peter westcott, meanwhile, had been passing his london summer in a strange state of half-expectant happiness and tranquillity. it was a condition quite new to him, this almost tranced state of pause as though he were hesitating outside the door of some room; was some one coming who would enter with him? was he expecting to see some treasure within that might after all not be there? was he afraid to face that realization?
throughout the whole of that solitary august he had with him three joys—london, the book that was now slowly day by day growing, and millie. when he was young he had taken all he could get—then everything had been snatched from him—now in his middle age life had taught him to savour everything slowly, to expect nothing more than he perceived actually before him; he had grown selfish in his consciousness of his few treasures. if he shared with others perhaps the gods would grow jealous and rob him once again.
people might deride or condemn. he was shy now; his heart went out as truly, as passionately as it had ever done, but he alone now must know that. henry and millie, yes—they might know something—had he not sworn comradeship with them? but not even to them could he truly speak of his secrets. he had talked to henry of his book and even discussed it with him, but he would not put into spoken words the desires and ambitions that, around it, were creeping into his heart. he scarcely dared own them to himself.
of his feeling about london he did not speak to any one because he could not put it into words. there was something mysterious in the very soul of the feeling. he could tell himself that it was partly because london was a middle-aged man's[pg 237] town. paris was for youth, he said, and new york too and berlin perhaps, but london did not love you until you were a little tired and had known trouble and sorrow and lost your self-esteem. then the grey-smoked stone, the grey of pigeon's wings and the red-misted sky and the faint dusty green of the trees settled about your heart and calmed you. now when the past is something to you at last, and the scorn of the past that you had in your youth is over, london admits you into her comradeship. "there is no place," he said to himself, "where one can live in such tranquillity. she is like a woman who was once your mistress, whom you meet again after many years and with whom at last, now that passion is gone, you can have kind, loving friendship. against the grey-white stone and the dim smoke-stained sky the night colours come and go, life flashes and fades, sounds rise and fall, and kindliness of heart is there at the end." he found now that he could watch everything with a passionate interest. marylebone high street might not be the most beautiful street in london, but it had the charm of a small country town where, closing your eyes you could believe that only a mile away there was the country road, the fir-wood, the high, wind-swept down. as people down the street stopped for their morning gossip and the dogs recognized their accustomed friends and the little bell of the tiny post office jangled its bell, london rolled back like a thick mist on to a distant horizon and its noise receded into a thin and distant whisper of the wind among the trees. watching from his window he came to know faces and bodies and horses, he grew part of a community small enough to want his company, but not narrow enough to limit his horizon.
his days during those months were very quiet and very happy. he worked in the morning at his book, at some reviewing, at an occasional article. his few friends, campbell, martha proctor, monteith perhaps, james maradick, one or two more, came to see him or he went to them. there was the theatre (so much better than the highbrows asserted), there were concerts. there was golf at a cheap little course at roehampton, and there were occasional week-ends in the country . . . as a period of pause before some great event—those were happy months. perhaps the great event would never come, but never in his life before had[pg 238] he felt so deeply assured that he was moving towards something that was to change all his life. even the finishing of his book would do that. it was called the fiery tree, and it began with a man who, walking at night towards a town, loses his way and takes shelter in an old farmhouse. in the farmhouse are two men and an old woman. they consent to put him up for the night. he goes to his room, and looking out from his window on to the moonlit garden he sees, hiding in an appletree. . . . what does he see? it does not matter. in the spring of 1922 the book will be published—the fiery tree, by peter westcott: author of reuben hallard, etc.: and you be able to judge whether or no he has improved as a writer after all these years. whether he has improved or no the principal fact is that day after day he got happiness and companionship and comfort from his book. it might be good: it might be bad: he said he did not know. campbell was right. he did his best, secured his happiness. what came when the book was between its cover was another matter.
behind london and the book was millie. she coloured all his day, all his thoughts: sometimes she came before him with her eyes wide and excited like a child waking on her birthday morning. sometimes she stood in front of him, but away from him, her eyes watching him with that half-ironical suggestion that she knew all about life, that he and indeed all men were children to her whom she could not but pity, that suggestion that went so sweetly with the child in herself, the simplicity and innocence and confidence.
and then again she would be before him simply in her beauty, her colour, gold and red and dark, her body so straight, so strong, so slim, the loveliness of her neck, her hands, her breast. then a mist came before his eyes and he could see no more.
sometimes he ached to know how she was, whether she were happy with this man to whom she was engaged; he had no thought any more of having her for himself. that was one thing that his middle-age and his past trouble had brought him—patience, infinite, infinite patience.
then, as unheralded as such things usually are, the crisis came. it was a foggy afternoon. he came in about half-past three, meaning to work. just as he was about to sit down at[pg 239] his table his telephone bell rang. he was surprised to hear martha proctor's voice: he was still more surprised when she told him that she was at selfridge's and would like to come in and have tea if he were alone.
martha proctor! the last of the three graces to pay him any attention he said. but i like her. i've always liked her best of the three. . . .
he got his tea things from the little brown cupboard, made some toast, found a pot of raspberry jam; just as he had finished martha proctor stalked in. he liked her clear-cut ways, the decent friendly challenge of her smile, her liking for brown bread and jam, with no nonsense about "not being really hungry." yes, he liked her—and he was pleased that she had troubled to come to him, even though it was only the fog that had driven her in. but at first his own shyness, the eternal sense always with him that he was a recognized failure, and that no one wanted to hear what he had to say, held him back. there fell silences, silences that always came when he was alone with anybody.
he had not the gift of making others enthusiastic, of firing their intelligence. only millie and henry, and perhaps james maradick and bobby galleon were able to see him as he really was. with others he always thought of the thing that he was going to say before he said it; then, finding it priggish, or sententious, or platitudinous, didn't say it after all. no wonder men found him dull!
he liked martha proctor, but the first half-hour of their meeting was not a success. then, with a smile he broke out:
"you know—you wouldn't think it—but i'm tremendously glad the fog drove you in here to-day. there are so many things i want to talk about, but i've lost my confidence somehow in any one being interested in what i think."
"if you imagine it was the fog," said martha proctor, "that brought me in to-day, you are greatly mistaken. i've been meaning to come for weeks. you say you're diffident, well, i'm diffident too, although i wouldn't have any one in the world to know it. here i am at forty-two, and i'm a failure. no, don't protest. it's true. i know i've got a name and something of a position and young authors are said to wait nervously for[pg 240] my olympian utterances, but as a matter of fact i've got about as much influence and power as that jam-pot there. but it isn't only with myself i'm disappointed—i'm disappointed with everybody."
she paused then, as though she expected peter to say something, so he said:
"that's pretty sweeping."
"no, it isn't. the state of literature in london is rotten, more rotten than i've ever known it. everybody over forty is tired and down and out, and everybody under thirty has swelled head. and they're all in sets and cliques. and they're all hating one another and abusing one another and running their own little pets. and all the little pets that might have turned into good writers if they'd been let alone have been spoiled and ruined." she paused for breath, then went on, growing really excited: "look at young burnley for instance. there's quite a promising dramatist—you know that the rivers' family was a jolly good play. then monteith gets hold of him, persuades him that he's a critic, which, poor infant, he never was and never will be, lets him loose on his paper and ruins his character. yes, ruins it! six months later he's reviewing the same book in four different papers under four different names, and hasn't the least idea that he's doing anything dishonest!
"but burnley isn't the point. it's the general state of things. monteith and murphy and the rest think they're olympian. they're as full of prejudices as an egg is full of meat, and they haven't got a grain of humour amongst the lot. they aren't consciously dishonest, but they run round and round after their own tails with their eyes on the ground. now, i'm only saying what lots of us are feeling. we want literature to become a jollier, freer thing; to be quit of schools and groups, and to have altogether more fun in it. that's why i've come to you!"
"to me!" said peter, laughing. "i'm not generally considered the most amusing dog in london——"
"no, you're not," said miss proctor. "people don't know you, of course. lots of them think you dull and conceited. you may be proud, but you're certainly not conceited—and you're not dull."
[pg 241]
"thank you," said peter.
"no, but seriously, a lot of us have been considering you lately. you see, you're honest—no one would deny that—and you're independent, and even if you're proud you're not so damned proud as monteith, and you haven't got a literary nursery of admiring pupils. you'd be surprised, though, if you knew how many friends you have got."
"i should be indeed," said peter.
"well, you have. of course janet ross and the others of her kind think you're no good, but those are just the cliques we want to get away from. to cut a long story short, some of us—gardiner, morris, billy wells, thompson, thurtell, and there are others—want you to join us."
"what are you going to do?"
"nothing very definite at the moment. we are going to be apart from all cliques and sets——"
"i see——" interrupted peter, "be an anti-clique clique."
"not at all," said martha proctor. "we aren't going to call ourselves anything or have meetings in an a.b.c. shop or anything of the kind. it is possible that there—there'll be a paper one day—a jolly kind of paper that will admit any sort of literature if it's good of its kind; not only novels about introspective women and poems about young men's stomachs on a spring morning. i don't know. all we want now is to be a little happier about things in general, to be a little less jealous of writing that isn't quite our kind and, above all, not to be olympian!"
she banged the table with her hand and the jam-pot jumped. "i hate the olympians! damn the olympians! self-conscious olympians are the worst things god ever made . . . i'm a fool, you're not very bright, but we're not olympian, therefore let's have tea together once or twice a year!"
soon after that she went. peter had promised to come to her flat one evening soon and meet some of her friends. she left him in a state of very pleasureable excitement.
he walked up and down his room, lurching a little from leg to leg like a sailor on his deck. yes, he was awfully pleased—awfully pleased. . . . somebody wanted him. somebody thought his opinion worth having.
[pg 242]
there were friendly faces, kindly voices waiting for him.
his ambition leapt up again like fire. life was not over for him, and although he might never write a fine book nor a word that would be remembered after he was gone, yet he could help, take his share in the movement, encourage a little what seemed to him good, fight against everything that was false and pretentious and insincere.
he felt as though some one were pushing the pieces of the game at last in his favour. for long he had been baffled, betrayed, checked. now everything was moving together for him. even millie. . .!
he stopped in his walk, staring at the window behind whose panes the fog lay now like bales of dirty cotton. millie! perhaps this engagement of hers was not a success. he did not know why but he had an impression that all was not well with her. something that henry had said in a letter. something. . . . so long as she were still there so that he might see her and tell her of his work. see her, her colour, her eyes, her hands, her movement as she walked, her smile so kindly and then a little scornful as though she were telling herself that it was not grown-up to show kindness too readily, that they must understand that she was grown up. . . .
oh, bless her! he would be her true friend whatever course her life might take, however small a share himself might have in it.
he stared at the window and his happiness, his new ambition and confidence were suddenly penetrated by some chill breath. by what? he could not tell. he stood there looking in front of him, seeing nothing but the grey shadows that coiled and uncoiled against the glass.
what was it? his heart seemed to stand still in some sudden anticipation. what was it? was some one coming? he listened. there was no sound but a sudden cry from the fog, a dim taxi-whistle. something was about to happen. he was sure as one is sure in dreams with a knowledge that is simply an anticipation of something that one has already been through. just like this once he had stood, waiting in a closed room. once before. where? who was coming? some one out in the fog was now looking at the number of his house-door. some[pg 243] one had stepped into the house. some one was walking slowly up the stairs, looking at the cards upon the doors. it was as though he were chained, enchanted to the spot. now his own floor. a pause outside his door. when suddenly his bell rang he felt no surprise, only a strange hesitation before he moved as though a voice were saying to him: "this is going to be very difficult for you. pull yourself together. you'll need your courage."
he opened his door and peered out. the passage was dark. a woman was there, standing back, leaning against the bannisters.
"who's there?" he called. his voiced echoed back to him from the empty staircase. the woman made no answer, standing like a black shadow against the dark stain of the bannisters.
"do you want anything?" asked peter. "did you ring my bell?"
she moved then ever so slightly. in a hoarse whisper she said: "i want to speak to mr. westcott."
"i'm peter westcott," he answered.
she moved again, coming a little nearer.
"i want to sit down," she said. "i'm not very well." she gave a little sigh, her arms moved in a gesture of protest and she sank upon the floor. he went to her, lifted her up (he felt at once how small she was and slight), carried her into his room and laid her on his old green-backed sofa.
then, bending over her, he saw that she was his wife, clare.
instantly he was flooded, body and soul, with pity. he had, he could have, no other sense but that. it had been, perhaps, all his life even during those childish years of defiance of his father the strongest emotion in him—it was called forth now as it had never been before.
he had hurried into his bedroom, fetched water, bathed her forehead, her hands, taken off the shabby hat, unfastened the faded black dress at the throat, still she lay there, her eyes closed in the painted and powdered face, the body crumpled up on the sofa as though it were broken in every limb.
broken! indeed she was! it was nearly twenty years since he had last seen her, since that moment when she had turned back at the door, looking at him with that strange appeal in her[pg 244] eyes, the appeal that had failed. he heard again, as though it had been only yesterday, her voice in their last conversation—"i've got a headache. i'm going upstairs to lie down. . . ." and that had been the end.
she smelt of some horrible scent, the powder on her face blew off in little dry flakes, her hair was still that same wonderful colour, yellow gold; she must be forty now—her body was as slight and childish as it had been twenty years ago. he rubbed her hands: they were not clean and the nails were broken.
she moved restlessly without opening her eyes, as though in her sleep, she pushed against him, then freed her hands from his, muttering. he caught some words: "no, alex—no. don't hurt me. i want to be happy! oh, i want to be happy! oh, don't hurt me! don't!"
all this in a little whimper as though she had no strength left with which to cry out. then her eyes opened: she stared about her, first at the ceiling, then at the table and chairs, then at peter.
she frowned at him. "i oughtn't to have come here," she said. "you don't want me—not after all this time. did i faint? how silly of me!" she pushed herself up. "that's because i'm so hungry—so dreadfully hungry. i've had nothing to eat for two days except what that man gave me at the station . . . i feel sick but i must eat something——"
"hungry!" he sprang to his feet. "just lie there a minute and rest. close your eyes. there! lie back again! i'll have something ready in a moment."
he rushed into the little kitchen, found the kettle, filled it and put it on the sitting-room fire. the tea-things were still on the table, a plate with cakes, a loaf of bread, the pot of jam. she was sitting up staring at them. she got up and moved across to the table. "cut me some bread quickly. never mind about the tea."
he cut her some bread and butter. she began to eat, tearing the bread with her fingers, her eyes staring at the cakes. she snatched two of them and began to eat them with the bread. suddenly she stopped.
"oh, i can't!" she whispered. "i'm so hungry, but i can't—i'm going to be sick."
[pg 245]
he led her into his bedroom, his arm around her. there she was very ill. afterwards white and trembling she lay on his bed. he put the counterpane over her, and then said:
"would you like a doctor?" she was shivering from head to foot.
"no," she whispered. "would you make me some tea—very hot?"
he went into the sitting-room and in a fever of impatience waited for the kettle to boil. he stood there, watching it, his own emotion so violent that his knees and hands were trembling.
"poor little thing! poor little thing! poor little thing!" he found that he was repeating the words aloud. . . . the lid of the kettle suddenly lifted. he made the tea and carried it into the other room. it was dark now, with the fog and the early evening. he switched on the light and then as she turned, making a slight movement of protest with her hand, he switched it off again. she sat up a little, catching at the cup, and then began to drink it with eager, thirsty gulps.
"ah, that's good!" he heard her murmur. "good!" he gave her some more, then a third cup. with a little sigh she sank back satisfied. she lay then without speaking and he thought she was asleep. he drew a chair to the bedside and sat down there, leaning forward a little towards her. he could not see her now at all: the room was quite dark.
suddenly she began to speak in a low, monotonous voice——
"i oughtn't to have come. . . . do you know i nearly came once last year? i was awfully hard up and i got your address from the publishers. i didn't like to go to them again this time. it was just chance that you might still be here. i wouldn't have come to you at all if i hadn't been so hard up. . . ."
"hush," he said, "you oughtn't to talk. try and sleep."
she laughed. "you say that just as you used to. you aren't changed very much, fatter a bit. i'd have known you anywhere. i wouldn't have come if i'd known where benois was. he's in london somewhere, but he's given me the slip. not the first time either. . . . i'm not going to stay here, you know. you needn't be frightened."
the voice was changed terribly. he would have recognized[pg 246] it from the thin sharp note, almost of complaint, that was still in it, but it was thickened, coarsened, with a curious catch in it as though her breathing were difficult.
"don't talk now. rest!" he repeated.
"yes, you're not changed a bit. fatter of course. i've often wondered what you'd turned into. how you got on in the war. you know jerry was killed—quite early, at the beginning. he was in the french army. he treated me badly. but every one's treated me badly. all i wanted was to be happy. i didn't mean to do any one any harm. it's cruel the way i've been treated."
her voice died off into a murmur. he caught only the words "benois . . . paris . . . station."
soon he heard her breathing, soft with a little catch in it like a strangled sob. he sat on then, hearing nothing but that little catch. he did not think at all. he could see nothing. he was sightless in a blind world, coil after coil of grey vapour moving about him, enclosing him, releasing him, enclosing him again—"poor little thing!" "poor little thing!" "poor little thing!"
he did not move as the evening passed into night.
