Fortitude

H >> Hugh Walpole >> Fortitude

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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--

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.

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.

"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--"

Whilst he was speaking his voice had become eager, his eyes bright--he
began to pace the room excitedly--

"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.

Mr. Zanti, getting up ponderously, placed his hands on Peter's shoulders.

"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--"

"Stephen--" broke in Peter sharply.

"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--"

"Afraid?"

"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--"

"Stephen!" Peter's voice was sharp with distress. "Zanti, where is he now?
I must go and see him at once."

"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--"

"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--"

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.

Peter wrote:

_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._

Mr. Zanti took the letter.

"How is he?" asked Peter.

"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."

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."

In the hall he said once more--a little plaintively:--

"I _should_ like to see your lady, Peter," and then he went on hurriedly,
"But don't you go and disturb her--not for anything--_I_ understand...."

And, with his finger on his lip, wrapt in the deepest mystery, he departed
into the rain.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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:--

"Who _was_ that extraordinary man you were talking to this evening?"

He came back, with a jerk, from Stephen.

"What man?"

"Why the man with all the black hair and a funny squash hat. I saw Sarah
let him in."

"Ah, that," said Peter, looking down at her tenderly, "that was a great
friend of mine."

She moved her head away.

"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."

Peter saw Mr. Zanti's dear friendly face, like a moon, staring at him, and
heard his warm husky voice: "Peter, my boy...."

He moved a little impatiently.

"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."

She laughed. "And now I suppose you're going to neglect me for them--for
horrid people like that man who came to-night."

Her voice was shaking a little--he saw that her hands were clenched on her
lap. He looked down at her in astonishment.

"My dear Clare, what do you mean? How could you say a thing like that even
in jest? You know--"

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--"

"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."

"I did speak to you about it but you forgot--"

"I don't think you did--I am quite sure that I should not have forgotten--"

"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."

"Clare, you shall not speak of my friends--"

"Oh, shan't I? When I married you I didn't marry all your old horrid
friends--"

"Drop it, Clare--or I shall be angry--"

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--

"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. _Nothing_--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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

Once as they drove he put out his hand, touched her dress and said--"Clare
dear--"

She made no reply, but sat looking, with her eyes large and black in her
little white face, steadfastly in front of her.

III

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.

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.

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...."

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.

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....

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.

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.

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!

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....

"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...."

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--"

"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."

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.

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.

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.

"Look here, Maradick, let's get somewhere out of this crush and have a
cigarette."

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.

Maradick was capable of sitting, quite happily for hours, without saying
anything at all. For some time they were both silent.

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--"

"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."

"What do you do," said Peter, "if it ever gets too much for you?"

"Do? How do you mean?"

"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?"

"Why, hold on, hold on--"

"How do you mean?"

"Fortitude--Courage. Clinging on with your nails, setting your teeth."

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.

Maradick put his hand on Peter's knee.

"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...."

"Treliss!" Peter almost shouted. "Why that's where I come from. I was born
there--that's my town--"

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."

"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.

"Yes--you'll never guess, if I give you a hundred guesses--it's most
exciting--come along--"

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.

IV

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.

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....

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.

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.

"Look at Mr. Horset," cried the woman next to him--"Isn't he absurd?"

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.

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....

"Cards!" he cried. "Of all wonderful things!"

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.

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