Fortitude

H >> Hugh Walpole >> Fortitude

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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--

"Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare beyond all bounds--"

"Um?"

"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."

"Well, it's no business of ours--" Bobby's usual tolerant complacency.

"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."

"We're all perpetually selfish," said Bobby who began to be sorry for
Peter.

"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 _Life_."

This, as Alice had intended, was too much for Peter. He burst out--

"I think Miss Rossiter's the pluckiest girl I've ever met. She's afraid of
nothing."

"Except of being uncomfortable," Alice retorted. "That frightens her into
fits. Make her uncomfortable, Peter, and you'll see--"

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--"

"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!"

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!...

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!

Afterwards, when they were alone, Bobby took him in hand--

"You're in love with Clare Rossiter, Peter," he said.

"Yes, I am," Peter answered defiantly.

"But you've known her so short a time!"

"What's that to do with it?"

"Oh, nothing, of course. But do you think you're the sort of people likely
to get on?"

"Really, Bobby, I don't--"

"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."

"Well, say what you like."

"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."

"She shan't ever be unhappy if I can help it!" muttered Peter fiercely.

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."

Peter caught at Bobby's words. "Do you really think she cares about me?"

"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--"

"Thanks very much," said Peter grimly.

"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."

But Peter had not been listening.

"Do you really think," he muttered, "that she cares about me?"

Bobby looked at him, laughed and shrugged his shoulders in despair.

"Ah! I see--it's no use," he said, "poor dear Peter--well, I wish you
luck!"

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.

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

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?

"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.

"Not a soul anywhere near--we can bathe all day."

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!

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.

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?...

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!

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.

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.

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....

That morning he went formally to Dr. Rossiter. The little man received him,
smiling.

"I want to marry your daughter, sir," said Peter.

"You're very young," said the Doctor.

"Twenty-six," said Peter.

"Well, if she'll have you I won't stand in your way--"

Peter took the 5.30 train....

II

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!

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...."

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.

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.

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.

"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 _must_ be a God"--the tinkling insect told him so.

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.

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!

"Of course there is a God!"

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.

"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--"

"Well," she answered, "I am glad we're not in Cornwall--I hate it."

"Hate it!"

"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."

"I don't believe you're ever frightened at anything."

"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--"

"Are you afraid of it?" she said, looking at him intently.

"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."

"What way pulling at you?"

"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--"

He seemed to have forgotten her--he stared out to sea, his hands holding
the grass on either side of him.

She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her
laughing.

"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...."

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
_believe_ in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions--all those
other things can only hurt."

"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...."

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--"

"Do you really want me, Peter?"

He didn't speak but his whole body turned towards her, answered her
question.

"Because I am yours entirely. I became yours that day when your hand
touched mine. I wasn't sure before--I knew then--"

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.

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.

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.

Then Clare spoke, hurriedly, almost pleadingly.

"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--"

"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.

"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--"

"I will look after you," said Peter. It was almost with irritation that she
brushed aside his assurance.

"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--"

"But Clare, dear, we're all like that--"

"No, it's sheer wickedness with me. Oh! Peter I love you so much that you
_must_ listen. You mustn't think afterwards, ah, if I'd only known--"

"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--"

"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
_you_."

"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?"

"Yes, Peter."

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.

"We must run for it," cried Peter, raising his voice against the storm.
"That cottage over there--it's the only place."

They ran. The common was black now--the rain drove hissing, against the
soil, the air was hot with the faint sulphur smell.

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.

She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder.

"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.

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.

Clare gave a little cry; an old woman with a fallen chin and a face like
yellow parchment sat huddled in the chair.

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.

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..."

Clare, shuddered a little. "I don't like it--she's horrid--this place is so
dirty. I believe the rain's stopped."

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.

Peter bent down to the old woman.

"Thank you," he said, "for giving us shelter." He placed a shilling on her
lap.

"She's quite deaf and blind," he said. "Poor old thing!"

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.

It stretched on every side of them, blazing with colour. Behind them the
common, sinking now into the dull light of evening.

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.

Tiny figures, in all this glory, they embraced. In all the world they
seemed the only living thing....

III

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.

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.

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.

Her face worked with fury--she hobbled, painfully, to the door and opened
it.

Below her, on a floor of gold, two black figures stood together.

Gazing at them she raised her thin and trembling hand; she flung with a
passionate, furious gesture, something from her.

A small silver coin glittered in the air, whistled for a moment and fell.

CHAPTER IV

THE ROUNDABOUT

I

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.

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.

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.

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.

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