down upon the floor and watch it jump, this was the reason why one + was here, this the solution of all perplexities. He would have liked to + have it in his hands now, so crowing, he smiled pleasantly at the Thing on + the floor beside him and then looked at the ball. + </p> + <p> + Peter got up from his knees, fetched the ball down and rolled it along the + floor. As it came dancing, curving, laughing along young Stephen shrieked + with delight. Would he have it in his hands or would it escape him and + disappear altogether? Would it come to him?... It came and was clutched + and held and triumphed over. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat down by his son and began to tell him about Cornwall. He often + did this, partly because the mere mentioning of names and places satisfied + some longing in his heart, partly because he wanted Cornwall to be the + first thing that young Stephen would realise as soon as he realised + anything. “And you never can tell, you know, how soon a child can + begin....” + </p> + <p> + Stephen, turning the blue ball round and round in his fingers, gravely + listened. He was perfectly contented. He liked the sounds that circled + about him—his father's voice, the rustle of the fire, the murmur of + something beyond the walls that he could not understand. + </p> + <p> + “And then, you see, Stephen, if you go up the hill and round to the right + you come to the market-place, all covered with shiny cobbles and once a + week filled with stalls where people sell things. At the other end of it, + facing you, there's an old Tower that's been there for ages and ages. It's + got a fruit stall underneath it now, but once, years ago there was + fighting there and men were killed. Then, if you go past it, and out to + the right, you get into the road that leads out of the town. It goes right + above the sea and on a fine-day—” + </p> + <p> + “Peter!” + </p> + <p> + The voice broke like a stone shattering a sheet of glass. The ball dropped + from young Stephen's hands. He felt suddenly cold and hungry and wanted + his woollen shoe. He was not sure whether he would not cry. He would wait + a moment and see how matters developed. + </p> + <p> + Peter jumped to his feet and faced Clare: Clare in a fur cap from beneath + which her golden hair seemed to burn in anger, from beneath which her + eyes, furiously attacked his. Of course she had heard him talking to the + baby about Cornwall. They had quarrelled about it before ... he had + thought that she was at her silly tea-party. His face that had been, a few + moments before, gentle, humorous, happy, now suddenly wore the sullen + defiance of a sulky boy. + </p> + <p> + Her breast was heaving, her little hands beat against her frock. + </p> + <p> + “He shan't,” she broke out at last, “hear about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of all the nonsense,” Peter answered her slowly. “Really, Clare, + sometimes I think you're about two years old—” + </p> + <p> + “He shan't hear about it,” she repeated again. “You don't care—you + don't care what I think or what I say—I'm his mother—I have + the right—” + </p> + <p> + The baby looked at them both with wondering eyes and to any outside + observer would surely have seemed the eldest of the three. Clare's breath + came in little pants of rage—“You know—that I hate—all + mention of that place—those people. It doesn't matter to you—you + never think of me—” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate,” he retorted, “if you were up here in the nursery more often + you would be able to take care that Stephen's innocent ears weren't + insulted with my vulgar conversation—” + </p> + <p> + It was then that he saw, behind Clare, in the doorway, the dark smiling + face of Cards. + </p> + <p> + Cards came forward. “Really, you two,” he said, laughing. “Peter, old man, + don't be absurd—you too, Clare” (he called her Clare now). + </p> + <p> + The anger died out of Clare's eyes: “Well, he knows I hate him talking + about that nasty old town to the baby—” Then, in a moment, she was + smiling again—“I'm sorry, Peter. Cards is quite right, and anyhow + the baby doesn't understand—” + </p> + <p> + She stood smiling in front of him but the frown did not leave his face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it's all right,” he said sullenly, and he brushed past them up the + stairs, to his own room. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + From the silence of his room he thought that he could hear them laughing + about it downstairs. “Silly old Peter—always getting into tempers—” + Well, was he? And after all hadn't it been, this time, her affair? Stephen + and he had been happy enough before the others had come in. What was this + senseless dislike of Clare's to Cornwall? What could it matter to her? It + was always cropping up now. He could think of a thousand occasions, + lately, when she had been roused by it. + </p> + <p> + But, as he paced, with frowning face, back and forwards across the room, + there was something more puzzling still that had to be thought about. Why + did they quarrel about such tiny things? In novels, in good, reliable + novels, it was always the big things about which people fought. Whoever + heard of two people quarrelling because one of them wanted to talk about + Cornwall? and yet it was precisely concerning things just as trivial that + they were always now disputing. Why need they quarrel at all? In the first + year there had always been peace. Why shouldn't there be peace now? Where + exactly lay Clare's altered attitude to himself, to his opinions, to the + world in general. If he yielded to her demands—and he had yielded on + many more occasions than was good either for her or himself—she had, + he fancied, laughed at him for being so easily defeated. If he had not + yielded then she had been, immediately, impossible.... + </p> + <p> + And yet, after their quarrels, there had been the most wonderful, precious + reconciliations, reconciliations that, even now at his thought of them, + made his heart beat faster. Now, soon, when he went downstairs to dress + for dinner, she would come to him, he knew, and beg most beautifully, his + pardon. But to-night it seemed suddenly that this kind of thing had + happened too often lately. He felt, poor Peter, bewildered. There seemed + to be, on every side of him, so many things that he was called upon to + manage and he was so unable to manage any of them. He stopped in his + treading to and fro and stared at the long deal writing-table at which he + always worked. + </p> + <p> + There, waiting for him, were the first chapters of his new novel, + “Mortimer Stant.” In the same way, two years ago, he had stared at the + early chapters of “The Stone House,” on that morning before he had gone to + propose to Clare. Now there flashed through his mind the wonderful things + that he intended “Mortimer Stant” to be. It was to concern a man of forty + (in his confident selection of that age he displayed, most stridently, his + own youth) and Mortimer was to be a stolid, reserved Philistine, who was, + against his will, by outside forces, dragged into an emotional crisis. + </p> + <p> + At the back of his mind he had, perhaps, Maradick for his figure, but that + was almost unconscious. “Mortimer Stant” was to represent a wonderful duel + between the two camps—the Artists and the Philistines—with + ultimate victory, of course, for the Artists. It was to be.... Well what + was it to be? At present the stolid Mortimer was hidden behind a phalanx + of people—Clare, young Stephen, Cards, Bobby, Mrs. Rossiter + (tiresome woman), Alice Galleon—<i>That</i> was it. It was hidden, + hidden just as parts of “The Stone House” had been hidden, but hidden more + deeply—a regular jungle of interests and occupations was creeping, + stealthily, stealthily upon him. + </p> + <p> + And then his eye fell upon an open letter that lay on his table, and, at + the sight of it, he was seized with a burning sense of shame. How could he + have forgotten? + </p> + <p> + The letter ran— + </p> + <p> + <i>My dear Mr. Westcott, </i> + </p> + <p> + You have not been to see me for many months. Further opportunities may, by + the hand of God, be denied you. + </p> + <p> + Come if you can spare the time. + </p> + <p> + Henry Galleon. + </p> + <p> + The words were written, feebly almost illegibly, in pencil. Peter knew + that Bobby had been, for many weeks, very anxious concerning his father's + health, and during the last few days he had abandoned the City and spent + all his time at home. That letter had come this very morning and Peter had + intended to go at once and inquire. The fact that he had left all these + months without going to see the old man rose before him now like an + accusing hand. He deserved, indeed, whatever the Gods might choose to send + him, if he could so wilfully neglect his duty. But he knew that there had + been, in the back of his mind, shame. His work had not, so he might have + put it to himself, been good enough to justify his presence. There would + have been questions asked, questions that he might have found it + difficult, indeed, to answer. + </p> + <p> + But now the sight of that letter immediately encouraged him. Henry + Galleon, even though he was too ill to talk, would put him right with all + his perplexities, would give him courage to cut through all these + complications that had been gathering, lately, so thickly about him. + “This,” the room seemed to whisper to him, “is your chance. After all, you + are given this opportunity. See him once before he dies and your fate will + be shown you, clearly, honestly.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped out of the house unperceived and was immediately conscious of + the Spring night. Spring—with a precipitancy and extravagance that + seems to be—to own peculiar quality in London—had leapt upon + the streets. + </p> + <p> + The Embankment was bathed in the evening glow. Clouds, like bales of + golden wool, sailed down a sky so faintly blue that the white light of a + departed sun seemed to glow behind it. The lamps were crocus-coloured + against black barges that might have been loaded with yellow primroses so + did they hint, through their darkness, at the yellow haze around them. + </p> + <p> + The silence was melodious; the long line of dark houses watched like + prisoners from behind their iron bars. They might expect, it seemed, the + Spring to burst through the flagstones at their feet. + </p> + <p> + Peter's heart was lightened of all its burden. He shared the glory, the + intoxication of the promise that was on every side of him. On such a night + great ambitions, great ideals, great lovers were created. + </p> + <p> + He saw Henry Galleon, from behind his window, watching the pageant. He saw + him gaining new life, getting up from his bed of sickness, writing anew + his great masterpieces. And he saw himself, Peter Westcott, learning at + last from the Master the rule and discipline of life. All the muddle, the + confusion of this lazy year should be healed. He and Clare should see with + the same eyes. She should understand his need for work, he should + understand her need for help. All should be happiness and victory in this + glorious world and he, by the Master's side, should... + </p> + <p> + He stopped suddenly. The house that had been Henry Galleon's was blank and + dead. + </p> + <p> + At every window the blinds were down.... + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <h3> + WILD MEN + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + To Peter's immediate world it was a matter of surprise that he should take + Henry Galleon's death so hardly. It is a penalty of greatness that you + should, to the majority of your fellow men, be an Idea rather than a human + being. To his own family Henry Galleon had, of course, been real enough + but to the outside world he was the author of “Henry Lessingham” and “The + Roads,” whose face one saw in the papers as one saw the face of Royalty. + Peter Westcott, moreover, had not appeared, at any time, to take more than + a general interest in the great man, and it was even understood that old + Mrs. Galleon and Millicent and Percival considered themselves somewhat + affronted because the Master had “been exceedingly kind to the young man. + Taken trouble about him, tried to know him, but young Westcott had allowed + the thing to drop—had not been near him during the last year.” + </p> + <p> + Even Bobby and Alice Galleon were astonished at Peter's grief. To Bobby + his father's death came as a fine ending to a fine career. He had died, + full of honour and of years. Even Bobby, who thought that he knew his + Peter pretty well by now, was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “He takes it,” Bobby explained to Alice, “as though it were a kind of + omen, sees ever so much more in it than any of us do. It seems that he was + coming round the very evening that father died to talk to him, and that he + suddenly saw the blinds down; it was a shock to him, of course. I think + it's all been a kind of remorse working out, remorse not only for having + neglected my father but for having left other things—his work, I + suppose, rather to look after themselves. But he won't tell me,” Bobby + almost desperately concluded, “he won't tell me anything—he really + is the most extraordinary chap.” + </p> + <p> + And Peter found it difficult enough to tell himself, did not indeed try. + He only knew that he felt an acute, passionate remorse and that it seemed + to him that the denial of that last visit was an omen of the anger of all + the Gods, and even—although to this last he gave no kind of + expression—the malicious contrivance of an old man who waited for + him down there in that house by the sea. It was as though gates had been + clanged in his face, and that as he heard them close he heard also the + jeering laughter behind them.... He had missed his chance. + </p> + <p> + He saw, instantly, that Clare understood none of this, and that, indeed, + she took it all as rather an affectation on his part, something in him + that belonged to that side of him that she tried to forget. She hated, + quite frankly, that he should go about the house with a glum face because + an old man, whom he had never taken the trouble to go and see when he was + alive, was now dead. She showed him that she hated it. + </p> + <p> + He turned desperately to his work. There had been a hint, only the other + day, from the newspaper for which he wrote, that his reviews had not, + lately, been up to his usual standard. He knew that they seemed to him + twice as difficult to do as they had seemed a year ago and that therefore + he did them twice as badly. + </p> + <p> + He flung himself upon his book and swore that he would dissipate the + shadows that hid it from him. One of the shadows he saw quite clearly was + Cards' attitude to his work. It was strange, he thought almost + pathetically, how closely his feeling for Cards now resembled the feeling + that he had had, those years ago, at Dawson's. He still worshipped him—worship + was the only possible word—worshipped him for all the things that + he, Peter, was not. One could not be with him, Peter thought, one could + not watch his movements, hear his voice without paying it all the most + absolute reverence. The glamour about Cards was, to Peter, something + almost from another world. Peter felt so clumsy, so rough and ugly and + noisy and out-of-place when Cards was present that the fact that Cards was + almost always present now made life a very difficult thing. How could + Peter prevent himself from reverencing every word that Cards uttered when + one reflected upon the number of things that Cards had done, the things + that he had seen, the places to which he had been. And Cards' attitude to + Peter's work was, if not actually contemptuous, at least something very + like it. He did not, he professed, read novels. The novelists' trade at + the best, he seemed to imply, was only a poor one, and that Peter's work + was not altogether of the best he almost openly asserted. “What can old + Peter know about life?” one could hear him saying—“Where's he been? + Who's he known? Whatever in the world has he done?” + </p> + <p> + Against this, in spite of the glitter that shone about Cards' head, Peter + might, perhaps, have stood. He reminded himself, a hundred times a day, + that one must not care about the things that other people said, one must + have one's eyes fixed upon the goal—one must be sure of oneself—what + had Galleon said?... + </p> + <p> + But there was also the effect of it all upon Clare to be considered. Clare + listened to Cards. She was, Peter gloomily considered, very largely of + Cards' opinion. The two people for whom he cared most in the world after + young Stephen who, as a critic, had not yet begun to count, thought that + he was wasting his time. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, as he sat at his deal table, fighting with a growing sense of + disillusionment that was like nothing so much as a child's first discovery + that its beautiful doll is stuffed with straw, he would wish passionately, + vehemently for the return of those days when he had sat in his little + bedroom writing “Reuben Hallard” with Norah Monogue, and dear Mr. Zanti + and even taciturn little Gottfried, there to encourage him. + </p> + <p> + <i>That</i> had been Adventure—but this ...? And then he would + remember young Stephen and Clare—moments even lately that she had + shared with him—and he would be ashamed. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + It was on an afternoon of furious wind and rain in early April that the + inevitable occurred. All the afternoon the trees in the little orchard had + been knocking their branches together as though they were in a furious + temper with Somebody and were indignant at not being allowed to get at + Him; they gave you the impression that it would be quite as much as your + life would be worth to venture into their midst. + </p> + <p> + Peter had, during a number of hours, endeavoured to pierce the soul of + Mortimer Stant—meanwhile as the wind howled, the rain lashed the + windows of his room, and the personality of Mr. Stant faded farther and + farther away into ultimate distance, Peter was increasingly conscious that + he was listening for something. + </p> + <p> + He had felt himself surrounded by this strange sense of anticipation + before. Sometimes it had stayed with him for a short period only, + sometimes it had extended over days—always it brought with it an + emotion of excitement and even, if he had analysed it sufficiently, fear. + </p> + <p> + He was suddenly conscious, in the naked spaces of his barely-furnished + room, of the personality of his father. So conscious was he that he got up + from his table and stood at the rain-swept window, looking out into the + orchard, as though he expected to see a sinister figure creeping, + stealthily, from behind the trees. In his thoughts of his father there was + no compunction, no accusing scruples of neglect, only a perfectly + concrete, active sense, in some vague way, of force pitted against force. + </p> + <p> + It might be summed up in the conviction that “the old man was not done + with him yet”—and as Peter turned back from the window, almost + relieved that he had, indeed, seen no creeping figure amongst the dark + trees, he was aware that never since the days of his starvation in Bucket + Lane, had he been so conscious of those threatening memories of Scaw House + and its inhabitants. + </p> + <p> + At that, almost as he reached his table, there was a knock on his door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” he cried and, scorning himself for his fears, faced the maid + with staring eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” she said. “I have shown them into the + study.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Westcott in?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. She told me that she would not be back until six o'clock, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I will come down.” + </p> + <p> + In the hall, hanging amongst the other things as a Pirate might hang + beside a company of Evangelist ministers, was Stephen Brant's hat.... + </p> + <p> + As Peter's hand turned on the handle of the study door he knew that his + heart was beating with so furious a clamour that he could not hear the + lock turn. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + He entered the room and found Stephen Brant and Mr. Zanti facing him. The + little window between the dim rows of books showed him the pale light that + was soon to succeed the storm. The two men seemed to fill the little room; + their bodies were shadowy and mysterious against the pale colour, and + Peter had the impression that the things in the room—the chairs, the + books, the table—huddled against the wall, so crowded did the place + seem. + </p> + <p> + For himself, at his first sight of them, he was compelled, instantly, to + check a feeling of joy so overwhelming that he was himself astonished at + the force of it. To them, as they stood there, smiling, feeling that same + emotion to which he, also, was now succumbing! He checked himself. It was + as though he were forced suddenly, by a supreme effort of will, to drive + from the room a tumultuous crowd of pictures, enthusiasms and memories, + that, for the sake of the present and of the future, must be forbidden to + stay with him. It was absurd—he was a husband, a father, a + responsible householder, almost a personage... and yet, as he looked at + Stephen's eyes and Mr. Zanti's smile, he was the little boy back again in + Tan's shop with the old suit of armour, the beads and silver and Eastern + cloths, and out beyond the window, the sea was breaking upon the wooden + jetty.... + </p> + <p> + He put the picture away from him and rushed to greet the two of them. + “Zanti!... Stephen!... Oh! how splendid! How perfectly, perfectly + splendid!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti's enormous body was enclosed in a suit of bright blue, his broad + nose stood out like a bridge, his wide mouth gaped. He wore white spats, + three massive rings of twisted gold and in his blue tie a glittering + emerald. He was a magnificent, a costly figure and in nothing was the + geniality of his nature more plainly seen than in his obvious readiness to + abandon, at any moment, these splendid riches for the sake of a valued + attachment. “I love wearing these things,” you might hear him say, “but I + love still better to do anything in the world that I can for you, my + friend.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen presented a more moderate appearance, but he was brown with health + and shining with strength. He was like the old Stephen of years and years + ago, so different from the—man who had shared with Peter that room + in Bucket Lane. + </p> + <p> + He carried himself with that air of strong, cautious reserve that + Cornishmen have when they are in some other country than their own; his + eyes, mild, gentle, but on the alert, ready at an instant to be hostile. + Then, when Peter came in, the reserve instantly fled. They had, all three + of them, perhaps, expected embarrassment, but at that cry of Peter's they + were suddenly together, Mr. Zanti, waving his hands, almost shouting, + Stephen, his eyes resting with delight on Peter, Peter himself another + creature from the man who had pursued Mortimer Stant in the room upstairs, + half an hour before. + </p> + <p> + “We thought that ze time 'ad come, dear boy... we know zat you are busy.” + Mr. Zanti looked about him a little anxiously, as though he expected to + find Mrs. Peter hiding under a chair or a sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Stephen, after all this long long while! Why didn't you come before + when Mr. Zanti came?” + </p> + <p> + “Too many of us coming, Mr. Peter, and you so busy.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense. I'm not in the least busy. I'm sorry to say my wife's out but + the baby's in, upstairs, and there's the most terrific woman up there too, + the nurse—I'm frightened out of my life of her—but we'll get + rid of her and have the place to ourselves... you know the kid's called + after you, Stephen?” + </p> + <p> + “No, is he really?” Stephen's face shone with pleasure. “I'm keen to see + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's a trump! There never really was such a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “And your books, Mr. Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the books!” Peter's voice dropped, “never mind them now. But what + have you been doing, you two? Made heaps of money? Discovered + treasure?...” He pulled himself up shortly. He remembered the bookshop, + the girl leaning against the door looking into the street, then the boys + crying the news.... + </p> + <p> + If Mr. Zanti had been mixing himself up with that sort of thing again! And + then the bright blue suit, the white spats, were reassuring. As if one + could ever take such a child seriously about anything! + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti shook his head, ruefully. “No, not ezackly a fortune! There was + a place I 'eard of, right up in the Basque country—'twas an old + deserted garden, where zey 'ad buried treasure, centuries ago—I 'ad + it quite certainly from a friend. We came up there for a time but we found + nothing.” He sighed and then was instantly cheered again. “But it's all + right. I've got a plan now—a wonderful plan.” He became very + mysterious. “It's a certain thing—we're off to Cornwall, Mr. Brant + and myself—” + </p> + <p> + “Cornwall?” + </p> + <p> + “Come too, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! don't I wish that I could!” He suddenly saw his life, his books—everything + in London holding him, tying him—“But I can't go now, my father + being there makes it impossible. But in any case, I'm a family man now—you + know.” + </p> + <p> + As he said the words he was conscious that, in Stephen's eyes at any rate, + the family man was about the last thing that he looked. He was wondering, + with intense curiosity, what were the things that Stephen was finding in + him, for the things that Stephen found were most assuredly the things that + he was. No one knew him as Stephen knew him. Against his will the thought + of Clare came driving upon him. How little she knew him! or was it only + that she knew another side of him? + </p> + <p> + But he pulled himself away from that. “Now for the nursery—Stephen + Secundus. But you'll have to support me whilst I get rid of Mrs. Kant—perhaps + three of us together—” + </p> + <p> + As he led the way upstairs he knew that Stephen was not entirely reassured + about him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Kant was a large, busy woman, like a horse—a horse who dislikes + other horses and sniffs an enemy in every wind. She very decidedly sniffed + an enemy now, and Mr. Zanti's blue suit paled before her fierce eyes. He + stepped back into the doorway again, treading upon Stephen. Peter, who was + always conscious that Mrs. Kant looked upon himself and Clare as two + entirely ridiculous and slightly impertinent children, stammered a little. + </p> + <p> + “You might go down and have your tea now, Mrs. Kant. I'll keep an eye upon + Stephen.” + </p> + <p> + “I've had my tea, thank you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll relieve you of the baby for a little.” She was sewing. She + snapped off a piece of thread with a sharp click of her teeth, sat + silently for a moment staring in front of her, then quietly got up. “Thank + you, sir,” she said and left the room. + </p> + <p> + All three men breathed again as the door closed—then they were all + conscious of young Stephen. + </p> + <p> + The thing was, of course, absurd, but to all three of them there came the + conviction that the baby had been laughing at them for their terror of + Mrs. Kant. He was curled up on a chair by the fire, looking at them with + his wide eyes over his shoulder, and he seemed to say, “I don't care a + snap for the woman—why should you?” The blue ball was on the floor + at the foot of the chair, and the firelight leapt upon the frieze that + Peter had so carefully chosen—giants and castles, dwarfs and + princesses running round the room in red, and blue and gold. + </p> + <p> + Young Stephen looked at them, puzzled for an instant, then with a shout he + would have acclaimed his father, but his gaze was suddenly arrested by the + intense blueness of Mr. Zanti's clothes. He stared at it, fascinated. Into + his life there had suddenly broken the revelation that you might have + something far larger than the blue ball that moved and shone in so + fascinating a manner. His eyes immediately glittered with the thought that + he would presently have the joy of rolling something so big and shining + along the floor. He could not bear to wait. His fat fingers curved in the + air with the eager anticipation of it—words, actual words had not as + yet come to him, but, crowing and gurgling, he informed the world that he + wanted, he demanded, instantly, that he should roll Mr. Zanti. + </p> + <p> + “Well, old man, how are you?” said Peter. But he would not look at his + father. His arms stretched toward Mr. Zanti. + </p> + <p> + “You've made a conquest right away, Zanti,” Peter said laughing. + </p> + <p> + It was indeed instantly to be perceived that Mr. Zanti was in his right + element. Any pretence of any kind of age fell away from him, his arms + curved towards young Stephen as young Stephen's curved towards him. He was + making noises in his throat that exactly resembled the noises that the + baby made. + </p> + <p> + He looked down gravely upon the chair—“'Ow do you do?” he said and + he took young Stephen's fat fingers in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “'E says,” he remarked, looking at Peter and Stephen, “that 'e would like + to roll me upon the floor—like that ball there—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let him,” said Peter laughing. + </p> + <p> + The baby then dug his fingers into Mr. Zanti's hair and pulled down his + head towards the chair, intense satisfaction flooding his face as he did + so. + </p> + <p> + The baby seemed, for a moment, to whisper into Mr. Zanti's ear, then, + chuckling it climbed down from the chair, and, on all fours, crawled, its + eyes and mouth suddenly serious as though it were conscious that it was + engaged upon a very desperate adventure. The three men watched it. Across + the absolute silence of the room there came the sound of the rain driving + upon the pane, of the tumbling chatter of the fire, of the baby's hands + falling upon the carpet. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zanti was suddenly upon his knees. “Here,” he cried, seizing the blue + ball. He rolled it to young Stephen. It was caught, dropped and then the + fat fingers had flung themselves upon Mr. Zanti's coat. He let himself go + and was pulled back sprawling upon the floor, his huge body stretching + from end to end of the rug. + </p> + <p> + Then, almost before they had realised it, the other two men were down upon + their knees. The ball was picked up and tossed from hand to hand, the + baby, sitting upon Mr. Zanti's stomach, watched with delight these + extraordinary events. + </p> + <p> + Then they played Hunt the Slipper, sitting round in a ring upon the + carpet, young Stephen trying to catch his own slipper, falling over upon + his back, kicking his legs in the air, dashing now at Stephen the Elder's + beard, now at his father's coat, now at Mr. Zanti's legs. + </p> + <p> + The noise of the laughter drowned the rain and the fire. Mr. Zanti had the + slipper—he was sitting upon it. Peter made a dash for it, Mr. Zanti + rolled over, they were all in a heap upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I've got it.” Mr. Zanti was off on all fours round the room, the baby on + his back clutching on to his hair. A chair was over, then a box of bricks, + the table rocked and then was suddenly down with a crash! + </p> + <p> + What had come to them all? Stephen, so grave, so solemn, had caught the + baby into the air, had flung him up and caught him again. Peter and Mr. + Zanti looking up from the floor saw him standing, his legs wide, his beard + flowing, his arms stretched with young Stephen shouting between them. + </p> + <p> + Behind him, around him was a wrecked nursery.... + </p> + <p> + The baby, surveying the world from this sudden height, wondered at this + amazing glory. He had never before beheld from such a position the things + that bounded his life. How strange the window seemed! Through it now he + could see the tops of the trees, the grey sky, the driving lines of rain! + Only a little way above him now were pictures that had always glowed + before from so great a distance. Around him, above him, below him space—a + thing to be frightened of were one not held so tightly, so safely. + </p> + <p> + He approved, most assuredly, of the banishment of Mrs. Kant, and the + invasion of these splendid Things! He would have life always like this, + with that great blue ball to roll upon the floor, with that brown beard, + near now to his hand, to clutch, with none of that hideous + soap-in-the-eyes-early-to-bed Philosophy that he was becoming now + conscious enough to rebel against. + </p> + <p> + He dug his hands into the beard that was close to him and, like the sons + of the morning, shouted with joy. + </p> + <p> + Peter, looking up at the two Stephens, felt his burdens roll off his back. + If only things could be like this always! And already he saw himself, + through these two, making everything right once more with Clare. They + should prove to her that, after all, his past life had not been so + terrible, that Cornwall could produce heroes if it liked. Through these + two he would get fresh inspiration for his work. He felt already, through + them, a wind blowing that cleared all the dust from his brain. + </p> + <p> + And how splendid for the boy! To have two such men for his friends! + Already he was planning to persuade them to stay in London. He had thought + of the very place for them in Chelsea, near the Roundabout, the very + house.... + </p> + <p> + “Of course you'll stay for dinner, you two—” + </p> + <p> + “But—” said Mr. Zanti, mopping his brow from which perspiration was + dripping. + </p> + <p> + “No, nonsense. Of course you'll stop. We've got such heaps to talk about—” + </p> + <p> + Stephen had got the baby now on his shoulder. “Off to Cornwall,” he + shouted and charged down the room. + </p> + <p> + It was at that instant that Peter was conscious that Clare had been + standing, for some moments, in the room. She stood, quite silently, + without moving, by the door, her eyes blazing at him.... + </p> + <p> + His first thought was of that other time when she had found him in the + nursery, of the quarrel that they had had. Then he noticed the state of + the room, the overturned chairs and table. Then he saw Mr. Zanti still + wiping his forehead, but confusedly, and staring at Clare in a shocked + hushed way, as though he were a small boy who had been detected with his + fingers in a jam-pot. + </p> + <p> + Stephen saw her at last. He put the baby down and came slowly across the + floor. Peter spoke: “Why, Clare! You're back early. We've been having such + a splendid time with Stephen—let me introduce my friends to you—Mr. + Zanti and Mr. Brant... you've heard me speak of them—” + </p> + <p> + They came towards her. She shook hands with them, regarding them gravely. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” + </p> + <p> + There was silence. Then Mr. Zanti said—“We must be goin'—longer + than we ought to stop—we 'ave business—” + </p> + <p> + Peter felt rising in him a cold and surging anger at her treatment of + them. These two, the best friends that he had in the world—that she + should dare! + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you'll stay to dinner, you two! You must—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid, ver' afraid,” Mr. Zanti said bowing very low and still + looking at Clare with apologetic, troubled eyes, “we 'ave no time. + Immediate business.” + </p> + <p> + Still Clare said nothing. + </p> + <p> + There was another moment's silence, and then Peter said: + </p> + <p> + “I'll come down and see you off.” Still without moving from her place she + shook hands with them. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + They all three went out. + </p> + <p> + Peter could say nothing. The words seemed to be choked in his throat by + this tide of anger that was like nothing he had ever felt before. + </p> + <p> + He held their hands for a moment as they stood outside in the dusk. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you staying? I must see you again—” + </p> + <p> + “We go down to Cornwall to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Stephen caught Peter's shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “Come down to us, Peter, if you get a chance.” They all stared at one + another; they were all, absolutely, entirely without words. Afterwards + they would regret that they had said nothing, but now—! + </p> + <p> + They vanished into the dusk and Peter, stepping into the house again, + closed very softly the hall door behind him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + ROCKING THE ROUNDABOUT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + As he climbed, once more, the stairs to the nursery, he was conscious of + the necessity for a great restraint. Did he but relax for an instant his + control he was aware that forces—often dimly perceived and shuddered + at—would now, as never in his life before, burst into freedom. + </p> + <p> + It was as though a whole life of joy and happiness had been suddenly + snatched from him and it was Clare who had robbed him—Clare who had + never cared what the things might be that she demanded from him—Clare + who gave him nothing. + </p> + <p> + But his rage now, he also felt, was beyond all reason, something that + belonged to that other part of him, the part that Scaw House and its dark + room understood and so terribly fostered. + </p> + <p> + He was afraid of what he might do. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + On opening the nursery door he saw the straight, thin, shining back of + Mrs. Kant as she bent to put things straight. Young Stephen was quietly + asleep. He closed the door, and, turning in the narrow passage, found + Clare coming out of her room. In the dim light they faced one another, + hostility flaming between them. She looked at him for a moment, her breast + heaving, her mouth so tight and sharp, her eyes so fierce that her little + stature seemed to be raised by her anger to a great height. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Peter felt that he hated her as he had never hated any one + in his life before. + </p> + <p> + She went back, without a word, into her room. + </p> + <p> + She did not come down again that night and he had his evening meal, + miserably, alone. + </p> + <p> + He slept in his dressing-room. Long before morning his rage had gone. He + looked at her locked door and wished, miserably, that he might die for + her.... + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Later, as he sat, hopelessly, over the dim and sterile pages of “Mortimer + Slant,” Mrs. Rossiter came, heavily, in to talk with him. Mrs. Rossiter + always entered the room with an expression of stupid benignity that hid a + good deal of rather sharp perception. The fact that she was not nearly so + stupid as she looked enabled her to look all the stupider and she covered + a multitude of brains with a quantity of hard black silk that she spread + out around her with the air of one who is filling as much of the room as + she can conveniently seize upon. Her plump arms, her broad and placid + bosom, her flat smooth face, her hair, entirely negative in colour and + arrangement, offered no clue whatever to her unsuspected sharpnesses. + Smooth, broad, flat and motionless she carried, like the Wooden Horse of + Troy, a thousand dangers in the depths of her placidity. + </p> + <p> + She had come now to assist her daughter, the only person for whom she may + be said to have had the slightest genuine affection, for Dr. Rossiter she + had long-despised and Mrs. Galleon was an ally and companion but never a + friend. She had allowed Clare to marry Peter, chiefly because Clare would + have married him in any case, but also, a little, because she thought that + Peter had a great career in front of him. Now that Peter's career seemed + already to be, for the most part, behind him, she disliked him and because + he appeared to have made Clare unhappy suddenly hated him... but placidity + was the shield that covered her attack and, for a symbol, one might take + the large flat golden brooch that she wore on her bosom—flat, + expressionless and shining, with the sharpest pin behind it that ever + brooch possessed. + </p> + <p> + Peter, whose miseries had accumulated as the minutes passed, was ready to + seize upon anything that promised a reconciliation. He did not like Mrs. + Rossiter—he had never been able to get to close quarters with her, + and he was conscious that his roughness and occasional outbursts + displeased her. He felt, too, that the qualities that he had resented in + Clare owed their origin to her mother. That brooch of hers was responsible + for a great deal. + </p> + <p> + Fixing his eyes upon it he said, “You've come about Clare?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Peter.” Mrs. Rossiter settled herself more comfortably, spread her + skirts, folded her hands. “She's very unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + The mild eyes baffled him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm terribly sorry. I will do anything I can, but I think—that I + had a right”—he faltered a little; it was so like talking to an + empty Dairy—“had a right to mind. Two old friends of mine—two + of the best friends that I have in the world were here yesterday and Clare—” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think,” the soft voice broke in upon him whilst the eyes searched + his body up and down, “that, even now, Peter, you quite understand Clare—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said eagerly, “I know. I'm blundering, stupid. Lots of times I've + irritated her, and now again.” He paused, but then added, with a touch of + his old stubbornness—“But they were friends of mine—she should + have treated them so.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter felt that she did indeed hate the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Clare is very unhappy,” she repeated. “She tells me that she has been + crying all night. You must remember, Peter, that her life has been very + different to yours—” + </p> + <p> + He wished that she would not repeat herself; he wished that she would not + always use the same level voice; he wanted insanely to tell her that she + ought to say “different from”—he could not take his eyes from the + brooch. But the thought of Clare came to him and he bowed himself once + more humbly. + </p> + <p> + “I will see that things are better,” he said earnestly. “I don't know what + has been the matter lately—my work and everything has been wrong, + and I expect my temper has been horrible. You know,” he said with a little + crooked smile, “that I've got to work to keep it all going, and when I'm + writing badly then my temper goes to pieces.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter, with no appearance of having heard anything that he had + said, continued— + </p> + <p> + “You know, Peter, that your temperament is very different to Clare's. You + are, and I know you will forgive my putting it so plainly, a little wild + still—doubtless owing to your earlier years. Clare is gentle, + bright, happy. She has never given my husband or myself a moment's + trouble, but that is because we understood her nature. We knew that she + loved people about her to be happy—she flourished in the sun, she + drooped under the clouds... under the clouds” Mrs. Rossiter repeated again + softly, as she searched, with care, for her next words. + </p> + <p> + Irritation was rising within Peter. Why should it be concluded so + inevitably that the fault was all on Peter's side and not at all on + Clare's—after all, there were reasons... but he pulled himself up. + He had behaved like a beast. + </p> + <p> + “I've tried very hard—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “Clouds—” said Mrs. Rossiter. “And you, Peter, are at times—I + have seen it myself and I know that it is apparent to others—inclined + to be morose—gloomy, a little gloomy—” Her fingers tapped the + silk of her dress. “Dear Clare, considering what her own life has been, + shrinks, I must confess it seems to me quite naturally, from any reminder + of what your own earlier circumstances have been. Look at it, Peter, for + an instant from the outside and you will see, at once, I am sure, what it + must have been to her, yesterday, to come into her nursery, to find + tables, chairs overturned, strange men shouting and flinging poor little + Stephen towards the ceiling—some talk about Cornwall—really, + Peter, I think you can understand...” + </p> + <p> + He abandoned all his defences. “I know—I ought to have realised... + it was quite natural...” + </p> + <p> + In the back of his head he heard her words “You're morose—you're + wild. Other people find you so—you're making a mess of everything + and every one knows it—” + </p> + <p> + He was humbled to the dust. If only he might make it all right with Clare, + then he would see to it—Oh! yes he would see to it—that + nothing of this kind ever happened again. From Mrs. Rossiter's standpoint + he looked back upon his life and found it all one ignoble, selfish muddle. + Dear Clare!—so eager to be happy and he had made her miserable. + </p> + <p> + “Will she forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Clare,” said Mrs. Rossiter, rising brightly and with a general air + of benevolence towards all the sinners in existence, “is the most + forgiving creature in the world.” + </p> + <p> + He went down to her bedroom and found her lying on a sofa and reading a + novel. + </p> + <p> + He fell on his knees at her side—“Clare—darling—I'm a + beast, a brute—” + </p> + <p> + She suddenly turned her face into the cushions and burst into passionate + crying. “Oh! it's horrible—horrible—horrible—” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her hand and then getting on to his feet again, stood looking at + her awkwardly, struggling for words with which to comfort her. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + And then at luncheon, there was a little, pencilled feeble note for Peter + from Norah Monogue. “Please, if you can spare half an hour come to me. In + a day or two I am off to the country.” + </p> + <p> + Things had just been restored to peace and happiness—Clare had just + proposed that they should go, that afternoon, to a Private View together—they + might go and have tea with— + </p> + <p> + For an instant he was tempted to abandon Norah. Then his courage came:— + </p> + <p> + “Here's a note from Miss Monogue,” he said. “She's awfully ill I think, I + ought—” + </p> + <p> + Clare's face hardened again. She got up from the table— + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please—” she said. + </p> + <p> + He climbed on to the omnibus that was to stumble with him down Piccadilly + with a. hideous, numbing sense of being under the hand of Fate. Why, at + this moment, in all time, should this letter of Norah Monogue's have made + its unhappy appearance? With what difficulty and sorrow had he and Clare + reached once more a reconciliation only, so wantonly, to be plucked away + from it again! From the top of his omnibus he looked down upon a sinister + London. It was a heavy, lowering day; thick clouds like damp cloths came + down upon the towers and chimneys. The trees in the Green Park were black + and chill and in and out of the Clubs figures slipped cautiously and it + seemed furtively. Just beyond the Green Park they were building a vast + hotel, climbing figures and twisting lines of scaffolding pierced the air, + and behind the rolling and rattling of the traffic the sound of many + hammers beat rhythmically, monotonously.... + </p> + <p> + To Peter upon his omnibus, suddenly that sound that he had heard before—that + sound of London stirring—came back to him, and now more clearly than + he had ever known it. Tap-tap-tap-tap... Clamp-clamp-tap-tap-tap-tap—whir! + whir!... Clamp-clamp.... + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that all the cabs and the buses and the little black + figures were being hurried by some power straight, fast, along Piccadilly + to be pitched, at the end of it, pell-mell, helter-skelter into some dark + abysmal pit, there to perish miserably. + </p> + <p> + Yes, the beast was stirring! Ever so little the pavements, the houses were + heaving. Perhaps if one could see already the soil was cracking beneath + one's feet. “Look out! London will have you in a minute.” Tap-tap-tap-tap—clamp-clamp—tap-tap-tap-tap—whir-whir—clamp-clamp.... + </p> + <p> + Anyhow it was a heavy, clammy day. The houses were ghosts and the people + were ghosts, and grey shadows, soon perhaps to be a yellow fog, floated + about the windows and the doors and muffled all human sounds. + </p> + <p> + He passed the great pile of scaffolding, saw iron girders shining, saw + huge cranes swinging in mid-air, saw tiny, tiny black atoms perched above + the noise and swallowed by the smoke... tap-tap-clamp-clamp.... + </p> + <p> + Yes, the beast was moving... and, out and in, lost and then found again, + crept that twisting chain of beggars to whose pallid army Peter himself + had once so nearly belonged. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I've got a headache after all that row with Clare,” Peter + thought as he climbed off the omnibus. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + He realised, as he came into the Bloomsbury square, and saw Mrs. Brockett + gloomily waiting for him, that the adventures of his life were most + strangely bound together. Not for an instant did he seem to be able to + escape from any one of them. Now it would be Cornwall, now the Bookshop, + now Stephen, now Mr. Zanti, now Bucket Lane, now Treliss—all of them + interweaving, arresting his action at every moment. Because he had done + that once now this must not be permitted him; he felt, as he rang the old + heavy bell of Brockett's that his head would never think clearly again. As + the door opened and he stepped into the hall he heard, faintly, across the + flat spaces of the Square “Tap-tap-tap-tap-clamp-clamp....” + </p> + <p> + Even Mrs. Brockett, who might be considered if any one in the world, + immune from morbid imaginations, felt the heaviness of the day, suggested + a prevalence of thunder, and shook her head when Peter asked about Miss + Monogue. + </p> + <p> + “She's bad, Mr. Peter, very bad, poor dear. There's no doubt about that. + It's hard to see what can be done for her—but plucky! That's a small + word for it!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure she is,” said Peter, feeling ashamed of having made so much of + his own little troubles. + </p> + <p> + “She must get out of London if she's to improve at all. In a week or two I + hope she'll be able to move.” + </p> + <p> + “How's every one else?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well enough.” Mrs. Brockett straightened her dress with her beautiful + hands in the old familiar way—“But you're not looking very hearty + yourself, Mr. Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I'm all right,” he answered smiling; but she shook her head after him + as she watched him go up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + And then he was surprised. He came into Norah Monogue's room and found her + sitting up by her window, looking better than he had ever seen her. Her + face was full of colour and her eyes bright and smiling. Only on her hands + the blue veins stood out, and their touch, when she shook hands with him, + was hot and burning. + </p> + <p> + But he was reassured; Mrs. Brockett had exaggerated and made the worst of + it all. + </p> + <p> + “You're looking splendid—I'm so glad. I was afraid from your + letter-” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I really am getting on,” she broke in gaily, “and it's the nicest boy + in the world that you are to come in and see me so quickly. Only on a day + like this London does just lie heavily upon one doesn't it? and one just + longs for the country—” + </p> + <p> + A little breath of a sigh escaped from her and she looked through her + window at the dim chimneys, the clouds hanging like consolidated smoke, + the fine, thin dust that filtered the air. + </p> + <p> + “You're looking tired yourself, Peter. Working too hard?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he shook his head. “The work hasn't been coming easily at all. I + suppose I've been too conscious, lately, of the criticisms every one made + about 'The Stone House.' I don't believe one ought really to listen to + anybody and yet it's so hard not to, and so difficult to know whose + opinion one ought to take if one's going to take anybody's. I wish,” he + suddenly brought out, “Henry Galleon were still alive. I could have + followed him.” + </p> + <p> + “But why follow anybody?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that's just it. I'm beginning to doubt myself and that's why it's + getting so difficult.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes searched his face and she saw, at once, that he was in very real + trouble. He looked younger, just then, she thought, than she had ever seen + him, and she felt herself so immensely old that she could have taken him + into her arms and mothered him as though he'd been her own son. + </p> + <p> + “There are a lot of things the matter,” she said. “Tell me what they all + are.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it's all been mostly my own fault—but + the real difficulty is that I don't seem to be able to run the business of + being married and the business of writing together. I don't think Clare in + the least cares now about my writing—she almost resents it; she + cared at first when she thought that I was going to make a huge success of + it, but now—” + </p> + <p> + “But, of course,” said Miss Monogue, “that success comes slowly—it + must if it's going to be any use at all—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she doesn't see that. And she wants me to go out to parties and + play about all the time—and then she doesn't want me to be any of + the things that I was before I met her. All my earlier life frightens her—I + suppose,” he suddenly ended, “I want her to be different and she wants me + to be different and we can't make a compromise.” + </p> + <p> + Then Miss Monogue said: “Have any outside people interfered at all?” + </p> + <p> + Peter coloured. “Well, of course, Mrs. Rossiter stands up for Clare. She + came and talked to me this morning and I think the things that she said + were quite true. I suppose I am morose and morbid sometimes—more + than I realise—and then,” he added slowly, “there's Cards—” + </p> + <p> + “Cards?” + </p> + <p> + “Cardillac—a man I was at school with. I'm very fond of him. He's + the best friend I've got, and he's been all over the place and done + everything and, of course, knows ever so much more about the world than I + do. The fact is he thinks really that my novels are dreadful nonsense, + only he's much too kind to say so—and, of course, Clare looks up to + him a lot. Although he's only my own age he seems so much older than both + Clare and myself. I don't believe she'd have lost interest in my work so + quickly if he hadn't influenced her—and he's influenced me too—” + Peter added sighing. + </p> + <p> + “Well—and is there anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. There's Stephen. I can't begin to tell you how I love that kid. + There haven't been many people in my life that I've cared about and I've + never realised anything so intensely before. Besides,” he went on laughing + proudly, “he's such a splendid kid! I wish you could see him, Norah. He'll + do something one day—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's the trouble about Stephen?” + </p> + <p> + “Clare's so odd about him. There are times when I don't believe she cares + for him the least little bit. Then there are other times when she resents + fiercely my interfering about him. Sometimes she seems to love him more + than anything in the world, but it's always in an odd defiant way—just + as though she were afraid that something would hurt her if she showed that + she cared too much.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence between them for a minute and then Peter summed it all + up with:—“The fact is, Norah, that every sort of thing's getting in + between me and my work and worries me. It's as though I were tossing more + balls in the air than I could possibly manage. At one moment I think it's + Clare that I've got especially to hang on to—another time it's the + book—and then it's Stephen. The moment I've settled down something + turns up to remind me of Cornwall or the Bookshop. Fact is I'm getting + battered at by something or other and I never can get my breath. I + oughtn't ever to have married—I'm not up to it.” + </p> + <p> + Norah Monogue took his hand. + </p> + <p> + “You are up to it, Peter, but I expect you've got a lot to go through + before you're clear of things. Now I'm going to be brutal. The fact is + that you're too self-centred. People never do anything in the world so + long as they are wondering whether the world's going to hurt them or no. + Those early years of yours made you morbid. You've got a temper and one or + two other things that want a lot of holding down and that takes up your + attention—And then Clare isn't the woman to help you—” + </p> + <p> + Peter was about to break in but she went on:—'"Oh! I know my Clare + through and through. She's just as anxious as you are not to be hurt by + anything and so she's being hurt all the time. She's out for happiness at + any cost and you're out for freedom—freedom from every kind of thing—and + because both of you are denied it you are restive. But you and Clare are + both people whose only salvation is in being hurt and knocked about and + bruised to such an extent that they simply don't know where they are. Oh! + I know—I'm exactly the same sort of person myself. We can thank the + Gods if we are knocked about—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she paused and, falling back in her chair, put her hand to her + breast, coughing. Something seized her, held her in its grip, tossed her + from side to side, at last left her white, speechless, utterly exhausted. + It had come so suddenly that it had taken Peter entirely by surprise. She + lay back now, her eyes closed, her face a grey white. + </p> + <p> + He ran to the door and called Mrs. Brockett. She came and with an + exclamation hurried away for remedies. + </p> + <p> + Peter suddenly felt his hand seized—a hoarse whisper was in his ear—“Peter—dear—go—at—once—I + can't bear—you—to see me—like this. Come back—another + day.” + </p> + <p> + He knelt, moved by an affection and tenderness that seemed stronger than + any emotion he had ever known, and kissed her. She whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Dear boy—” + </p> + <p> + On his way back to Chelsea, the orange lamps, the white streets powdered + with the evening glow, the rustling plane trees whispered to him, “You've + got to be knocked about—you've got to be knocked about—you've + got to be knocked about—” but the murmur was no longer sinister. + </p> + <p> + Still thinking of Norah, he went up to the nursery to see the boy in bed. + He remembered that Clare was going out alone to a party and that he would + have the evening to himself. + </p> + <p> + On entering the room, dark except for a nightlight by the boy's bed, some + unknown fear assailed him. He was instantly, at the threshold, conscious + of it. He stood for a moment in silence. Then realised what it was. The + boy was moaning in his sleep. + </p> + <p> + He went quickly over to the cot and bent down. Stephen's cheeks were + flaming, his hands very hot. + </p> + <p> + Peter rang the bell. Mrs. Kant appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything the matter with Stephen?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Kant looked at him, surprised, a little offended. “He's had a little + cold all day, sir. I've kept him indoors.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you taken his temperature?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, nothing at all unusual. He often goes up and down.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you spoken to your mistress?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. She agrees with me that there is nothing unusual—” + </p> + <p> + He brushed past the woman and went to his wife's bedroom. + </p> + <p> + She was dressed and was putting on a string of pearls, a wedding present + from her father. She smiled up at him— + </p> + <p> + “Clare, do you know Stephen's ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it's only a cold. I've been up to see him—” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand—she smiled up at him—“Did you enjoy your + visit?” She fastened the necklace. + </p> + <p> + “Clare, stay in to-night. It may be nothing but if the boy got worse—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted you to go with me this afternoon—” + </p> + <p> + “That was different. The boy may be really ill—” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't do what I wanted this afternoon. Why should I do what you want + now?” + </p> + <p> + “Clare, stay. Please, please—” + </p> + <p> + She took her hand gently out of his, and, as she went out of the door + switched off the electric light. + </p> + <p> + He heard the opening of the hall door and, standing where she had left him + in the dark bedroom, saw, shining, laughing at him, her eyes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <h3> + WHY? + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + There are occasions in our life when the great Wave so abruptly overwhelms + us that before we have recovered our dazed senses it has passed and the + water on every side of us is calm again. + </p> + <p> + There are other occasions when we stand, it may seem through a lifetime of + anticipation bracing our backs for the inevitable moment. Every hour + before it comes is darkened, every light is dimmed by its implacable + shadow. Then when at last it is upon us we meet it with an indifference, + almost with a relief, because it has come at last. + </p> + <p> + So was it now with Peter. During many weeks he had been miserable, + apprehensive, seeing an enemy in every wind. Now, behold, his adversary in + the open. + </p> + <p> + “This,” he might cry to that old man, down in Scaw House, “this is what + you have been preparing for me, is it? At last you've shown me—well, + I'll fight you.” + </p> + <p> + Young Stephen was very ill. Peter was strangely assured that it was to be + a bad business. Well, it rested with him, Peter, to pull the boy through. + If he chose to put his back into it and give the kid some of his own + vigour and strength then it was bound to be all right. + </p> + <p> + Standing there in the dark, he stripped his mind naked; he flung from it + every other thought, every other interest—his work, Clare, + everything must go. Only Stephen mattered and Stephen should be pulled + through. + </p> + <p> + For an instant, a little cold trembling fear struck his heart. + Supposing...? Then fiercely, flinging the thought from him he trampled it + down. + </p> + <p> + He went to the telephone and called up a doctor who lived in Cheyne Walk. + The man could be with him in a quarter of an hour. + </p> + <p> + Then he went back into the nursery. Mrs. Kant was there. + </p> + <p> + “I've sent for Dr. Mitchell.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll be here in quarter of an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir.” + </p> + <p> + He hated the woman. He would like to take her thin, bony neck and wring + it. + </p> + <p> + He went over to the cot and looked down. The little body outlined under + the clothes was so helpless, the little hands, clenched now, were so tiny; + he was breathing very fast and little sounds came from between his teeth, + little struggling cries. + </p> + <p> + Peter saw that moment when Stephen the Elder had held Stephen the younger + aloft in his arms. The Gods appear to us only when we claim to challenge + their exultation. They had been challenged at that moment.... Young + Stephen against the Gods! Surely an unequal contest! + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Dr. Mitchell came and instantly the struggle was at its height. + Appendicitis. As they stood over the cot the boy awoke and began to cry a + little, turned his head from side to side as though to avoid the light, + beating with his hands on the counterpane. + </p> + <p> + “I must send for a nurse at once,” Dr. Mitchell said. + </p> + <p> + “Everything is in your hands,” Peter answered. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better go down and have something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + The little cry came trembling and pitiful, driving straight into Peter's + heart. + </p> + <p> + “Temperature 105—pretty bad.” Mitchell, who was a stout, short man + with red cheeks, grey eyes and the air of an amiable Robin, was + transformed now into something sharp, alert, official. + </p> + <p> + Peter caught his arm— + </p> + <p> + “It's all right?... you don't think—?” + </p> + <p> + The man turned and looked at him with eyes so kind that Peter trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, we've got to fight it, Westcott. I ought to have been called + hours ago. But keep your head and we'll pull the child through.... Better + go down and have something to eat. You'll need it.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the door Peter faced a trembling Mrs. Kant. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you lied just now. You never took the boy's temperature.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Did you or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, Mrs. Westcott said there was no need. I'm sure I thought—” + </p> + <p> + “You leave the house now—at once. Go up and pack your things and + clear out. If I see you here in an hour's time the police shall turn you + out.” + </p> + <p> + The woman began to cry. Peter went downstairs. To his own surprise he + found that he could eat and drink. Of so fundamental an importance was + young Stephen in his life that the idea that he could ever lose him was of + an absurd and monstrous incredibility. No, of that there was no question—but + he was conscious nevertheless of the supreme urgency of the occasion. That + young Stephen had ever been delicate or in any way a weakling was a + monstrous suggestion. Always when one thought of him it was a baby + laughing, tumbling—or thoughtfully, with his hand rolled tightly + inside his father's, taking in the world. + </p> + <p> + Just think of all the tottering creatures who go on and on and snap their + fingers at death. The grotesque old men and women! Or think of the feeble + miserables who never know what a day's health means—crowding into + Davos or shuddering on the Riviera! + </p> + <p> + And young Stephen, the strongest, most vital thing in the world! + Nevertheless, suddenly, Peter found that he could eat and drink no more. + He put the food aside and went upstairs again. + </p> + <p> + In the darkened nursery he sat in a chair by the fire and waited for the + hours to pass. The new nurse had arrived and moved quietly about the room. + There was no sound at all save the monotonous whispering beseeching little + cries that came from the bed. One had heard that concentration of will + might do so much in the directing of such a battle, and surely great love + must help. Peter, as he sat in the half-darkness thought that he had never + before realised his love for the boy—how immense it was—how + all-pervading, so that if it were taken from him life would be instantly + broken, without colour, without any rhythm or force. + </p> + <p> + As he sat there he thought confusedly of a great number of things of his + own childhood—of his mother—of a boy at Dawson's who had asked + him once as they gazed up at a great mass of apple blossoms in bloom, “Do + you think there is anything in all that stuff about God anyway, Westcott?”—of + a night when he had gone with some loose woman of the town and of the wet + miry street that they had left behind them as she had closed the door—of + that night at the party when he had seen Cardillac again—of the + things that Maradick had said to him that night when young Stephen was + born—and so from that to his own life, his own birth, his father, + Scaw House, the struggle that it had all been. + </p> + <p> + He remembered a sentence out of a strange novel of Dostoieffsky's that he + had once read, “The Brothers Karamazoff”: “It's a feature of the + Karamazoffs ... that thirst for life regardless of everything—” and + the Karamazoffs were of a sensual, debased stock—rotten at the base + of them with an old drunken buffoon of a father—yes, that was like + the Westcotts. All his life, struggle ... and young Stephen—all <i>his</i> + life, struggle... and yet, even in the depths of degradation, if the fight + were to go that way there would still be that lust for life. + </p> + <p> + So many times he had been almost under. First Stephen Brant had saved him, + then at Brockett's Norah Monogue, then in Bucket Lane his illness, then in + Chelsea his marriage, lately young Stephen... always, always something had + been there to keep him on his feet. But if everything were taken from him, + if he were absolutely, nakedly alone—what then? Ah, what then! + </p> + <p> + He buried his head in his hands. “God, you don't know what young Stephen + is to me—or, yes, of course you do know, God—and because you + do know, you will not take him from me.” + </p> + <p> + The little tearing pain at his heart held him—every now and again it + turned like some grinding key. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell entered with another doctor. Peter went over to the window, and + whilst they made their examination, stared through the glass at the + fretwork of trees, the golden haze of London beyond, two stars that now, + when the storm had spent itself, showed in a dark dim sky. Very faintly + the clanging note of trams, the clatter of a hansom cab, the imperative + call of some bell came to him. + </p> + <p> + The world could thus go on! Mitchell crossed to him and put his hand on + his shoulder— + </p> + <p> + “He's pretty bad, Westcott. An operation's out of the question I'm afraid. + But if you'd like another opinion—” + </p> + <p> + “No thanks. I trust you and Hunt.” The doctor could feel the boy's body + trembling beneath his touch. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Westcott. Don't be frightened. We'll do all mortals can. + We'll know in the early morning how things are going to be. The child's + got a splendid constitution.” + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by the opening of the nursery door and, turning, the + men saw Clare with the light of the passage at her back, standing in the + doorway. Her cloak was trailing on the floor—around her her pink + filmy dress hung like shadows from the light behind her. Her face was + white, her eyes wide. + </p> + <p> + “What—?” she whispered in the voice of a frightened child. + </p> + <p> + Peter crossed the room, and took her with him into the passage, closing + the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + She clung to him, looking up into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Stephen's very bad, dear. No, it's something internal—” + </p> + <p> + “And I went out to a party?” her voice was trembling, she was very near to + tears. “But I was miserable, wretched all the time. I wanted to come back, + I knew I oughtn't to have gone.... Oh Peter, will he die? Oh! poor little + thing! Poor little thing!” + </p> + <p> + Even at that moment, Peter noticed, she spoke as though it were somebody + else's baby. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, dear. It'll be all right. Of course it will. Mitchell's here, + he'll pull him through. But you'd better go and lie down, dear. I promise + to come and tell you if anything's the matter. You can't do any good—there's + an excellent nurse!” + </p> + <p> + “Where's Mrs. Kant?” + </p> + <p> + “I dismissed her this evening for lying to me. Go to bed. Clare—really + it's the best thing.” + </p> + <p> + She began to cry with her hands up to her face, but she went, slowly, with + her cloak still trailing after her, to her room. + </p> + <p> + She had not, he noticed, entered the nursery. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + He went back and sat down again in the arm-chair by the fire. Poor Clare! + he felt only a great protecting pity for her—a strange feeling, + compounded of emotions that were unexpectedly confused. A feeling that was + akin to what he would have felt had she been his sister and been insulted + by some drunken blackguard in the street. Poor Clare! She was so young—simply + not up to these big grown-up troubles. + </p> + <p> + Those little cries had ceased—only every now and again an echo of a + moan—so slight was the sound that broke the silence. The hours + advanced and there settled about the house that chilly ominous sense of + anticipation that the early morning brings in its grey melancholy hands. + It was a little house but it was full, now, of expectancy. Up the stairs, + through the passages, pressing against the windows there were many + presences waiting for the moment when the issue of this struggle would be + decided. The air was filled with their chill breath. The struggle round + the bed was at its height. On one side doctors, nurses, the father, the + mother—on the other that still, ironic Figure, in His very aloofness + so strong, in His indifference so terrible. + </p> + <p> + With Peter, as the grey dawn grew nearer, confidence fled. He was suddenly + conscious of the strength and invisibility of the thing that he was + fighting. He must do something. If he were compelled to sit, silently, + quietly, with his hands folded, much longer, he would go mad. But it was + absurd—Stephen, about whom he had made so many plans, Stephen, + concerning whom there had been that struggle to bring about his very + existence ... surely all that was not now to go for nothing at all. + </p> + <p> + If he could do something—if he could do something! + </p> + <p> + There were drops of sweat on his forehead—inside his clothes his + body was hot and dry and had shrunk, it seemed, into some tiny shape, like + a nut, so that his things hung loosely all about him. + </p> + <p> + He could not bear that dark cavernous nursery, with the faint lights and + the stairs and passages beyond it so crowded with urgent silence! + </p> + <p> + He caught Mitchell on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “How is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! we're fighting it. It's the most rapid thing I've ever known. If we + only could have operated! Look here, go and lie down for a bit—I'll + let you know if there's any change!” + </p> + <p> + He went to his dressing-room, all ghostly now with the first struggling + light of dawn. He closed the door behind him and then fell down on his + knees by the bed, pressing his face into his hands. + </p> + <p> + He prayed: “Oh! God, God, God. I have never wanted anything like this + before but Stephen is more to me, much, much more to me than anything that + I have ever had—more, far more than my own life. I haven't much to + offer but if you will let me keep Stephen you can have all the rest. You + can send me back to Bucket Lane, take my work, anything ... I want Stephen + ... I want Stephen. God, he is such a good boy. He has always been good + and he will make such a fine man. There won't be many men so fine as he. + He's good as gold. God I will die myself if he may live, I'm no use. I've + made a mess of things—but let him live and take me. Oh! God I want + him, I want him!” + </p> + <p> + He broke into sobs and was bowed down there on the floor, his body + quivering, his face pressed against the bed. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious that Clare had joined him. She must have heard him from + her room. He tried as he felt her body pressed against his, to pull + himself together, but the crying now had mastered him and he could only + feel her pushing with her hand to find his—and at last he let her + take his hand and hold it. + </p> + <p> + He heard her whisper in his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Peter dear, don't—don't cry like that. I can't bear to hear you + like that. I'm so miserable, Peter. I've been so wicked—so cross and + selfish. I've hurt you so often—I'm going to be better, Peter. I am + really.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment they might have come together with a reality, an honesty + that no after-events could have shaken. But to Peter Clare was very far + away. He was not so conscious of her as he was of those presences that + thronged the house. What could she do for him now? Afterwards perhaps. But + now it was Stephen—Stephen—Stephen— + </p> + <p> + But he let her hold his hand and he felt her hair against his cheek, and + at last he put his arm around her and held her close to him, and she, with + her face against his, went fast asleep. He looked down at her. She looked + so young and helpless that the sight of her leaning, tired and beaten, + against him, touched him and he picked her up, carried her into her room + and laid her on her bed. + </p> + <p> + How light and tiny she was! + </p> + <p> + He was conscious of his own immense fatigue. Mitchell had told him that he + would wake him; good fellow, Mitchell! He lay down on the bed in his + dressing-room and was instantly asleep. + </p> + <p> + He was outside Scaw House. He was mother-naked and the howling wind and + rain buffeted his body and the stones cut his feet. The windows of the + house were dark and barred. He could just reach the lower windows with his + hands if he stood on tiptoe. + </p> + <p> + He tapped again and again. + </p> + <p> + He was tired, exhausted. He had come a long, long way and the rain hurt + his bare flesh. At last a candle shone dimly behind the dark window. Some + one was there, and instantly at the moment of his realising that aid had + come he was conscious also that he must, on all accounts, refuse it. He + knew that if he entered the house Stephen would die. It depended on him to + save Stephen. He turned to flee but his father had unbarred the door and + was drawing him in. He struggled, he cried out, he fought, but his father + was stronger than he. He was on the threshold—he could see through + the dark ill-smelling hall to the door beyond. His father's hand fastened + on his arm like a vice. His body was bathed in sweat, he screamed ... and + woke to find the room dim in the morning light and Mitchell shaking him by + the arm. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + He was still dreaming. Now he was in the nursery. Clare was kneeling by + Stephen's bed. One doctor was bending down—the nurse was crying very + softly. + </p> + <p> + He looked down on his son. As he looked the little face was, for an + instant, puckered with pain. The mouth, the eyes, the throat struggled. + </p> + <p> + The tiny hands lifted for a moment, hung, and then like fluttering leaves, + fell down on to the counterpane. Then the body was suddenly quiet, the + face was peaceful and the head had fallen gently, sideways against the + pillow. + </p> + <p> + At that moment of time, throughout the house, the Presences departed. The + passages, the rooms were freed, the air was no longer cold. + </p> + <p> + At that moment also Peter awoke. Mitchell said: “The boy's gone, + Westcott.” + </p> + <p> + Peter, turning his back upon them all, drove from him, so softly that they + could scarcely hear, but in a voice of agony that Mitchell never + afterwards forgot:— + </p> + <p> + “I wanted him so—I wanted him so.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <h3> + A WOMAN CALLED ROSE BENNETT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The days that followed were dead—dead in more than any ordinary + sense of the word. But perhaps it was Peter who was dead. He moved, ate, + drank, even wrote his reviews, slept—he thanked gravely all those + who offered him condolences—wrote letters in answer to kind + friends.... “Dear S—— It was just like you to write so kindly + and sympathetically....” And all this time he was without any kind of + emotion. He was aware that there was something in the back of his brain + that, were it once called upon to awake, might stir him into life again. + What it would tell him he did not know, something about love, something + intensely sorrowful, something that had occurred very probably to himself. + He did not want to live—to think, to feel. Thinking meant pain, + meant a sudden penetrating into that room shrouded now by heavy, black + curtains but containing, were those curtains drawn, some great, phantasmal + horror. + </p> + <p> + He was dimly aware that the people about him were frightened. Clare, Bobby + Galleon, Cardillac. He knew that they would be glad for him to draw those + curtains aside and penetrate into that farther room. That was unkind of + them. He had no other emotion but that it was unkind of them. Beyond that + unkindness, they did not exist. + </p> + <p> + He was thinner. His shoulders seemed to pierce sharply his clothes; his + cheeks were white and hollow, there were dark lines beneath his eyes, + dark, grey patches. His legs were not so straight, nor so strong. Moreover + his eyes were as though they were covered with a film. Seeing everything + they yet saw nothing at all. They passed through the world and were + confronted by the heavy, veiling curtains.... + </p> + <p> + This condition lasted for many days. Of all about him none understood him + so well as Bobby Galleon. Bobby had always understood him, and now he felt + for him with a tenderness that had both the past and the future to + heighten its poignancy. It seemed to Bobby that nothing more tragic than + the death of this child could possibly have occurred. It filled him with + anxiety for the future, it intensified to a depth that only so simple and + affectionate a character as his could feel, the love that he had always + had for Peter. + </p> + <p> + He was with him during these days continually, waiting for the relief to + come. + </p> + <p> + “It's got to come soon,” he said, “or the boy'll go mad.” + </p> + <p> + At last it came. + </p> + <p> + One day about tea-time they were sitting in Peter's upstairs study. It had + been a day of showers and now the curtains were not drawn and a green-grey + dusk glimmered beyond the windows. + </p> + <p> + Peter was writing letters, and as Bobby watched him he seemed to him like + some automaton, something wound into life by some clever inventor. The + hand moved across the paper—the dead eyes encountered nothing in + their gaze, the shoulders were the loosely drooping shoulders of an old + man. + </p> + <p> + “Can you see, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thanks. Switch on the light if you like.” + </p> + <p> + Bobby got up and moved to the door. The dusk behind Peter's face flung it + into sharp white outline. + </p> + <p> + Another shower! The rain at first in single drops, then more swiftly, fell + with gentle, pattering fingers up and down the window. It was the only + sound, except the scraping of Peter's pen. The pen stopped. Peter raised + his head, listening. + </p> + <p> + Bobby switched on the light and as he did so Peter in a strangled + breathless mutter whispered— + </p> + <p> + “The rain! The rain! It was like that that night. Stephen! Stephen!” + </p> + <p> + His head fell on to his hands and he burst into a storm of tears. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + And now Peter was out to be hurt, hurt more horribly than he could have + ever believed possible. It was like walking—as they did in the days + of the Ordeal—on red-hot iron, every step an agony. Always there was + something to remind him! He could go nowhere, see nobody, summon no kind + of recollection out of the past without this coming to him. There were a + thousand things that Stephen had done, that he, Peter, had never noticed + at the time. He was haunted now with regrets, he had not made enough of + him whilst he was there! Ah! had he only known that the time was to be so + short! How he would have spent those precious, precious moments! It was as + though he had flung away, wilfully, possessions of the utmost price—cast + them off as though it had been his very intention to feel, afterwards, + this burning regret. The things in the nursery were packed away, but there + remained the room, the frieze with the dragons and princesses, the + fire-place, the high broad window. Again and again he saw babies in the + streets, in the parks and fancied that Stephen had come back again. + </p> + <p> + The thing had happened to him so swiftly that, behind reason, there lurked + the thought that perhaps, with equal suddenness, Stephen would be + restored. To come back one afternoon and to find him there! To find him + lying there on his back in his cot looking up at the ceiling, to find him + labouring unsteadily on his feet, clinging to the sides of his bed and + shouting—to find him laughing at the jumping waves in the fire—to + find him!... No, never to be found again—gone, hopelessly, cruelly, + for no reason, for no one's good or benefit—simply for some one's + sport. + </p> + <p> + But, strangely, more than the actual Stephen did he miss the imaginary + future Stephen at school, hero of a thousand games, winner of a thousand + prizes, the Stephen grown up, famous already at so young an age, loved by + men and women, handsome, good.... Oh! the folly of it! No human being + could carry all the glories that Peter had designed for his son—no + human being, then how much less a Westcott. It might be best after all, + young Stephen had been spared. Until every stone of Scaw House was level + with the ground no Westcott could be termed safe—perhaps not then. + </p> + <p> + Now he realised how huge a place in his heart the boy had filled dimly, + because as yet he refused to bring it to the open light he was conscious + that, during these past two years he had been save for Stephen, a very + lonely man. It was odd that Stephen the elder and Stephen the younger + should have been the only two persons in his life to find the real inside + of him—they, too, and perhaps Norah Monogue. But, otherwise, not + Bobby, nor Cards, nor Alice Galleon, nor Mr. Zanti—nor Clare. + </p> + <p> + Not Clare. He faced the fact with a sudden shudder. Now that Stephen was + gone he and Clare were face to face—face to face as they had never + been since that first happy year of their marriage. That first year of + their marriage—and now! + </p> + <p> + With an instant clenching of his teeth he pulled down the blinds upon that + desolating view. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + With teeth still clenched he set himself to build up his house again. + Clare was very quiet and submissive during those first weeks. Her little + figure looked helpless and appealing in its deep black; she was prettier + than she had ever been in her life before. People said, “Poor Mrs. + Westcott, she feels the loss of her baby so dreadfully”—and they + didn't think about Peter. Indeed some people thought him callous. “Mr. + Westcott seemed to be so fond of the child. Now I really believe he's + forgotten all about him.” Bobby was the only person in the world who knew + how Peter suffered. + </p> + <p> + Clare was, indeed, after a time, reassured. Peter, after all, seemed not + to mind. Did he mind anything? He was so often glum and silent that really + you couldn't tell. Clare herself had been frightened on that night when + the baby had died. She had probably never in all her life felt a more + genuine emotion than she had known when she knelt by Peter's side and went + to sleep in his arms. She was quite ready to feel that emotion again would + Peter but allow her. But no. He showed no emotion himself and expected no + one else to show any, for he was ready to share it but in her heart of + hearts she longed to fling away from her this emotional atmosphere. She + had loved the baby—of course she had loved it. But she had always + known that something would happen to it—always. If Peter would + insist on having those horrid Cornishmen.... At heart she connected that + dreadful day when those horrible men had played about in the nursery with + baby's death. Of course it was enough to kill any baby. + </p> + <p> + So, ultimately, it all came back to Peter's fault. Clare found real + satisfaction in the thought. Meanwhile she emphatically stated her desire + to be happy again. + </p> + <p> + She stated it always in Peter's absence, feeling that he would, in no way, + understand her. “It can't help poor dear little Stephen that we should go + on being melancholy and doing nothing. That's only morbid, isn't it, + mother?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter entirely agreed, as indeed she always agreed with anything + that Clare suggested. + </p> + <p> + “The dear thing does look lovely in black, though,” she confided to Mrs. + Galleon. “Mr. Cardillac couldn't take his eyes off her yesterday at + luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter and Jerry Cardillac had, during the last year, become the + very best of friends. Peter was glad to see that it was so. Peter couldn't + pretend to care very deeply about his mother-in-law, but he felt that it + would do her all the good in the world to see something of old Cards. It + would broaden her understanding, give her perhaps some of that charity + towards the whole world that was one of Cards' most charming features. + Cards, in fact, had been so much in the house lately that he might be + considered one of the family. No one could have been more tender, more + sympathetic, more exactly right about young Stephen's death. He had + become, during those weeks almost a necessity. He seemed to have no + particular interest of his own in life. He dressed very perfectly, he went + to a number of parties, he had delightful little gatherings in his own + flat, but, with it all, he was something more—a great deal more—than + the mere society idler. There was a hint at possible wildness, an almost + sinister suggestion of possible lawlessness that made him infinitely + attractive. He was such good company and yet one felt that one didn't know + nearly the whole of him. + </p> + <p> + To Peter he was the most wonderful thing in the world, to Clare he was + rapidly becoming so—no wonder then that the Roundabout saw him so + often. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + It would need a very acute perception indeed to pursue precisely the train + of cause and effect in Mrs. Rossiter's mind after young Stephen's death. + Her black garments added, in the most astonishing fashion, to her placid + flatness. If she had gloried before in an armour that was so negative that + it became instantly exceedingly dangerous, her appearance now was + terrifying beyond all words. Her black silk had apparently no creases, no + folds—it almost eliminated terms and boundaries. Mrs. Rossiter could + not now be said to come into a room—she was simply there. One was + sitting, gazing it might be at the fire, a looking-glass, a picture or + two, when suddenly there came a black shadow, something that changed the + colour of things a little, something that obscured certain objects, but + scarcely anything more definite. The yellow brooch was definite, cold, + stony eyes hung a little above it, over those a high white forehead—otherwise + merely a black shadow putting out the fire. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He <i>must</i> get her back—he <i>must</i> get her back. + </p> + <p> + Behind his brain, all this time, was the horror of being left alone in the + world and of what he might do—then. + </p> + <p> + To get Clare back he must have the assistance of two people—Mrs. + Rossiter and Cards. + </p> + <p> + It was at this point that he perceived Mrs. Rossiter's placidity. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I believe she <i>wants</i> Clare to hate me,” he suddenly revealed to + himself, and, with that, all hope of her as an ally vanished. + </p> + <p> + Then he hated her—he hated her more bitterly every day. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid—” Peter would begin. + </p> + <p> + “Peter's too engaged to take you, Clare dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say Jerry will come—” this from Clare. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! yes, Mr. Cardillac is always ready to take any trouble, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “If you'd let me know earlier, Clare, that you wanted me.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + Peter. “We'll go to-morrow afternoon, Clare.” + </p> + <p> + Clare. “You're so gloomy when you do come, Peter. It's like going out with + a ghost.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + Peter. “Look here, Clare, I'll chuck this engagement.” + </p> + <p> + Clare. “No, thank you, Peter—Jerry and I will be all right. You can + join us if you like—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Mrs. Rossiter being enemy rather than ally there remained Cards. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Peter tried to talk to Cards—he was always prevented—held off + with a laughing hand. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with me?” thought Peter. “What have I done? It's like + being out in a fog.” + </p> + <p> + At last one evening, after dinner, when Clare and Mrs. Rossiter had gone + upstairs he demanded an answer. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Cards, what have I done? You profess to be a friend of mine. + Tell me what crime I've committed?” + </p> + <p> + Cards' eyes had been laughing. Suddenly he was serious. His dark, + clean-cut face was stern, almost accusing. + </p> + <p> + “Profess, Peter? I hope you don't doubt it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not. You know you're the best friend I've got. Tell me—what + have I done?” + </p> + <p> + “Done?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—you and Clare and her mother—all of you keep me at arms' + length—why?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really want a straight talking?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time since his marriage Peter resented Cards' words. “Poor + little Clare”—wasn't that a little too intimate? + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a little harder. + </p> + <p> + “Well—I don't think you understand her, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Explain.” + </p> + <p> + “She's a happy, merry person if ever there was one in this world. She + wants all the happiness you can give her—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you don't seem to see that. Of course young Stephen's death—” + </p> + <p> + “Let's leave that—” Peter's voice was harder again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right—just as you please. But most men would have seen what + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't understand,” muttered Peter, his eyes lowered. “If I'd thought + that she'd really minded Stephen's death—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Cards—that'll do.” + </p> + <p> + Cards stood back from the table, his mouth smiling, his eyes hard and + cold. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + Peter stood up, his face white, so that his eyes and the lines of his + mouth showed black in the shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Clear out—I've heard enough.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Peter's voice shook. “Clear out—clear out or I'll do for you—get + out of my house—” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The house was suddenly silent. Peter stood, his hands clenched. Then he + went out into the hall. + </p> + <p> + He heard Mrs. Rossiter's voice from above—“Aren't you two men ever + coming up?” + </p> + <p> + “Jerry's gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—we've had a row.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter made no reply. He heard the drawing-room door close. Then + he, too, took his coat and hat and went out. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>had</i> been morbid, he <i>had</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, dear, let's have a drink. Haven't had a drink to-night.” + </p> + <p> + He asked her what she would like and she told him. She studied him + carefully for quite a long time. + </p> + <p> + “Down on your luck, old chum?” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” Peter said, “a bit depressed.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks,” said Peter politely. “I must get back to my own place in a + minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the lady. “Please yourself, and I'll have another drink if + you don't very much mind.” + </p> + <p> + It was whilst he was ordering another drink that he came out of his own + thoughts and considered her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a very dirty card on which was written “Miss Rose Bennett, 4 + Annton Street, Portland Place.” + </p> + <p> + “You're Cornish,” he suddenly said, looking at her. + </p> + <p> + She moved her soiled gloves up and down the little table—“Well, what + if I am?” she said defiantly, not looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it,” said Peter triumphantly, “the way you rolled your r's—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, chuck it, dear,” said Miss Bennett, “and let's talk sense. What's + Cornwall got to do with us anyhow?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. Her eyes sought Peter's. He saw that she was nearly crying. + </p> + <p> + “Talking of Cornwall and all that,” she muttered, “silly rot! I'm tired—I'm + going home.” + </p> + <p> + He paid for the drinks and got a hansom. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Rather hurriedly he asked her to get into the cab. + </p> + <p> + “Come that far—” she said. + </p> + <p> + He got in with her and she took off one glove and he held her hand and + they didn't speak all the way. + </p> + <p> + When the hansom stopped at last he got down, helped her out and for a + moment longer held her hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a funny kid,” she said, looking at him, “sentimental, I <i>don't</i> + think!” + </p> + <p> + But it was her eyes—tired and regretful that said goodbye. + </p> + <p> + She let herself in and the door closed behind her. + </p> + <p> + He turned and walked the streets; it was three o'clock before he reached + his home. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <h3> + “MORTIMER STANT” + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Next morning Peter went round to Cardillac's flat and made his apologies. + Cardillac accepted them at once with the frankest expressions of + friendship. + </p> + <p> + “My dear old Peter, of course,” he said, taking both Peter's hands in his, + “I was horribly blunt and unpleasant about the whole thing. I didn't mean + half what I said, but the fact is that you got angry and then I suppose I + got angry—and then we both said more than we meant.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Peter slowly, “for you were quite right. I have been selfish + and morbid. I see it all quite clearly. I'm going to be very different + now, Cards, old man.” + </p> + <p> + Cards' flat was splendid—everything in it from its grey Ascot + trouserings kind of wall paper to its beautiful old chairs and its + beautiful old china was of the very best—and Cards himself, in a + dark blue suit with a black tie and a while pearl and white spats on his + shining gleaming shoes, just ready to go out and startle Piccadilly was of + the very best. He had never, Peter thought, looked so handsome. + </p> + <p> + At the door Cards put a hand on Peter's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Get in late this morning, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said Peter, turning round. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing,” Cards regarded him, smiling. “I'll see you to-night at the + Lesters. Until then, old man—” + </p> + <p> + Neither Mrs. Rossiter nor Clare made any allusion to the quarrel but it + had nevertheless, Peter felt, made reconciliation all the more difficult. + Mrs. Rossiter now seemed to imply in her additional kindnesses to + Cardillac that she felt for him deeply and was sorry that he, too, should + have been made to suffer under Peter's bear-like nature. + </p> + <p> + There was even an implied atmosphere of alliance in the attitude of the + three to Peter, an alliance fostered and cemented by Mrs. Rossiter and + spread by her, up and down, in and out about the house. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious indeed now that Mrs. Rossiter was, never again, under any + terms, to be won over. She had decided in her own slow mind that Peter was + an objectionable person, that he neglected his wife, quarrelled with his + best friends and refused to fulfil the career that he had promised to + fulfil. She saw herself now in the role of protectress of her daughter, + and that role she would play to the very end. Clare must, at all costs, be + happy and, in spite of her odious husband, happy she should be. + </p> + <p> + Peter discerned Mrs. Rossiter's state of mind on the whole clearly enough, + but with regard to Clare he was entirely in the dark. He devoted his days + now to her service. He studied her every want, was ready to abandon his + work at any moment to be with her, and was careful also to avoid too great + a pestering of her with attentions. + </p> + <p> + “I know women hate that,” he said to himself, “if you go down on your + knees to them and hang around them they simply can't stand it. I won't + show her that I care.” + </p> + <p> + And he cared, poor fellow, as he had never cared for her before during + their married life. The love that he had had for Stephen he would now give + to Stephen's mother would she but let him. + </p> + <p> + But it was a difficult business. When Mrs. Rossiter was present he could + do nothing right. If he were silent she would talk to Clare about people + being morose; and what a pity it was that some people didn't think of + other people a little instead of being miserable about things for which + they had nobody to thank but themselves, and if he tried to be + light-hearted and amusing Mrs. Rossiter bore with his humour in so patient + and self-denying a spirit that his efforts failed lamentably and only made + the situation worse than it had been before. + </p> + <p> + Clare seemed to be now entirely in her mother's hands; she put her + mother's large flat body between herself and Peter and, through that, they + were compelled to talk. + </p> + <p> + Peter also knew now that Clare was exceedingly uncomfortable in his + presence—it was almost as though she had something to conceal. On + several occasions he had noticed that his sudden entrance into a room had + confused her; once he had caught her hurriedly pushing a letter out of + sight. She was now strangely timid when he was there; sometimes with a + sudden furious beating of the heart he fancied that she was coming back to + him again because she would make little half movements towards him and + then draw back. Once he found her crying. + </p> + <p> + The impulse to beg her to confide in him was almost stronger than he could + resist, and yet he was terrified lest by some sudden move he should + frighten her and drive her back and so lose the little ground that he had + gained. The strangest thing of all was that Mrs. Rossiter herself did not + know what Clare's trouble was. She, of course, put it all down to Peter, + but she could accuse him of nothing specific. Clare had not confided in + her. + </p> + <p> + Did Cards know? Peter suddenly asked himself with a strange pang of + jealousy. That he should be jealous of Cards, the most splendid, most + honourable fellow in the world! That, of course, was absurd. And yet they + were together so often, and it was with Jerry Cardillac alone that Clare + seemed now at ease. + </p> + <p> + But Peter put all such thoughts at once away from him. Had it been any + other man but Cards he might have wondered... but he would trust Cards + alone with his wife in the wilderness and know that no ill could come of + it. With—other women Cards might have few scruples—Peter had + heard such stories—but with Peter's wife, no. + </p> + <p> + Peter wondered whether perhaps Clare did not miss young Stephen more than + they knew! Oh, if that were the reason how he could take her into his arms + and comfort her and love her! Poor little Clare... the time would come + when she would show him that she wanted him. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the months passed, the proofs of “Mortimer Stant” had been + corrected and the book was about to appear. To Peter now everything seemed + to hang upon this event. It became with him, during the weeks before its + appearance, a monomania. If this book were a success why then dare and + Mrs. Rossiter and all of them would come round to him. It was the third + book which was always so decisive, and there was ground to recover after + the comparative failure of the second novel. As he corrected the proofs he + persuaded himself that “Mortimer Stant” wasn't, after all, so bad. It had + been ambitious of him, of course, to write about the emotions and + experiences of a man of forty and there was perhaps rather an overloaded + and crude attempt at atmosphere, but there was life in the book. It had, + he thought, more swing in the telling of it than the other two. + </p> + <p> + It is possible, when one is correcting proofs to persuade oneself of + anything. The book appeared and was, from the first moment, loaded with + mishap. On the day of publication there was that terrible fire at the + Casino theatre—people talked of nothing else for a fortnight. + Moreover by an unlucky chance young Rondel's novel, “The Precipice,” was + published on the very same day, and as the precipice was a novel one and + there were no less than three young ladies prepared to fall over it at the + same moment, it of course commanded instant attention. It was incidentally + written with an admirable sense of style and a keen sense of character. + </p> + <p> + But Peter was now in a fever that saw an enemy round every corner. The + English News Supplement only gave him a line:—“'Mortimer Stant.' A + new novel by the author of 'Reuben Hallard,' depicting agreeably enough + the amorous adventures of a stockbroker of middle-age.” To this had all + his fine dreams, his moments of exultation, his fevered inspiration come! + He searched the London booksellers but could find no traces of “Mortimer + Stant” at any of them. His publishers told him that it was only the + libraries that bought any fiction, with the exception of volumes by + certain popular authors—and yet he saw at these booksellers novels + by numbers of people who could not lay claim to the success that “Reuben + Hallard” had secured for its writer. + </p> + <p> + The reviews came in slowly, and, excepting for the smaller provincial + papers, treated him with an indifference that was worse than neglect. + “This interesting novel by Mr. Westcott”—“A pleasant tale of country + life by the author of 'Reuben Hallard.' Will please those who like a quiet + agreeable book without too much incident.” + </p> + <p> + One London weekly review—a paper of considerable importance—took + him severely to task, pointed out a number of incoherences of fact, + commented on carelessness of style and finally advised Mr. Westcott, “if + he is ever to write a book of real importance to work with greater care + and to be less easily contented with a superficial facility.” + </p> + <p> + But worse than these were the opinions of his friends. Henry Galleon was + indeed gone, but there were a few—Mrs. Launce, Alfred Lester, + William Trent, Alfred Hext—who had taken a real and encouraging + interest in him from the beginning. They took him seriously enough to tell + him the truth, and tell him the truth they did. Dear Mrs. Launce, who + couldn't bear to hurt anybody and saw perhaps that he was taking the book + a great deal more hardly than he had taken the others, veiled it as well + as she could:—“I do think it's got splendid things in it, Peter dear—splendid + things. That bit about the swimming and the character of Mrs. Mumps. But + it doesn't hang together. There's a great deal of repetition. It's as + though you'd written it with your mind on something else all the time.” + </p> + <p> + And so he had—oh! so he had! What cruel irony that because his mind + was set to winning Clare back to him the chief means for gaining her + should be ruined by his very care for her. + </p> + <p> + What to do when all the things of life—the bustle and hurry, the + marriages and births and deaths—came in between him and his work so + that he could scarcely see it, so many things obscured the way. Poor + Mortimer! Lost indeed behind a shifting, whirring cloud of real life—never + to emerge, poor man, into anything better than a middle-aged clothes' + prop. + </p> + <p> + For six weeks the book lingered in the advertisements. A second edition, + composed for the most part of an edition for America, was announced, there + were a belated review or two ... and then the end. The end of two years' + hopes, ambitions, struggles, sweat and tears—and the end, too, of + how much else? + </p> + <p> + From the beginning, so far back as he could remember, he had believed that + he would one day write great books; had believed it from no conceit in him + but simply because he clung so tenaciously to ambition that it had become, + again and again, almost realised in the intensity of his dreams of it. He + had known that this achievement of his would take a long time, that he + must meet with many rebuffs, that he must starve and despair and be born + again, but, never at any moment, until now, had he, in his heart of + hearts, doubted that that great book was in front of him. + </p> + <p> + He had seen his work, in his dreams, derided, flouted, misunderstood. That + was the way with most good work, but what he had never seen was its + acceptance amongst the ranks of the “Pretty Good,” its place given it + beside that rising and falling tide of fiction that covered every year the + greedy rocks of the circulating libraries and ebbed out again leaving no + trace behind it. + </p> + <p> + Now, after the failure of “Mortimer Stant” for the first time, this awful + question—“What if, after all, you should be an Ordinary Creature? + What if you are no better than that army who fights happily, contentedly, + with mediocrity for its daily bread and butter? That army, upon whose + serried ranks you have perhaps, unconsciously, but nevertheless with pity, + looked down?... What if you are never to write a word that will be + remembered, never even to cause a decent attention, amongst your own + generation?” + </p> + <p> + What if after all this stir and fluster, this pain and agony and striving, + there should be nothing exceptional about Peter? What rock to stand on + then? + </p> + <p> + He had never, perhaps, analysed his feelings about it all. He had + certainly never thought himself an exceptional person ... but always in + his heart there had been that belief that, one day, he would write an + exceptional book. + </p> + <p> + He was very young, not yet thirty, but he had had his chance. It seemed to + him, in these weeks following the death of “Mortimer Stant,” that his + career was already over. There was also the question of ways and means. + Just enough to live on with the reviewing and a column for an American + paper and Clare's income, but if the books were all of them to fail as + this one had failed—why then it was a dreary future for them both. + </p> + <p> + In fact there were now, at his feet, pits of so dismal and impenetrable a + blackness that he refused to look down, but clung rather to his + determination to make all things right with Clare again, and then things + would come round. + </p> + <p> + If that failed him—why then, old black-faced father in Scaw House + with your drunken cook and your company of ghosts, you shall have your + merry way! + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Henry Galleon was dead. Mrs. Launce was, unfortunately, during the whole + of this period of Peter's career, away in the country, being burdened with + work, children and ill-health. He turned then once again to Bobby. + </p> + <p> + He had seen very little of Bobby and Alice Galleon lately; he was as fond + of Bobby as he had ever been, but Bobby had always been a background, some + one who was there, one liked to think, if one wanted him—but if + there was any one more exciting, then Bobby vanished. Lately—for + quite a long time now—there had been Cardillac—and somehow + Cards and Bobby did not get on together and it was impossible to have them + both at the same time. But now Peter turned to Bobby with the eagerness of + a return to some comfortable old arm-chair after the brilliant new + furniture of a friend's palace. Bobby was there waiting for him. It is not + to be denied that the occasional nature of Peter's appearances had hurt + them both—wounded Bobby and made Alice angry. + </p> + <p> + “He's given us up, Bobby, now that he's found so many new friends. I + shouldn't have expected him to do that. I'm disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + But Bobby nodded his head. “The boy's all right,” he said, “he's just + trying to forget young Stephen and he forgets things better in Cardillac's + company than he does in mine—I'm not lively enough for that kind of + thing. He'll come back—” + </p> + <p> + But, at the same time, Bobby was anxious. Things were wrong up there at + The Roundabout, very wrong. He knew Clare and Cards and Peter and Mrs. + Rossiter, in all probability better than any one alive knew them—and + he was no fool. + </p> + <p> + Then Peter came back to him and was received as though he had never left + him; and Alice, who had intended to tell Mr. Peter what she thought of his + disloyalty, had no word to say when she saw his white drawn face and his + tired eyes. + </p> + <p> + “There's something awfully wrong up there,” said Alice to Bobby that + night. “Bobby, look after him.” + </p> + <p> + But Bobby who had heard by that time what Peter had to say shut his mouth + tight. Then at last: + </p> + <p> + “Our friend Cardillac has a good deal to answer for,” and left Alice to + make what she could out of it. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile up in Bobby's dusty old room, called by courtesy “The Study” but + having little evidence of literature about it save an edition of + Whyte-Melville and a miscellaneous collection of Yellow-backs, Peter had + poured out his soul: + </p> + <p> + “Bobby, I feel as though I'd just been set up with my back against the + wall for every one to make shies at. Everything's going wrong—everything. + The ground's crumbling from under my feet. First it's young Stephen, then + it's Clare, then my book fails (don't let's humbug—you know it's an + utter failure) then I quarrel with Cards, then that damned woman—” + he stopped at the thought of Mrs. Rossiter and drove his hands together. + Then he went on more quietly. “It's like fighting in a fog, Bobby. There's + the thing I want somewhere, just beside me—I want Clare, Clare as + she used to be when we were first married—but I can't get at her and + yet, through it all, I don't know what it is that stops me. + </p> + <p> + “I know I hadn't thought of her enough—with the book and Stephen and + everything. Cards told me that pretty straight—but now I've seen all + that and I'm ready to do anything—anything if she'll only love me + again.” + </p> + <p> + “Go directly to her and tell her,” said Bobby; “have it all out in the + open with her.” + </p> + <p> + “That's just it,” Peter answered, “I never seem to get her alone. There's + always either her mother or Cards there. Cards sees her alone much more + than I do, but, of course, she likes his company better than mine just + now. I'm such a gloomy beggar—” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” said Bobby roughly. “You believe anything that any one tells + you. They tell you that you're gloomy and depressing and so you think you + are. They didn't find you gloomy at Brockett's did they? And Alice and I + have never found you depressing. Don't listen to that woman. Clare's + always been under her influence and it's for you to take her out of it—not + to lie down quietly and say she's too much for you—but there's + another thing,” he added slowly and awkwardly, after a moment's pause. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Well—Cards,” said Bobby at last. “Oh! I know you'll say I hate him. + But I don't. I don't hate him. I've always known him for what he was—in + those days at Dawson's when if you flattered him he was kind, and if you + didn't he was contemptuous. At Cambridge it was the same. There was only + one fellow there I ever saw him knock under to—a man called Dune—and + he was out and away exceptional anyhow, at games and work and everything. + Now <i>he</i> made Cards into a decent fellow for the time being, and if + he'd had the running of him he might have turned all that brilliance into + something worth having. + </p> + <p> + “But he vanished and Cards has never owned his master since. Everything + was there, ready in him, to be turned one way or the other, and after he + left Cambridge there was his silly mother and a sillier London waiting to + finish him—now he's nothing but Vanity and Fascination—and + soon there'll be nothing but Vanity.” + </p> + <p> + “You're unjust to him, Bobby, you always have been. + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps I am. He's always treated me with such undisguised contempt + that it's only human that I should be a little prejudiced. But that's + neither here nor there—what is the point, Peter, is that he's too + much up at your place. Too much for his own good, too much for yours, and—too + much for—Clare's.” + </p> + <p> + “Bobby!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Bobby said no more. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Bobby said: “You know Peter, both Alice and I would do anything in the + world to make you happy—anything.” + </p> + <p> + Peter gripped his hand. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Because They think you're worth it, I suppose,” said Bobby. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My God,” he cried in his heart, “put everything right now—let this + make everything right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Peter, what is it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I've come—Clare—just a moment—I want a talk.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's late, I'm tired—won't some other time do?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I want it now.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + She was looking into the glass as she spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” she said, still looking into the glass. “What do you + mean, Peter? I haven't noticed anything different.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + She tried desperately to pull herself together to say something— + </p> + <p> + “No—there's nothing. Well, if there is—Of course I suppose it + happens to all married people—” + </p> + <p> + “What happens?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, they find one another out a little. Things aren't quite as they + thought they'd be. That must happen always.” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me—tell me the things in me that have disappointed you and + then I can alter—” + </p> + <p> + “Well—it's a little as you say. You have been rather rude to Mother. + And then—your quarrel—” + </p> + <p> + “What! You mean with Cards!” + </p> + <p> + “With—Jerry—yes. And then,” her voice was high and sharp now—her + eyes avoided his—“I've always—been happy, until <i>I</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.” + </p> + <p> + “I've been selfish—I—” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>are</i> + rough. You hurt me often. I can't bear,” her lip was trembling and she was + nearly crying—“I can't bear being unhappy—” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” cried Peter, “what a beast I am! What a brute I've been!” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>me</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “It's all going to be different now. Love me, Clare—love me and it + will all 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + At last he left her, closing, softly her door between them. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <h3> + PETER BUYS A PRESENT + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At luncheon on the day after his talk with Clare they three sat together—Mrs. + Rossiter silent, Clare silent, Peter silent. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + They had not been to the theatre together since Stephen's death. + </p> + <p> + Clare lifted a white face—“I don't think I—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said Peter, smiling across at her—“you'll enjoy it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter stroking her large bosom with a flat white hand said, “I + don't think Clare—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said Peter again, “it will do her good.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter smiled. “Get another stall, Peter, and I will come too.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And then Mrs. Rossiter subsided, absolutely subsided ... very strange. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Clare, you're not angry with me for last night?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Very soon, too, Cards came to make his farewells—he was going to + Paris for the whole of May. + </p> + <p> + “What! Won't you be back for the beginning of the Season?” cried Peter + astonished. + </p> + <p> + “No,” Cards answered, laughing. “For once the Season can commence without + me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to remember it from Paris,” Cards said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll write,” said Cards, and was gone. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>il + n'existe pas</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + Waiting, that golden top, for some hand to set it humming. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I hate this house,” Peter said, turning away from the window, into a room + crowded now with dusk. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Velasquez on the walls of The Roundabout danced in her stiff skirts, + looking down upon a room bathed in green and gold shadow. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It should sign and seal this new order.... + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you come, too? It is such a lovely day,” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a headache.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll do your headache good.” + </p> + <p> + But she shook her head—“No, I'm going upstairs to lie down.” + </p> + <p> + She moved past him to the door. Then with her hand on it she turned back + to him:— + </p> + <p> + “Peter, I—” she said. + </p> + <p> + She seemed to appeal to him with her eyes beseeching, trying to say + something, but the rest of her face was dumb. + </p> + <p> + The appeal, the things that she would have said suddenly died, leaving her + face utterly without expression. + </p> + <p> + “Bobby and mother are coming to dinner to-night, aren't they?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The letter said:— + </p> + <p> + <i>Dear Mr. Peter, </i> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate friend, sir, + </p> + <p> + Now about to be made the happiest man in all the world, + </p> + <p> + Stephen. + </p> + <p> + N.B. I hope the little kid is strong and happy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that rather a lot?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take it,” said Peter desperately. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 trees. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How's the book doing, Westcott?” said Percival, looking upon Peter's + loose-fitting clothes, broad shoulders and square-toed shoes with evident + contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Not very well thank you, Galleon.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! shut up,” Bobby growled. “You talk too much, Percival.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Now, smiling, he said: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks, Peter. I mustn't. The boy's not quite the thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, all right—if you must.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He felt the little square box that contained the ruby, lying there so + snugly in his pocket. That cheered him. + </p> + <p> + “I must be getting back. Good-night, everybody. See you at dinner, Bobby.” + </p> + <p> + He went. + </p> + <p> + After Percival and his sister had also gone Alice said:— + </p> + <p> + “Dear Peter's growing up.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm rather glad,” said Alice, “I'm not coming. Clare gets considerably on + my nerves just at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Bobby, “but thank God Mr. Cardillac's in Paris—for the + time being.” Then he added, reflectively— + </p> + <p> + “Dear old Peter—bless him!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <h3> + MR. WESTCOTT SENIOR CALLS CHECKMATE + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A maid passed him. + </p> + <p> + “Has your mistress gone upstairs?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think she has come in, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Not come in?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, she went out about three o'clock. I don't think she's come back, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + She's running it pretty close, he thought as he looked at his watch—then + he went slowly up to dress. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Peter Westcott's no good.... Peter Westcott's no good.... Peter + Westcott's no good....” + </p> + <p> + 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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + He went down to his study. Clare must be in now. Bobby would be here in a + few minutes. He took up the <i>Times</i> 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....” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + <i>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> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 ...” + </p> + <p> + “The humour of his Lieutenant Pottle as a performer—never + strained... never exaggerated... never strained...” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Bobby started forward— + </p> + <p> + “God, Peter, what—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then he said “Listen,” and he read the letter straight through. He + repeated some of the phrases—“What you did on April 12.” “That shows + that you don't care.... You are cruel and hard, Peter.... I am going to + Jerry in Paris....” + </p> + <p> + “Jerry—that's Cardillac, you know, Bobby. He's in Paris and she's + going over to him because she can't stand me any more. She says I don't + care about her. Isn't that funny, when I love her so much?” + </p> + <p> + Bobby went to him, put his arm round his neck— + </p> + <p> + “Peter—dear—Peter—wait,” and then “Oh my God! we must + stop her—” + </p> + <p> + He drew himself away from Bobby's arm and, very unsteadily, went across + the room and then stood against the farther wall, his head bent, + motionless. + </p> + <p> + “Stop her? Oh! no, Bobby. Stop her when she wants to go! I—” His + voice wasn't Peter's voice, it was a thin monotonous voice like some one + speaking at a great distance. + </p> + <p> + Then it seemed that intelligence was flashed upon him. He lurched forward + and with a great voice—as though he had been struck by some sudden + agonising, immortal pain— + </p> + <p> + “Bobby—Bobby—My wife—Clare—” + </p> + <p> + And at that instant Mrs. Rossiter was shown into the room. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The maid who opened the door had apparently some suspicion that “things + were odd,” because she waited for a moment before she closed the door + again, staring with wide eyes into the room, catching, perhaps, some hint + from her master's white face that something terrible had occurred. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious enough that Mrs. Rossiter had herself, during the last + week, been in no easy mind. From the first glances at Peter and Bobby she + seemed to understand everything, for, instantly, at that glimpse of their + faces she became, for the first time in her life, perhaps, a personality, + a figure, something defined and outlined. + </p> + <p> + Her face was suddenly grey. She hesitated back against the door and, with + her face on Peter, said in a whisper, to Bobby: + </p> + <p> + “What—what has happened?” + </p> + <p> + Bobby was not inclined to spare her. As an onlooker during these last + months he felt that she, perhaps, was more guiltily responsible for the + catastrophe than any other human being. + </p> + <p> + “Clare,” he said, trying to fix her eyes. “She's gone off to Cardillac—to + Paris.” + </p> + <p> + Then he was himself held by the tragedy of those two faces. They faced + each other across the room. Peter, with eyes and a mouth that were not + his, eyes not sane, the eyes of no human being, mouth smiling, drawn tight + like a razor's edge, with his hands spread out against the wall, watched + Mrs. Rossiter. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rossiter, at Bobby's words, had huddled up, suddenly broken, only her + eyes, in her great foolish expressionless face, stung to an agony to which + the rest of her body could not move. + </p> + <p> + Her little soul—a tiny scrap of a thing in that vague prison of dull + flesh—was suddenly wounded, desperately hurt by the only weapon that + could ever have found it. + </p> + <p> + “Clare!” that soul whispered, “not gone! It's not possible—it can't + be—it can't be!” + </p> + <p> + Peter, without moving, spoke to her. + </p> + <p> + “It's you that have sent her away. It's all your doing—all your + doing—” + </p> + <p> + She scarcely seemed to realise him, although her eyes never left his face—she + came up to Bobby, her hands out: + </p> + <p> + “Bobby—please, please—tell me. This is absurd—there's a + mistake. Clare, Clare would never do a thing like that—never leave + me like that—why—” and her voice rose—“I've loved her—I've + loved her as no mother ever loved her girl—she's been everything to + me. She knows it—why she often says that I'm the only one who loves + her. She'd never go—” + </p> + <p> + Then Peter came forward from the wall, muttering, waving his hands at her—“It's + you! You! You! You've driven her to this—you and your cursed + interference. You took her from me—you told her to deceive me in + everything. You taught her to lie and trick. She loved me before you came + into it. Now be proud, if you like—now be proud. God damn you, for + making your daughter into a whore—That's what you've done, you with + your flat face, your filthy flat face—you've made your daughter a + whore, I tell you—and it's nothing but you—you—you—!” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his hand as though he would strike her across the face. She said + nothing but started back with her hands up as though to protect herself. + He did not strike her. His hand fell. But she, as though she had felt a + blow had her hand held to her face. + </p> + <p> + He stood over her for a moment laughing, his head flung back. Then still + laughing he went away from them out into the hall. + </p> + <p> + Then, through the open door they heard him. He passed through the upper + rooms crying out as he went—“Clare! Clare! Where are you? Come down! + They're here for dinner! You're wanted! It's time, Clare!—where are + you? Clare! Clare!” + </p> + <p> + They heard him, knocking furniture over as he went. Then there was + silence. Mrs. Rossiter seemed, at that, to come to herself. She stood up, + feeling her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “It's sent him off his head, Bobby. Go after him. He'll hurt himself.” + Then as though to herself, she went on—“I must find Clare—she'll + be in Paris, I suppose. I must go and find her, Bobby. She'll want me + badly.” + </p> + <p> + She went quietly from the room, still with her hand to her cheek. She + listened for a moment in the hall. + </p> + <p> + She turned round to Bobby: + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't say—the letter—where Clare's gone?” + </p> + <p> + “No—only Paris.” + </p> + <p> + He helped her on with her cloak and opened the front door for her. She + slipped away down the street. + </p> + <p> + Bobby turned back and saw that Peter was coming down the stairs. But now + the fury had all died from his face, only that look, as of some animal + wounded to death, a look that was so deep and terrible as almost to give + his white face no expression at all, was with him. + </p> + <p> + It had been with him at Stephen's death, it was with him far more + intensely now. He looked at Bobby. + </p> + <p> + “She's gone,” in a tired, dull voice as of some one nearly asleep, “gone + to Cardillac. I loved Cards—and all the time he loved Clare. I loved + Clare and all the time she loved Cards. It's damned funny isn't it, Bobby, + old man?” + </p> + <p> + He stood facing him in the hall, no part of him moving except his mouth. + “She says I treated her like a brute. I don't think I did. She says there + was something I did one night—I don't know. I've never done anything—I've + never been with another woman—something about a cab—Perhaps it + was poor Rose Bennett. Poor Rose Bennett—damned unhappy—so am + I—so am I. I'm a lonely fellow—I always have been!” + </p> + <p> + He went past Bobby, back into the little drawing-room. Bobby followed him. + </p> + <p> + He turned round. + </p> + <p> + “You can go now, Bobby. I shan't want you any more.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm going to stay.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want you—I don't want any one.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to stay.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather you went, please.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to stay.” + </p> + <p> + Peter paid no more attention. He went and sat down on a chair by the + window. Bobby sat down on a chair near him. + </p> + <p> + Once Peter said: “They took my baby. They took my work. They've taken my + wife. They're too much for me. I'm beaten.” + </p> + <p> + Then there was absolute silence in the house. The servants, who had heard + the tumbling of the furniture, crept, frightened to bed. + </p> + <p> + Thus The Roundabout, dark, utterly without sound, stayed through the + night. Once, from the chair by the window in the little drawing-room a + voice said, “I'm going back to Scaw House—to my father. I'm going + back—to all of them.” + </p> + <p> + During many hours the little silver clock ticked cheerfully, seeing + perhaps with its little bright eyes, the two dark figures and wondering + what they did there. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IV — SCAW HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <h3> + THE SEA + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter Westcott was dead. + </p> + <p> + They put his body into the 11.50 from Paddington. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + It was a day of high, swinging winds, of dappled skies, of shining + gleaming water. Bunches now and again of heavy black clouds clustered on + the horizon, the cows and horses in the fields were sharply defined, + standing out rigidly against a distant background. The sun came and was + gone, laughed and was instantly hidden, turned the world from light to + shadow and from shadow back to light again. + </p> + <p> + Peter's body was alone in the compartment. It was propped up against red + velvet that yielded with a hard, clenched resistance, something + uncomfortable, had the body minded. The eyes of the body were the high + blank windows of a deserted house. Behind them were rooms and passages, + but lately so gaily crowded, so eager, with their lights and fires, for + hustling life—now suddenly empty—swept of all its recent + company, waiting for new, for very different inhabitants. + </p> + <p> + The white hands motionless upon the knees, the eyes facing the light but + blind, the body still against the velvet, throughout the long, long + day.... + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + There were occasions when some one came and asked for his ticket. Some one + came once and asked him whether “He would take lunch.” Once a woman, + flushed and excited, laden with parcels, tumbled into his carriage and + then, after a glance at the white face, tumbled out again. + </p> + <p> + Then, from very, very far away, came the first whispered breath of + returning consciousness. The afternoon sun now had banished the black + clouds—the wind had fallen—the sky was a quiet blue and birds + rose and fell, rivers shone and had passed, roads were white like ribbons, + broad and brown like crinkled paper, then ribbons again as the train flung + Devonshire, scornfully, behind its back. Peter was conscious that his body + was once more to be tenanted. But by whom? + </p> + <p> + Here was some one coming to him now, some one who, as the evening light + fell about the land, dark with his cloak to his face, came softly upon the + house and knocked at the door. Peter could hear his knock—it echoed + through the empty passages, the deserted rooms, it was a knock that + demanded, imperatively, admittance. The door swung back, the black + passages gaped upon the evening light and were closed again. The house was + once more silent—but no longer untenanted. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + Peter was now conscious of the world. That was Exeter that they had left + behind them and soon there would be Plymouth and then the crossing of the + bridge and then—Cornwall! + </p> + <p> + Cornwall! His lips were dry—he touched them with his tongue, and + knew, suddenly, that he was thirsty, more thirsty than he had ever been. + He would never be hungry again, but he would always be thirsty. An + attendant passed. What should he drink? The attendant suggested a whisky + and soda. Yes ... a large whisky.... + </p> + <p> + It was very long indeed since he had been in Cornwall—he had not + been there since his boyhood. What had he been doing all the time in + between? He did not know—he had no idea. This new tenant of the + house was not aware of those intervening years, was only conscious that he + was returning after long exile, to his home—Scaw House, yes, that + was the name ... the house with the trees and the grey stone walls—yes, + he would be glad to be at home again with his father. His father would + welcome him after so long an absence. + </p> + <p> + The whisky and soda was brought to him and as he drank it they crossed the + border and were in Cornwall. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + They were at Trewth, that little station where you must change for + Treliss. It stood open to all the winds of heaven, two lines of paling, a + little strip of platform, standing desolately, at wistful attention in the + heart of gently breathing fields, mild skies, dark trees bending together + as though whispering secrets ... all mysterious, and from the earth there + rose that breath—sea-wind, gorse, soil, saffron, grey stone—that + breath that is only Cornwall. + </p> + <p> + Peter—somewhere in some strange dim recesses of his soul—felt + it about his body. The wind, bringing all these scents, touched his cheek + and his hair and he was conscious that that dark traveller who now + tenanted his house closed the doors and windows upon that breath. It might + waken consciousness, and consciousness memory, and memory pain ... ah! + pain!—down with the shutters, bolt the doors—no vision of the + outer world must enter here. + </p> + <p> + The little station received gratefully the evening light that had + descended upon it. A few men and women, dim bundles of figures against the + pale blue, waited for the train, a crescent moon was stealing above the + hedges, from the chimneys of two little cottages grey smoke trembled in + the air. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly there came to Peter, waiting there, the determination to drive. + He could not stand there, surrounded by this happy silence any longer. All + those shadows that were creeping about the dark spaces beyond his house + were only waiting for their moment when they might leap. This silence, + this peace, would give them that moment. He must drive—he must + drive. + </p> + <p> + In the road outside the station a decrepit cab with a thin rake of a man + for driver was waiting for a possible customer. The cab was faded, the + wheels encrusted with ancient mud, the horse old and wheezy, but the + cabman, standing now thinner than ever against the sky, was, in spite of a + tattered top hat, filled with that cheerful optimism that belongs to the + Cornishman who sees an opportunity of “doing” a foreigner. + </p> + <p> + “I want to drive to Treliss,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + They bargained. The battered optimist obtained the price that he demanded + and cocked his eye, derisively, at the rising moon. + </p> + <p> + Peter surveyed the cab. + </p> + <p> + “I'll sit with you on the box,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The thin driver made way for him. It was a high jolting cab of the + old-fashioned kind, a cab you might have sworn was Cornish had you seen it + anywhere, a cab that smelt of beer and ancient leather and salt water, a + cab that had once driven the fashion of Treliss to elegant dances and now + must rattle the roads with very little to see, for all your trouble, at + the end of it. + </p> + <p> + The sleeping fields, like grey cloths, stretched on every side of them and + the white road cut into the heart of the distance. It was a quarter to + eight and a blue dusk. The driver tilted the top hat over one ear and they + were off. + </p> + <p> + “I know this road as yer might say back'ards. Ask any one down along + Treliss way. Zachy Jackson they'll say—which is my name, sir, if yer + requirin' a good 'orse any time o' day. Zachy Jackson! which there ain't + no man,—tarkin' of 'orses, fit to touch 'im, they'll tell yer and + not far wrong either.” + </p> + <p> + But now with every stumbling step of that bony horse Peter was being + shaken into a more active consciousness, consciousness not of the past, + very slightly of the present, but rather of an eager, excited anticipation + of events shortly to befall him, of the acute sense—the first that + had, as yet, come to him—that, very shortly, he was to plunge + himself into an absolute abandonment of all the restraints and discipline + that had hitherto held him. He did not know, he could not analyse to + himself—for what purpose those restraints had been formerly enforced + upon his life. Only now—at this moment, his body was being flooded + with a warm, riotous satisfaction at the thought of the indulgences that + were to be his. + </p> + <p> + Still this fortress of his house was bare and desolated, but now in some + of the rooms there were lights, fire, whispers, half-hidden faces, eyes + behind curtains. + </p> + <p> + The wind struck him in the face. “Enough of this—you're done for—you're + beaten—you're broken... you're going back to your hovel. You're + creeping home—don't make a fine thing of it—” the wind said. + </p> + <p> + The top of the hill rolled up to them and suddenly with the gust that came + from every quarter there was borne some sound. It was very delicate, very + mysterious—the sound, one might fancy, that the earth would make if + all spring flowers were to pierce the soil at one common instant—so + fugitive a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “That's the sea,” said Mr. Jackson, waving his whip in the air, “down to + Dunotter Cove. There's a wind to-night. It'll blow rough presently.” + </p> + <p> + Now from their hilltop in the light of a baby moon puddles of water shone + like silk, hedges were bending lines of listeners, far on the horizon a + black wood, there in one of those precipitous valleys cottages cowering, + overhead the blue night sky suddenly chequered with solemn pompous slowly + moving clouds. But here on the hilltop at any rate, a bustle of wind—such + a noise amongst the hedges and the pools instantly ruffled and then quiet + again; and so precipitous a darkness when a cloud swallowed the moon. In + the daylight that landscape, to any who loved not Cornwall, would seem + ugly indeed, with a grey cottage stuck here and there naked upon the moor, + with a bare deserted engine house upon the horizon, with trees, deep in + the little valley, but scant and staggering upon the hill—ugly by + day but now packed with a mystery that contains everything that human + language has no name for, there is nothing to do, on beholding it, but to + kneel down and worship God. Mr. Jackson had seen it often before and he + went twice to chapel every Sunday, so he just whipped up his horse and + they stumbled down the road. + </p> + <p> + “Dirty weather coming,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Peter was disturbed. That whispering noise that had crept across the + country frightened him. If it went on much longer it would make him + remember—he must not remember. + </p> + <p> + They turned down into a deep, mysterious lane and the whisper was hidden. + Now there was about them only the urgent crowding of the hedges, the + wild-flowers flinging their scent on to the night air, and above and below + and on every side of the old cab there streamed into the air the sweet + smell of crushed grass, as though many fields had been pressed between + giant's fingers and so had been left. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat there and about him, like flames licking woodwork, evil thoughts + devoured his body. He was going now at last to do all those things that, + these many years, he had prevented himself from doing. That at any rate he + knew.... He would drink and drink and drink, until he would never remember + anything again ... never again.... Meanwhile as the cab slowly began to + climb the hill again Mr. Jackson was telling a story. + </p> + <p> + He rolled his r's as though life were indeed a valuable and happy thing, + and now and again, waving his thin whip in the air, he would seem to + appeal to the moon. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas down to Dunotter Cove and I, a lad, my father bein' a fisherman, + and one night, I mind it as though it were yesterday, there was a mighty + wreck. Storm and wind and rain there was that night and there we were, out + in it, suddenly, all the village of us. I but a slip of a boy, you must + know, which it was thirty year back now and the rain sizzling on the + cobbles and the wind blawin' the chimneys crooked. Well—she were a + mighty wreck blawn right up against the Dunotter rocks, you understand, + and sendin' up rockets and we seein' her clear enough, black out to sea + which she seemed enormous in the night time and all. My father and the + rest of 'em went out in the boat—we waited and we waited and they + didn't come back.... They never come back—none of them only a crazed + luny, Bill Tregothny—'e was washed up against the rocks down to + Bosillian and 'e were just livin' ... And when it come daylight,”—Mr. + Jackson cleared his throat and paused—“when it come daylight there + wasn't no wreck—nothing—nor no bodies neither—nothing—only + Bill Tregothny the fool....” + </p> + <p> + Peter had heard no single word of this. His ears were straining for the + return of that whisper. They were nearly once again at the hilltop. Then + in front of them there would be the sea—at the top of the hill there + would be the sea.... He was seized with a great terror—frightened + like a child in the dark.... “Bill Tregothny, you must understand sir, 'ad + always been a idiot—always, born so. When 'e was all well again 'e + told strange tales about the lot of them havin' boarded the vessel and + there bein' gold all over the decks—bars of it with the rain fallin' + all about it—piled in 'eaps and 'e said the sailors weren't like + common sailors yer knew, but all in silks with cocked hats and the gold + lyin' all about— + </p> + <p> + “O course Bill was the idiot you must understand, but it's true enough + that there were no vessel in the marnin'—no vessel at all—and + my father and the rest were never seen again—nor no bodies + neither.... And they <i>do</i> say—” + </p> + <p> + Here Mr. Jackson dropped his voice— + </p> + <p> + They were just at the top of the hill now. Peter was sitting with his + hands clenched, his body trembling. + </p> + <p> + “... They do say that up in the potato field over Dunotter they've seen a + man all in a cocked hat and red silk and gold lace—a ghost you must + understand, sir—which Bill Tregothny says ...” + </p> + <p> + The sea broke upon them with an instant, menacing roar. Between them and + this violence there was now only moorland, rough with gorse bushes, uneven + with little pits of sand, scented with sea pinks, with stony tracks here + and there where the moonlight touched it. + </p> + <p> + But across it, like a mob's menace, fell the thunder, flung up to them + from below, swelling from a menace to a sudden crash, then from crash to + echo, dying to murmur again. It had in it anger and power, also pity and + tenderness, also scorn and defiance. It cared for no one—it loved + every one. It was more intimate than any confidence ever made, and then it + shouted that intimacy to the whole world. It flung itself into Peter's + face, beat his body, lashed his soul—“Oh! you young fool—you've + come slinking back, have you? After all these years you've come slinking + back. Where are all your fine hopes now, where all those early defiances, + those vast ambitions?—Worthless, broken, defeated—worthless, + broken, defeated.” + </p> + <p> + And then it seemed to change: + </p> + <p> + “Peter—Peter—Hold out a little longer—the battle isn't + over yet—struggle on for a little, Peter—I'll help you—I'll + bring your courage back to you—Trust me, Peter—trust me....” + </p> + <p> + Through the rattle of the surf there came the sick melancholy lowing of + the Bell Rock; swinging over a space of waters it fell across fields, + unutterably, abominably sad. + </p> + <p> + And in the boy there instantly leapt to life his soul. Maimed and bruised + and stunned it had been—now alive, tearing him, bringing on to his + bending shoulders an awful tide of knowledge: “Everything is gone—your + wife, your boy, your friend, your work.... We have won, Peter, we have + won. The House is waiting for you....” + </p> + <p> + And above those dreadful voices the thundering echo, indifferent to his + agonies, despising his frailties, flinging him, sea-wreck of the most + miserable, to any insignificant end.... + </p> + <p> + Peter suddenly stood up, rocking on his box. He seized the whip from the + driver's hands. He lashed the miserable horse. + </p> + <p> + “Get on, you devil, get on—leave this noise behind you—get out + of it, get out of it—” + </p> + <p> + The cab rocked and tossed, Mr. Jackson caught the boy about the shoulders, + held him down. The horse, tired and weary, paid no heed to anything that + might be happening but stumbled on. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, sir,” Mr. Jackson cried, “you might have had us over—What's + it all about, sir?” + </p> + <p> + But Peter now was huddled down with his coat about his ears and did not + move again. + </p> + <p> + “Catchin' the whip like that—might 'ave 'ad us right into the + 'edge,” muttered Mr. Jackson, wishing his journey well over. + </p> + <p> + As they turned the corner the lights of Treliss burst into view. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + SCAW HOUSE + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Jackson inquired as to the hotel that Peter preferred and was told to + drive anywhere, so he chose The Man at Arms. + </p> + <p> + The Man at Arms had been turned, by young Mr. Bannister, from a small + insignificant hostelry into the most important hotel in the West of + England. It stood above the town, looking over the bay, the roofs of the + new town, the cottages of the old one, the curving island to the right, + the lighthouse to the left—all Cornwall in those grey stones, that + blue sea, the grave fishing boats, the flocks of gulls, far, far below. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bannister had spared no trouble over The Man at Arms, and now it was + luxuriously modern Elizabethan, with an old Minstrels' Gallery kept + studiously dusty, and the most splendid old oak and deep fire-places with + electric light cunningly arranged, and baths in every passage. Of course + you paid for this skilful and comfortable romance, but Mr. Bannister + always managed his bills so delicately that you expected to find a poem by + Suckling or Lovelace on the back of them. When Peter had been last in + Treliss The Man at Arms had scarcely existed, but he was now utterly + unconscious of it, and stood in the dim square hall talking to Mr. + Bannister like a man in a dream. + </p> + <p> + He was aware now that he was exhausted with a fatigue that was beyond + anything that he had ever experienced. It was a weariness that was not, + under any conditions, to be resisted. He must lie down—here, + anywhere—now, at once and sleep ... sleep ... sleep. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bannister caught him by the arm as he swayed. + </p> + <p> + “You looked played out, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Done up... done up!” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were closed. Then suddenly he had touched Mr. Bannister's + shoulder. He was looking at a wire letter rack, hanging by the + superintendent's little office. There were some telegrams and many letters + stretched behind the wire netting. One envelope was addressed— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Miss Norah Monogue, + The Man at Arms Hotel. + Treliss, + Cornwall.</i> +</pre> + <p> + “Miss Monogue ... Miss Monogue ... have you any one here called Miss + Monogue?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—been here some weeks. Poor lady, she's very ill I'm + afraid. Something to do with her heart—strained it in some way. + Seemed much better ... but the last few days....” + </p> + <p> + Peter stumbled upstairs to his room. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Some clock was striking five when he awoke and looking vaguely about his + room saw, by the light, that it must be late afternoon. He must have slept + for a day and a night. As he lay back on his bed his first moments of + consciousness were filled with a pleasant sense of rest and ease. He + remembered nothing ... he only knew that in the air there was the breath + of flowers and that through the open window there floated up to him a + song, a murmur of the sea, a rattle of little carts. + </p> + <p> + He looked about his room. On a distant wall there was a photograph—“Dunotter + Rocks, from the East.” Then he remembered. + </p> + <p> + He flung the bed-clothes off him and hurried to dress. He must go up to + Scaw House at once, at once, at once. Not another moment must be wasted. + His hands trembled as he put on his clothes and when he came downstairs he + was dishevelled and untidy. He had eaten nothing for many hours but food + now would have choked him. He hurried out of the hotel. + </p> + <p> + The town must have had many recollections to offer him had he observed it + but he passed through it, looking neither to the right nor the left, + brushing people aside, striding with great steps up the steep cobbled + street that leads out of the town, on to the Sea Road. + </p> + <p> + Here on the Sea Road he paused. The wind, tearing, as it had always done, + round the corner met him and for a moment he had to pull himself together + and face it. He remembered, too, at that instant, Norah Monogue. Where had + he seen her? What had brought her to his mind quite lately? What did she + mean by interfering?—interfering? Then he remembered. It was her + name in the letter rack. She was at The Man at Arms ill. Impatiently, he + would have driven her from him, but all the way down the Sea Road she kept + pace with him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm done with her.... I'm done with everybody. Damn it all, one keeps + thinking....” + </p> + <p> + In the evening light the sea below the road was a pale blue and near the + shore a calm green. It was all very peaceful. The water lapped the shore, + the Bell Rock sighed its melancholy note across space; out a little way, + when some jagged stones sprang like shoulders from the blue, gentle waves + ringed them in foam like lace and broke with a whisper against their + sides. + </p> + <p> + Except for the sea there was absolute silence. Peter alone seemed to walk + the world. As he strode along his excitement increased and his knees + trembled and his eyes were burning. He did not think of the earlier days + when he had walked that same road. That was another existence that had + nothing to do with him as he was now. The anticipation that possessed him + was parallel with the eager demand of the opium-smoker. “Soon I shall be + drugged. I'm going to forget, to forget, to forget. Just to let myself go—to + sink, to drown.” + </p> + <p> + He had still with him the consciousness of keeping at bay an army of + thoughts that would leap upon him if he gave them an opportunity. But soon + that would be all over—no more battle, no more struggle. He turned + the corner and saw Scaw House standing amongst its dark trees, with its + black palings in front of its garden and the deserted barren patch of + field in front of that again. The sun was getting low and the sky above + the house was flaming but the trees were sombre and the house was cold. + </p> + <p> + It did not seem to him to have changed in any way since he had left it. + The windows had always been of a grim hideous glass, the stone shape of + the place always squat and ugly, and the short flight of steps that led up + to the heavy beetling door had always hinted, with their old hard surface, + at a surly welcome and a reluctant courtesy. It was all as it had been. + </p> + <p> + The sky, now a burning red, looked down upon an utterly deserted garden, + and the silence that was over all the place seemed to rise, like streaming + mist, from the heart of the nettles that grew thick along the crumbling + wall. + </p> + <p> + The paint had faded from the door and the knocker was rusty; as Peter + hammered his arrival on to the flat silence a bird flew from the black + bunch of trees, whirred into the air and was gone.... + </p> + <p> + For a long time after the echo of his knock had faded away there was + silence, and it seemed to him that this could be only another of those + dreams—those dreams when he had stood on the stone steps in the + heart of the deserted garden and woken the echoes through the empty house. + At last there were steps; some one came along the passage and halted on + the other side of the door and listened. They both waited on either side, + and Peter could hear heavy thick breathing. He caught the knocker again + and let it go with a clang that seemed to startle the house to its + foundations. Then he heard bolts, very slowly drawn back, again a pause + and then, stealthily the door swung open. + </p> + <p> + A scent of rotten apples met him as the door opened, a scent so strong + that it was confused at once with his vision of the woman who stood there, + she, with her gnarled and puckered face, her brown skin and crooked nose + standing, as it were, for an actual and visible personification of all the + rotten apples that had ever been in the world. + </p> + <p> + He recognised also a sound, the drunken hesitating hiccough of the old + clock that had been there when he had come in that evening long ago ready + to receive his beating, that had kept pace with his grandfather's snorings + and mutterings and had seemed indeed, the only understanding companion + that the old man had ever had. The woman was, he saw, the arms-akimbo + ferocious cook of the old days, but now how wrinkled and infirm!—separated + by so many more years than the lapse of time allowed her from the woman of + his past appearance there. There was more in her than the mere crumbling + of her body, there was also the crumbling of her spirit, and he saw in her + old bleared eyes the sign of some fierce battle fought by her, and fought + to her own utter defeat. + </p> + <p> + In her eyes he saw the thing that his father had become.... + </p> + <p> + What did he want, she asked him, coming disturbing them at that hour, but + in her face there was, he fancied, something more than the surly question + justified, some curiosity, some eagerness that seemed to show that she did + not have many visitors here and that their company might be an eager + relief. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Peter Westcott and I've come to see my father.” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer this, but only, with her hand to her breast stood back + a little and watched him with frightened eyes. She was wearing an old, + faded, green blouse, open at her scraggy neck and her skirt was a kind of + bed-quilt, odd bits of stuffs of many colours stuck together. Her scanty + hair was pulled into a bunch on the top of her head, her face where it was + not brown was purple, and her hands were always shaking so that her + fingers rattled together like twigs. But her alarmed and startled eyes had + some appeal that made one pity her poor battered old body. + </p> + <p> + “You don't remember me,” he said, looking into her frightened eyes. But + she shook her head slowly. + </p> + <p> + “You'd much better have kept away,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + She shuffled in front of him down the dark hall. Except for this strange + smell of rotting apples it was all very much as it had been. The lamp + hanging at the foot of the stairs made the same spluttering noise and + there was the door of the room that had once been his grandfather's, and + Peter fancied that he could still see the old man swaying there in the + doorway, laughing at his son and his grandson as they struggled there on + the floor. + </p> + <p> + The woman pushed open the dining-room door and Peter went in. + </p> + <p> + Peter's first thought was that his father was not there. He saw standing + in front of the well-remembered fireplace a genial-looking gentleman + clothed in a crimson dressing-gown—a bald gentleman, rather fat, + with a piece of toast in one hand and a glass of something in the other. + Peter had expected he knew not what—something stern and terrible, + something that would have answered in one way or another to those early + recollections of terror and punishment that still dwelt with him. He had + remembered his father as short, spare, black-haired, grim, pale—this + gentleman, who was now watching him, bulged in the cheeks and the stomach, + was highly coloured with purple veins down the sides of his nose and his + rather podgy hands trembled. Nevertheless, it was his father. When the red + dressing-gown spoke it was in a kind of travesty of that old sharp voice, + those cutting icy words—a thickened and degenerate relation: + </p> + <p> + “My boy! At last!” the gentleman said. + </p> + <p> + The room presented disorder. On the table were scattered playing cards, a + chair was overturned, under the cactus plant lay what looked like a + fiddle, and the only two pictures on the wall were very indecent old + drawings taken apparently from some Hogarthian prints. + </p> + <p> + Peter stared at all this in amazement. It was, after the grim approach and + the deserted garden, like finding an Easter egg in a strong box. Peter saw + that his father was wearing under the dressing-gown a white waistcoat and + blue trousers, both of them stained with dark stains and smelling very + strongly of whisky. He noticed also that his father seemed to find it + difficult to balance himself on both his legs at the same time, and that + he was continually shifting his feet in an indeterminate kind of way, as + though he would like to dance but felt that it might not be quite the + thing. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Westcott closed up both his eyes, opened his mouth and shut it again + and shook Peter excitedly by the hand. At the same time Peter felt that + his father was shaking his hand as much because he wanted to hold on to + something as for reasons of courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am glad. I wondered when you would come to see your poor old + father again—after all these years. I've often thought of you and + said to myself, 'Well, he'll come back one day. You only be patient,' I've + said to myself, 'and your son will come back to you—your only son, + and it isn't likely that he's going to desert you altogether.'” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father, I've come back,” said Peter, releasing his hand. “I've come + back to stay.” + </p> + <p> + He thought of the many times in London when he'd pictured his father, + stern and dark, pulling the wires, dragging his wicked son back to him—he + thought of that ... and now this. And yet.... + </p> + <p> + “Well now, isn't that pleasant—you've come to stay! Could I have + wanted anything better? Come and sit down—yes, that chair—and + have something to drink. What, you won't? Well, perhaps later. So you've + come to keep your old father company, have you? I'm sure that's + delightful. Just what a son ought to do. We shall get along very well, I'm + sure.” + </p> + <p> + All the while that his father talked, still holding the toast and the + glass of something, Peter was intensely conscious of the silent listening + house. After all that grimness, that desertion, the old woman's warning + had gone for something. And yet, in spite of a kind of dread that hung + about him, in spite of a kind of perception that there was a great deal + more in his father than he at present perceived, he could not resist a + kind of warm pleasure that here at any rate was some sort of a haven, that + no one else in the world might want him, but here was some one who was + glad to see him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my boy, tell me all you've been doing these years.” + </p> + <p> + “I've been in London, writing—” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear—have you really now? And how's it all turned out?” + </p> + <p> + “Badly.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, I'm sorry for that. But there are better things in the world + than writing, believe me. I dare say, my boy, you thought me unkind in + those old days but it was all for your best—oh dear me, yes, + entirely for your best.” + </p> + <p> + Here, for an instant, his father's voice sounded so like his old + grandfather's that Peter jumped. + </p> + <p> + “Married?” said his father. + </p> + <p> + “My wife has left me—” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, I am sorry to hear that.” Mr. Westcott finished the toast and + wiped his fingers on a very old and dirty red handkerchief. “Women—bless + them—angels for a time, but never to be depended on. Poor boy, I'm + sorry. Children?” + </p> + <p> + “I had a son. He died.” + </p> + <p> + “Well now, I am indeed sorry, I'd have liked a grandson too. Don't want + the old Westcott stock to die out. Dear me, that is a pity.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this point that Peter was aware, although he could not have + given any reasonable explanation of his certainty, that his father had + been perfectly assured beforehand of all the answers to these questions. + Peter looked at the man, but the eyes were almost closed, and the smile + that played about the weak lips—once so stern and strong—told + one nothing. + </p> + <p> + It was dark now. Mr. Westcott got, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said, “I'll show you the house, my boy. Not changed much since + you were here, I'm sure. Wanted a woman's care since your dear mother died + of course—and your poor old grandfather—” + </p> + <p> + He whispered over again to himself as he shuffled across the room—“your + poor old grandfather—” + </p> + <p> + It had seemed to grow very suddenly dark. Outside in the hall, under the + spluttering lamp, Mr. Westcott found a candle. The house was intensely + silent. + </p> + <p> + As they climbed the stairs, lighted only by the flickering candle-light, + Peter's feelings were a curious mixture of uneasiness and a strange + unthinking somnolence. Some part of him, somewhere, was urging him to an + active unrest—“Norah ... what does she want interfering? I'll just + go and see her and come back.... No, I won't, I'll just stay here ... + never to bother again ... never to bother again....” + </p> + <p> + He was also, in some undefined way, expecting that at any moment his + father would change. The crimson dressing-gown swayed under the flickering + candle-light. Let it turn round and what would one see inside it? His + father never stopped talking for an instant—his thick wandering + voice was the only sound in the deserted house. + </p> + <p> + The rooms were all empty. They smelt as though the windows had not been + opened for years. It was in the little room that had once been his bedroom + that the apples were stored—piles upon piles of them and most of + them rotten. The smell was all over the house. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Westcott, standing with the apples on every side of him, flung + monstrous shadows upon the wall—“This used to be your room. I + remember I used to whip you here when you were disobedient. The only way + to bring up your child. The Westcotts have always believed in it. Dear me, + how long ago it all seems ... you can have this room again if you like. + Any room in the house you please. We'll be very good company for one + another....” + </p> + <p> + All about Peter there was an atmosphere of extraordinary languor—just + to sit here and let the days slip by, the years pass. Just to stay here + with no one to hurt one, no need for courage.... + </p> + <p> + They were out in the long passage. Mr. Westcott came and placed his hand + upon Peter's arm. The whole house was a great cool place where one slept. + Mr. Westcott smiled into Peter's face ... the house was silent and dark + and oh! so restful. The candle swelled to an enormous size—the red + dressing-gown seemed to enfold Peter. + </p> + <p> + In another moment he would have fallen asleep there where he stood. With + the last struggle of a drowning man he pulled back his fading senses. + </p> + <p> + “I must go back to the hotel and fetch my things.” He could see his + father's eyes that had been wide open disappear. + </p> + <p> + “We can send for them.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I must go for them myself—” + </p> + <p> + For a moment they faced one another. He wondered what his father intended + to do. Then—with a genial laugh, Mr. Westcott said: “Well, my boy, + just as you please—just as you please. I know you'll come back to + your old father—I know you'll come back—” + </p> + <p> + He blew the candle out and put his arm through his son's and they went + downstairs together. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + NORAH MONOGUE + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter found, next morning, Miss Monogue sitting by her window. She gave + him at once the impression of something kept alive by a will-power so + determined that Death himself could only stand aside and wait until it + might waver. + </p> + <p> + She was so thin that sitting there in the clear white colours of the sky + beyond her window she seemed like fine silk, something that, at an + instant's breath, would be swept like a shadow, into the air. She wore + something loose and white and over her shoulders there was a grey shawl. + Her grey hair was as untidy as of old, escaping from the order that it had + been intended to keep and falling over her beautiful eyes, so that + continually she moved her hand—so thin and white with its deep + purple veins—to push it back. In this still white figure the eyes + burnt with an amazing fire. What eyes they were! + </p> + <p> + One seemed, in the old days, to have denied them their proper splendour, + but now in this swiftly fading body they had gathered more life and + vigour, showing the soul that triumphed over so slender a mortality. + </p> + <p> + She seemed to Peter, as he came into the room, to stand for so much more + than he had ever hitherto allowed her. Here, in her last furious struggle + to keep a life that had given to her nothing worth having, he saw suddenly + emblazoned about him, the part that she had played in his life, always + from the first moment that he had known her—a part that had been, by + him, so frequently neglected, so frequently denied. + </p> + <p> + As she turned and saw him he was ashamed at the joy that his coming so + obviously brought her. He felt her purity, her unselfishness, her + single-heartedness, her courage, her nobility in that triumphant welcome + that she gave him. That she should care so much for any one so worthless, + so fruitless as he had proved himself to be! + </p> + <p> + He had come to her with some dim sense that it was kind of him to visit + her; he advanced to her now across the room with a consciousness that she + was honouring him by receiving him at all. + </p> + <p> + That joy, with which she had at first greeted him, had in it also + something of surprise. He had forgotten how greatly these last terrible + days must have altered his appearance—he told much more than he + knew, and the little sad attempt that he made, as he came to her, to + present as careless and happy an appearance as he had presented in the old + Brockett days was more pathetic and betraying than anything he could have + done. + </p> + <p> + But she just closed both her burning hands about his cold one, made him + sit down in a chair by her side and, trembling with the excited joy of + having him with her, forced him to determine that, whatever came of it, he + would keep his troubles from her, would let her know nothing of his old + chuckling father and the shadowy welcome that Scaw House had flung over + him, would be still the Peter that he had been when he had seen her last + in London. + </p> + <p> + “Peter! How splendid to have you here! When Mr. Bannister told me last + night I could have cried for happiness, and he, dear little man, was + surely as pleased to see me happy as though I'd been his own sister.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd just come down—” Peter began, trying to smile and conscious + with an alarm that surprised him, of her fragility and the way that her + hand went now and again to her breast, as though to relieve some pain + there. “Are you sure—” he broke off, “that I'm not doing you harm + coming like this—not agitating you too much, not exciting you?” + </p> + <p> + “Harm! Why, Peter,” she was smiling but he noticed too that her eyes were + searching his face, as though to find some clue to the change that they + saw there—“Why it's all the good in the world. It's what I've been + wanting all this time. Some change, a little excitement, for I've been + here, you know, quite a number of weeks alone—and that it should be + you—you! of all people in this lovely exciting surprising world.” + </p> + <p> + “How did it happen?” he asked, “your coming down?” + </p> + <p> + “After I saw you last—I was very bad. My stupid old heart.... And + the doctor said that I must get away, to the sea or somewhere. Then—what + do you think?—the dears, all of them in Brockett's put their heads + together and got me quite a lot of money.... Oh! the darlings, and they + just as poor as church mice themselves. Of course I couldn't insult them + by not taking it. They'd have been hurt for ever—so I just pocketed + my pride and came down here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why Treliss?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Well, hadn't you so often talked about it? Always, I'd connected you with + it in my mind and thought that one day I'd come down and see it. I + suggested it to the doctor—he said it was the very place. I used to + hope that one day you'd be with me here to explain it, but I never + expected it... not so soon... not like this.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice faltered a little and her hand held his more tightly. + </p> + <p> + They were silent. The sounds of the world came, muffled, up to their + window, but they were only conscious of one another. + </p> + <p> + Peter knew that, in another instant, he would tell her everything. He had + always told her everything—that is what she had been there for, some + one, like an elder sister, to whom he might go and confess. + </p> + <p> + At last it came. Very softly she asked him: + </p> + <p> + “Peter, what's the matter? Why are you here? What's happened?” + </p> + <p> + Staring before him out of the window, seeing nothing but the high white + light of the upper sky, his heart, as it seemed to him, lying in his hands + like a stone to be tossed lightly out there into space, he told her: + </p> + <p> + “Everything's happened. Clare has run off with my best friend.... It has + just happened like that. I don't blame her, she liked him better—but + I—didn't know—it was going... to happen.” + </p> + <p> + He didn't look at her, but he heard her catch her breath sharply and he + felt her hand tighten on his. They were silent for a long time and he was + dimly aware in some unanalysed way that this was what she had expected + ever since he had come into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she said at last, holding his hand very tightly, “I'm sorry, I'm + sorry—” + </p> + <p> + He had seen, of course, from the beginning that this business must be told + her, but his one desire was to hurry through it, to get it done and + banished, once and for all, from their conversation. + </p> + <p> + “It happened,” he went on gruffly, “quite suddenly. I wasn't in any way + prepared for it. She just went off to Paris, after leaving a letter. With + the death of the boy and the failure of my book—it just seemed the + last blow—the end.” + </p> + <p> + “The end—at thirty?” she said softly, almost to herself, “surely, no—with + the pluck that you've got—and the health. What are you going to do—about + it all?” + </p> + <p> + “To do?” he smiled bitterly. “Do you suppose that I will ask her to come + back to me? Do you suppose that I want her back? No, that's all done with. + All that life's finished.” Then he added slowly, not looking at her as he + spoke—“I'm going to live with my father.” + </p> + <p> + He remembered, clearly enough, that he had told her many things about his + early life at Scaw House. He knew that she must now, as he flung that + piece of information at her, have recalled to herself all those things + that he had told her. He felt rather than perceived, the agitation that + seized her at those last words of his. Her hand slowly withdrew from his, + it fell back on to her lap and he felt her whole body draw, as it were, + into itself, as though it had come into contact with some terror, some + unexplained alarm. + </p> + <p> + But she only said: + </p> + <p> + “And what will you do at home, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + He answered her with a kind of bravado—“Oh, write, I suppose. I went + up to see the old man yesterday. Changed enormously since the old days. I + found him quite genial, seemed very anxious that I should come. I expect + he's a bit lonely.” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer this and there was a long awkward pause. He knew, as + they sat there, in troubled silence that his conscience was awake. It had + seemed to be so quiescent through his visit yesterday; it had been drugged + and dimmed all these last restless days. But now it was up again. He was + conscious that it was not, after all, going to be so easy a thing to + abandon all his energies, his militancies, the dominant vigorous panoply + of his soul. He knew as he sat there, that this sick shadow of a woman + would not let him go like that. + </p> + <p> + He said good-bye to her for the moment, but, as he left the room he knew + that Scaw House would not see him again until he had done everything for + her that there was to be done. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + That evening he saw the doctor who attended on her. He was a nice young + fellow, intelligent, eager, with a very real individual liking for his + patient. “Ah! she's splendid—brave and plucky beyond anything I've + ever seen; so full of fun that you'd think that she'd an idea that another + three weeks would see her as well as ever again—whereas she knows as + well as I do that another three weeks may easily see her out of the world + altogether!” + </p> + <p> + “There's no hope then?” asked Peter. + </p> + <p> + “None whatever. There's every kind of complication. She must have always + had something the matter with her, and if she'd been cared for and nursed + when she was younger she might have pulled out of it. Instead of that + she's always worn herself to a thread—you can see that. She isn't + one of those who take life easily. She ought to have gone before this, but + she holds on with her pluck and her love of it all.... Lord! when one + thinks of the millions of people who just 'slug' through life—not + valuing it, doing nothing with it—one grudges the waste of their + hours when a woman like Miss Monogue could have done so much with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I doing her any harm, going in to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “No—doing her good. Don't excite her too much—otherwise the + company's the best thing in the world for her.” + </p> + <p> + The days then, were to be dedicated to her service. He knew, of course, + that at the end of it—and the end could not be far distant—he + would go to Scaw House and remain there; meanwhile the thing was + postponed. He would not think about it. + </p> + <p> + But on his second meeting with Norah Monogue he saw that he was not to be + allowed to dismiss it. He found her sitting still by her window; she was + flushed now with a little colour, her eyes burning with a more determined + fire than ever, her whole body expressing a dauntless energy. + </p> + <p> + The sight of her showed him that there was to be battle and, strangely + enough, he found that there was something in himself that almost welcomed + it. Before he knew where he was he found that he was “out” to defend his + whole life. + </p> + <p> + The first thing that she did was to draw from him a minute, particular + account of all that had happened during these last months. It developed + into a defence of his whole married life, as though he had been pleading + before a jury of Clare's friends and must fight to prove himself no + blackguard. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! don't I know that I've made a mess of it all? Do you think that I'm + proud of myself?” he pleaded with her. “Honestly I cannot see where, as + far as Clare is concerned, I'm to blame. She didn't understand—how + could she ever have understood?—the way that my work mattered to me. + I wanted to keep it and I wanted to keep her too, and every time I tried + to keep her it got in the way and every time I tried to keep it she got in + the way. I wasn't clever enough to run both together.” + </p> + <p> + Norah nodded her head. + </p> + <p> + “But there was more than that. Life has always been rough for me. Rough + from the beginning when my father used to whip me, rough at school, rough + when I starved in London, roughest of all when young Stephen died. I'd + wanted to make something out of it and I suppose the easiest way seemed to + me to make it romantic. This place, you know, was always in my bones. That + Tower down in the Market Place, old Tan's curiosity shop, the sea—these + were the things that kept me going. Afterwards in London it was the same. + Things were hard so I made them into a story—I coloured them up. + Nothing hurt when everything was romance. I made Clare romance too—that + was the way, you see, that all my life was bound up so closely together. + She was an adventure just as everything else had been. And she didn't like + it. She couldn't understand the Adventure point of view. It was, to her, + immoral, indecent. I went easily along and then, one day, all the romance + went out of it—clean—like a pricked bubble. When young Stephen + died I suddenly saw that life was real—naked—ugly, not + romantic a bit. Then it all fell to pieces like a house of cards. It's + easy enough to be brave when you're attacking a cardboard castle—it's + when you're up against iron that your courage is wanted. It failed me. + I've funked it. I'm going to run away.” + </p> + <p> + He could see that Norah Monogue's whole life was in the vigour with which + she opposed him— + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no. To give it up now. Why, you're only thirty—everything's + in front of you. Listen. I know you took Clare crookedly, I saw it in the + beginning. In the first place you loved her, but you loved her wrong. + You've been a boy, Peter, all the time, and you've always loved like a + boy. Don't you know that there's nothing drives a woman who loves a man + more to desperation than that that man should give her a boy's love? She'd + rather he hated her. Clare could have been dealt with. To begin with she + loved you—all the time. Oh! yes, I'm as certain of it as I can be of + anything. I know her so well. But the unhappiness, the discomfort—all + the things, the ugly things, that her mother was emphasising to her all + the time—frightened her. Knowing nothing about life she just felt + that things as they were were as bad as things could be. It seems + extraordinary that any one so timid as she should dare to take so + dangerous a plunge as running off to another man. + </p> + <p> + “But it was just because she knew so little about Life that she could do + it. This other man persuaded her that he could give her the peace and + comfort that you couldn't. She doesn't know—poor thing, poor thing—what + it will mean, that plunge. So, out of very terror, she took it. And now—Oh! + Peter, I'm as certain as though I could see her, she's already longing for + you—would give anything to get back to you. This has taught her more + than all the rest of her life put together. She was difficult—selfish, + frightened at any trouble, supersensitive—but a man would have + understood her. You wanted affection, Peter—from her, from me, from + a lot of people—but it was always because of the things that it was + going to bring to you, never because of the things that you were going to + give out. You'd never grown up—never. And now, when suddenly the + real world has come to you, you're going to give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't give it up,” he said to her—“I shall write—I shall do + things—” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “You've told me. I know what that means.” Then almost + below her breath—“It's horrible—It's horrible. You mustn't do + it—you must go back to London—you must go back—” + </p> + <p> + But at that he rose and faced her. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “I will not. I've given the other things a chance—all + these years I've given them a chance. I've stood everything and at the end + everything's taken away from me. What shall I go back to? Who wants me? + Who cares? God!” he cried, standing there, white-faced, dry-eyed, almost + defying her—“Why should I go? Just to fail again—to suffer all + that again—to have them take everything I love from me again—to + be broken again! No, let them break the others—I'm done with it....” + </p> + <p> + “And the others?” she answered him. “Is it to be always yourself? You've + fought for your own hand and they've beaten you to your knees—fight + now for something finer—” + </p> + <p> + She seemed as she appealed to him to be shining with some great conquering + purpose. Here, with her poor body broken and torn, her spirit, the purer + for her physical pain, confronted him, shamed him, stretched like a + flaming sword before the mean paths that his own soul would follow. + </p> + <p> + But he beat her down. “I will not go back—you don't know—you + don't understand—I will not go.” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The little dusty Minstrels' Gallery saw a good deal of him during these + days. It was a lonely place at the top of the hotel, once intended to be + picturesque and romantic for London visitors, but ultimately left to its + own company with its magnificent view appreciated by no one. + </p> + <p> + Here Peter came. Every part of him now seemed to be at war with every + other part. Had he gone straight to Scaw House with bag and baggage and + never left it again, then the Westcott tradition might have caught him + when he was in that numbed condition—caught him and held him. + </p> + <p> + Now he had stayed away just long enough for all the old Peter to have + become alive and active again. + </p> + <p> + He looked back upon London with a great shuddering. The torment that he + had suffered there he must never undergo again. Norah was now the one + friend left to him in the world. He would cut himself into pieces to make + these last days of hers happy, and yet the one thing that could give her + happiness was that he should promise to go back. + </p> + <p> + She did not understand—no one could understand—the way that + this place, this life that he contemplated, pulled him. The slackness of + it, the lack of discipline in it, the absence of struggle in it. All the + strength, the fighting that had been in him during these past years, was + driven out of him now. He just wanted to let things drift—to wander + about the fields and roads, to find his clothes growing shabby upon him, + to grow old without knowing even that he was alive—all this had come + to him. + </p> + <p> + She, on the other side, would drive him back into the battle of it all + once more. To go back a failure—to be pointed out as the man whose + wife left him because she found him so dull—to hear men like young + Percival Galleon laughing at his book—to sell his soul for + journalism in order to make a living—to see, perhaps, Clare come + back into the London world—to break out, ultimately, when he was + sick and tired of it all, into every kind of debauch ... how much better + to slip into nothing down here where nobody knew nor cared! + </p> + <p> + And yet, on the other hand, he had never known until now the importance + that Norah Monogue had held in his life. + </p> + <p> + Always, in everything he had done, in his ambitions and despairs, his + triumphs and defeats, she had been behind him. He'd just do anything in + the world for her!—anything except this one thing. Up and down, up + and down he paced the little Minstrels' room, with its dusty green chair + and its shining floor—“I just can't stand it all over again!” + </p> + <p> + But every time that he went in to see her—and he was with her + continually—made his resistance harder. She didn't speak about it + again but he knew that she was always thinking about it. + </p> + <p> + “She's worrying over something, Westcott—do you happen to know what + it is?” the doctor asked him. “It's bad for her. If you can help her about + it in any way—” + </p> + <p> + The strain between them was becoming unbearable. Every day, when he went + in to sit with her, they would talk about other things—about + everything—but he knew that before her eyes there was that picture + of himself up at Scaw House, and of the years passing—and his soul + and everything that was fine in him, dying. + </p> + <p> + He saw her growing daily weaker. Sometimes he felt that he must run away + altogether, go up to Scaw House and leave her to die alone; then he knew + that that cruelty at any rate was not in him. One day he thought her + brutal and interfering, another day it seemed that it was he who was the + tyrant. He reminded himself of all the things that she had done for him—all + the things, and he could not grant her this one request. + </p> + <p> + Then he would ask himself what the devil her right was that she should + order his life in this way?... everyday the struggle grew harder. + </p> + <p> + The tension could not hold any longer—at last it broke. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + One evening they were sitting in silence beside her window. The room was + in dusk and he could just see her white shadow against the dim blue light + beyond the window. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she broke down. He could hear her crying, behind her hands. The + sound in that grey, silent room was more than he could bear. He went over + to her and put his arms round her. + </p> + <p> + “Norah, Norah, please, please. It's so awfully bad for you. I oughtn't to + come if I—” + </p> + <p> + She pulled herself together. Her voice was quite calm and controlled. + </p> + <p> + “Sit over there, Peter. I've got to talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + He went back to his chair. + </p> + <p> + “I've only got a few more weeks to live. I know it. Perhaps only a few + more days. I must make the very utmost of my time. I've got to save + you....” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I know that it must all have seemed to you abominable—as though + I were making use of this illness of mine to extort a promise from you, as + though just because I'm weak and feeble I can hold an advantage over you. + Oh! I know it's all abominable!—but I'll use everything—yes, + simply everything—if I can get you to leave this place and go back!” + </p> + <p> + He could feel that she was pulling herself together for some tremendous + effort. + </p> + <p> + “Peter, I want you now just to think of me, to put yourself out of + everything, absolutely, just for this half-hour. After all as I've only a + few half-hours left I've got that right.” + </p> + <p> + Her laugh as she said it was one of the saddest things he'd ever heard. + </p> + <p> + “Now I'm going to tell you something—something that I'd never + thought I'd tell a soul. + </p> + <p> + “I've not had a very cheerful life. It hasn't had very much to make it + bright and interesting. I'm not complaining but it's just been that way—” + She broke off for a moment. “I don't want you to interrupt or say + anything. It'll make it easier for me if I can just talk out into the + night air, as it were—just as though no one were here.” + </p> + <p> + She went on: “The one thing that's made it possible, made it bearable, + made it alive, has been my love for you. Always from the first moment I + saw you I have loved you. Oh! I haven't been foolish about it. I knew that + you'd never care for me in that kind of way. I knew from the very first + that we should be pals but that you'd never dream of anything more + romantic. I've never had any one in love with me—I'm not the kind of + woman who draws the romance out of men. + </p> + <p> + “No, I knew you'd never love me, but I just determined that I'd make you, + your career, your success, the pivot, the centre of my life. + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't blind about you—not a bit. I knew that you were selfish, + weak, incredibly young about the world. I knew that you were the last + person in existence to marry Clare—all the more reason it seemed to + me why I should be behind you. I was behind you so much more than you ever + knew. I wonder if you've the least idea what most women's lives are like. + They come into the world with the finest ideals, the most tremendous + energies, with a desire for self-sacrifice that a man can't even begin to + understand. Then they discover slowly that none of those things, those + ideals, those energies, those sacrifices, are wanted. The world just + doesn't need them—they might as well never have been born. Do you + suppose I enjoyed slaving for my mother, day and night for years? Do you + suppose that I gladly yielded up all my best blood, my vitality, to the + pleasure of some one who never valued it, never even knew that such things + were being given her? Before you came I was slowly falling into despair. + Think of all the women who are haunted by the awful thought—'The + time will come when death will be facing me and I shall be forced to own + that for any place that I have ever filled in the world I might never have + been born.' How many women are there who do not pray every day of their + lives, 'God, give me something to do before I die—some place to + fill, some work to carry out, something to save my self-respect.' + </p> + <p> + “I tell you that there is a time coming when women will force those things + that are in them upon the world. God help all poor women who are not + wanted! + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> wasn't wanted. There was nothing for me to do, no place for me + to fill... then you came. At once I seized upon that-God seemed to have + sent it to me. I believed that if I turned all those energies, those + desires, those ambitions upon you that it would help you to do the things + that you were meant to do. I was with you always—I slaved for you—you + became the end in life to which I had been called. + </p> + <p> + “All the time you were only a boy—that was partly I think why I + loved you. You were so gauche, so ignorant, so violent, so confident one + moment, so plunged into despair the next. For a while everything seemed to + go well. I had thought that Clare was going to be good for you, was going + to make you unselfish. I thought that you'd got the better of all that + part of you that was your inheritance. Even when I came down here I + thought that all was well. I knew that I had come down to die and I had + thanked God because He <i>had</i>, after all, allowed me to make something + of my life, that I'd been able to see you lifted into success, that I'd + seen you start a splendid career.... Then you came and I knew that your + life was broken into pieces. I knew that what had happened to you might be + the most splendid thing in the world for you and might be the most + terrible. If you stay down here now with your father then you are done for—you + are done for and my life has, after all, gone for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice broke, then she leaned forward, catching his hands: + </p> + <p> + “Peter, I'm dying—I'm going. If you will only have it you can take + me, and when I am gone I shall still live on in you. Let me give you + everything that is best in me—let me feel that I have sent you back + to London, sent you with my dying breath—and that you go back, not + because of yourself but because of everything that you can do for every + one else. + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, Peter dear, it all matters so little, this trouble and + unhappiness that you've had, if you take it bravely. The courage that + you've wanted before is nothing to the courage that you want now if you're + going back. Let me die knowing that we're both going back. + </p> + <p> + “Think of what your life, if it's fine enough, can mean to other people. + Go back to be battered—never mind what happens to your body—any + one can stand that. There's London waiting for you, there's life and + adventure and hardship. There are people to be helped. You'll go, with all + that I can give you, behind you ... you'll go, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + He sat with his teeth set, staring out into the world. He had known from + the first sentence of her appeal to him that she had named the one thing + that could give him courage to fight his cowardice. Some one had once + said: “If any one soul of us is all the world, this world and the next, to + any other soul, then whoever it may be that thus loves us, the inadequacy + of our return, the hopeless debt of us, must strike us to our knees with + an utter humility.” + </p> + <p> + So did he feel now. Out of the wreck there had survived this one thing. He + remembered what Henry Galleon had once said about Fortitude, that the + hardest trial of all to bear was the consciousness of having missed the + Finest Thing. All these years she had been there by the side of him and he + had scarcely thought of her—now, even as he watched her, she was + slipping away from him, and soon he would be left alone with the + consciousness of missing the greatest chance of his life. + </p> + <p> + The one thing that he could do in return was to give her what she asked. + But it was hard—he was under no illusion as to the desperate + determination that it would demand. The supreme moment of his life had + come. For the first time he was going to fling away the old Peter Westcott + altogether. He could feel it clinging to him. About him, in the air, + spirits were fighting. He had never before needed Courage as he was + needing it now. It seemed to him that he had to stand up to all the devils + in the world—they were thick on every side of him. + </p> + <p> + Then, with a great uplifting of strength, with a courage that he had never + known before, he picked up Peter Westcott in his hands, held him, that + miserable figure, high in air, raised him, then flung him with all his + strength out, away, far into space, never to return, never to encumber the + earth again. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go back,” Peter said—and as he said it, there was no elation + in him, only a clear-sighted vision of a life of struggle, toil, torment, + defeat, in front of him, something so hard and arduous that the new Peter + Westcott that had now been born seemed small indeed to face it. + </p> + <p> + But nevertheless he knew that at the moment that he said those words he + had broken into pieces the spell that had been over him for so many years. + That Beast in him that had troubled him for so long, all the dark shadows + of Scaw House ... these were at an end. + </p> + <p> + He felt tired, discouraged, no fine creature, as he turned to her, but he + knew that, from that moment, a new life had begun for him. + </p> + <p> + He put his arms round Norah Monogue and kissed her. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + He got up very early next morning and went down to the Harbour. The + fishing-boats were coming in; great flocks of gulls, waiting for the spoil + that was soon to be theirs, were wheeling in clouds about the brown sails. + </p> + <p> + The boats stole, one after another, around the pier. The air was filled + with shrill cries—the only other sound was the lapping of the water + as it curled up the little beach. + </p> + <p> + As Peter stood there there crept upon him a sensation of awe. He took off + his hat. The gulls seemed to cease their cries. + </p> + <p> + As another brown sail stole round the white point, gleaming' now in the + sun, he knew, with absolute certainty, that Norah Monogue was dead. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + THE GREY HILL + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The day of Norah Monogue's funeral was fine and clear. Peter and little + Mr. Bannister were the only mourners and it was Peter's wish that she + should be buried in the little windy graveyard of the church where his + mother had been buried. + </p> + <p> + There was always a wind on that little hill, but to-day it was gentler + than he had ever known it before. His mind went back to that other + funeral, now, as it seemed, such a lifetime ago. Out of all the world + these two women only now seemed to abide with him. As he stood beside the + grave he was conscious that there was about him a sense of peace and rest + such as he had never known before. Could it be true that some of Norah + Monogue's fine spirit had come to him? Were they, in sober fact to go on + together during the remainder of his days? + </p> + <p> + He lingered for a little looking down upon the grave. He was glad to think + that he had made her last hours happy. + </p> + <p> + Indeed she had not lived in vain. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Heavy black clouds were banking upon the horizon as he went down the hill + and struck the Sea Road in the direction of Scaw House. Except in that far + distance the sky was a relentless, changeless blue. Every detail in the + scene was marked with a hard outline, every sound, the sea, the Bell Rock, + the cries of sheep, the nestling trees, was doubly insistent. + </p> + <p> + He banged the knocker upon the Scaw House door and when the old woman came + to open to him he saw that something had occurred. Her hair fell about her + neck, her face was puckered with distress and her whole appearance was + dismayed. + </p> + <p> + “Is my father in?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He is, but he's ill,” she answered him, eyeing him doubtfully. “He won't + know yer—I doubt he'll know any one. He's had a great set-back—” + </p> + <p> + Peter pushed past her into the hall—“Is he ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed he is. He was suddenly took—the other evenin' I being in my + kitchen heard a great cry. I came runnin' and there in the dining-room I + found him, standing there in the midst, his hands up. His eyes, you must + understand, sir, were wide and staring—'They've beaten me,' he + cried, 'They've beaten me'—just like that, sir, and then down he + tumbled in a living fit, foaming at the mouth and striking his poor head + against the fender. Yer may come up, sir, but he won't know yer which he + doesn't me either.” + </p> + <p> + Peter followed her up to the dreary room that his father inhabited. Even + here the paper was peeling off the walls, some of the window-glass was + broken and the carpet was torn. His father lay on his back in an old high + four-poster. His eyes stared before him, cheeks were ashen white—his + hands too were white like ivory. + </p> + <p> + His lips moved but he made no sound. He did not see Peter, nor did his + eyes turn from the blank stare that held them. + </p> + <p> + “Has he a doctor?” Peter asked the old woman. + </p> + <p> + “Ay—there's a young man been coming—” the old woman answered + him. She was, he noticed, more subservient than she had been on the former + occasion. She obviously turned to him now with her greedy old eyes as the + one who was likely soon to be in authority. + </p> + <p> + Peter turned back to the door. “This room must be made warmer and more + comfortable. I will send a doctor from the hotel this evening—I will + come in again to-night.” + </p> + <p> + As he looked about the poor room, as he saw the dust that the sunlight + made so visible, he wondered that the house of cards could so recently + have held him within its shadow. He felt as though he had passed through + some terrible nightmare that the light of day rendered not only fantastic + but incredible. That old Peter Westcott had indeed been flung out of the + high window of Norah Monogue's room. + </p> + <p> + Leaving Scaw House on his right he struck through the dark belt of trees + and came out at the foot of the Grey Hill. The dark belt of cloud was + spreading now fast across the blue—soon it would catch the sun—the + Tower itself was already swallowed by a cold grey shadow. + </p> + <p> + Peter began to climb the hill, and remembered that he had not been there + since that Easter morning when he had kissed an unknown lady and so flung + fine omens about his future. + </p> + <p> + Soon he had reached the little green mound that lay below the Giant's + Finger. Although the Grey Hill would have been small and insignificant in + hilly country here, by its isolation, it assumed importance. On every side + of it ran the sand-dunes—in front of it, almost as it seemed up to + its very feet, ran the sea. Treliss was completely hidden, not a house + could be seen. The black clouds now had caught the sea and only far away + to the right the waves still glittered, for the rest it was an inky grey + with a touch of white here and there where submerged rocks found breakers. + For one moment the sun had still evaded the cloud, then it was caught and + the world was instantly cold. + </p> + <p> + Peter, as he sat there, felt that if he were only still enough the silence + would soon be vocal. The Hill, the Sea, the Sky—these things seemed + to have summoned him there that they might speak to him. + </p> + <p> + He was utterly detached from life. He looked down from a height in air and + saw his little body sitting there as he had done on the day when he had + proposed to Clare. He might think now of the long journey that it had + come, he might watch the course of its little history, see the full circle + that it had travelled, wonder for what new business it was now to prepare. + </p> + <p> + For full circle he had come. He, Peter Westcott, sat there, as naked, as + alone, as barren of all rewards, of all success, of all achievements as he + had been when, so many years ago he had watched that fight in the inn on + Christmas Eve. The scene passed before him again—he saw himself, a + tiny boy, swinging his legs from the high chair. He saw the room thick + with smoke, the fishermen, Dicky the Fool, the mistletoe swinging, the + snow blocking in from outside, the fight—it was all as though it + passed once more before his eyes. + </p> + <p> + His whole life came to him—the scenes at Scaw House, Dawson's, the + bookshop, Brockett's, Bucket Lane, Chelsea, that last awful scene there + ... all the people that he had known passed before him—Stephen + Brant, his grandfather, his father, his mother, Bobby Galleon, Mr. Zanti, + Clare, Cards, Mrs. Brockett, Norah, Henry Galleon, Mrs. Rossiter, dear + Mrs. Launce ... these and many more. He could see them all dispassionately + now; how that other Peter Westcott had felt their contact; how he had + longed for their friendship, dreaded their anger, missed them, wanted + them, minded their desertion.... + </p> + <p> + Now, behold, they were all gone. Alone on this Hill with the great sea at + his feet, with the storm rolling up to him, Peter Westcott thought of his + wife and his son, his friends and his career—thought of everything + that had been life to him, yes, even his sins, his temptations, his + desires for the beast in man, his surly temper, his furious anger, his + selfishness, his lack of understanding—all these things had been + taken away from him, every trail had been given to him—and now, + naked, on a hill, he knew the first peace of his life. + </p> + <p> + And as he knew, sitting there, that thus Peace had come to him, how odd it + seemed that only a few weeks ago he had been coming down to Cornwall with + his soul, as he had then thought, killed for ever. + </p> + <p> + The world had seemed, utterly, absolutely, for ever at an end; and now + here he was, sitting here, eager to go back into it all again, wanting—it + almost seemed—to be bruised and battered all over again. + </p> + <p> + And perceiving this showed him what was indeed the truth that all his life + had been only Boy's History. He had gone up—he had gone down—he + had loved and hated, exulted and despaired, but it was all with a boy's + intense realisation of the moment, with a boy's swift, easy transition + from one crisis to another. + </p> + <p> + It had been his education—and now his education was over. As he had + said those words to Norah Monogue, “I will go back,” he had become a man. + Never again would Life be so utterly over as it had been two months ago—never + again would he be so single-hearted in his reserved adoption of it as he + had been those days ago, at Norah Monogue's side. + </p> + <p> + He saw that always, through everything that boy, Peter Westcott had been + in the way. It was not until he had taken, on that day in Norah Monogue's + room, Peter Westcott in his hands and flung him to the four winds that he + had seen how terribly in the way he had been. “Go back,” Norah had said to + him; “you have done all these things for yourself and you have been beaten + to your knees—go back now and do something for others. You have been + brave for yourself—be brave now for others.” + </p> + <p> + And he was going back. + </p> + <p> + He was going back, as he had seen on that day, to no easy life. He was + going to take up all those links that had been so difficult for him before—he + was going to learn all over again that art that he had fancied that he had + conquered at the very first attempt—he was going now with no + expectations, no hopes, no ambitions. Life was still an adventure, but now + an adventure of a hard, cruel sort, something that needed an answer grim + and dark. + </p> + <p> + The storm was coming up apace. The wind had risen and was now rushing over + the short stiff grass, bellowing out to meet the sea, blowing back to meet + the clouds that raced behind the hill. + </p> + <p> + The sky was black with clouds. Peter could see the sand rising from the + dunes in a thin mist. + </p> + <p> + Peter flung himself upon his back. The first drops of rain fell, cold, + upon his face. Then he heard: + </p> + <p> + “Peter Westcott! Peter Westcott!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm here!” + </p> + <p> + “What have you brought to us here?” + </p> + <p> + “I have brought nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you to offer us?” + </p> + <p> + “I can offer nothing.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from the ground and faced the wind. He put his back to the + Giant's Finger because of the force of the gale. The rain was coming down + now in torrents. + </p> + <p> + He felt a great exultation surge through his body. + </p> + <p> + Then the Voice—not in the rain, nor the wind, nor the sea, but yet + all of these, and coming as it seemed from the very heart of the Hill, + came swinging through the storm— + </p> + <p> + “Have you cast <i>This</i> away, Peter Westcott?” + </p> + <p> + “And this?” + </p> + <p> + “That also—” + </p> + <p> + “And this?” + </p> + <p> + “This also?” + </p> + <p> + “And this?” + </p> + <p> + “I have flung this, too, away.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything now about you that you treasure?” + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Friends, ties, ambitions?” + </p> + <p> + “They are all gone.” + </p> + <p> + Then out of the heart of the storm there came Voices:— + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be Pain and Torment and every torture of the Body ... Blessed be + Plague and Pestilence and the Illness of Nations.... + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be all Loss and the Failure of Friends and the Sacrifice of + Love.... + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be the Destruction of all Possessions, the Ruin of all Property, + Fine Cities, and Great Palaces.... + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be the Disappointment of all Ambitions.... + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be all Failure and the ruin of every Earthly Hope.... + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be all Sorrows, Torments, Hardships, Endurances that demand + Courage.... + </p> + <p> + “Blessed be these things—for of these things cometh the making of a + Man....” + </p> + <p> + Peter, clinging to the Giant's Finger, staggered in the wind. The world + was hidden now in a mist of rain. He was alone—and he was happy, + happy, as he had never known happiness, in any time, before. + </p> + <p> + The rain lashed his face and his body. His clothes clung heavily about + him. + </p> + <p> + He answered the storm: + </p> + <p> + “Make of me a man—to be afraid of nothing ... to be ready for + everything—love, friendship, success ... to take if it comes ... to + care nothing if these things are not for me— + </p> + <p> + “Make me brave! Make me brave!” + </p> + <p> + He fancied that once more against the wall of sea-mist he saw tremendous, + victorious, the Rider on the Lion. But now, for the first time, the + Rider's face was turned towards him— + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fortitude, by Hugh Walpole + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORTITUDE *** + +***** This file should be named 7887-h.htm or 7887-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/8/7887/ + + +Text file produced by The Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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