in the street he had to pause and steady himself for a moment against a wall. he was trembling from head to foot, trembling with an extraordinary mixture of anger, surprise, indignation, and then anger again. christina had warned him months ago that this was coming. "when mother makes up her mind," she said. well, mother had made up her mind. and to what?
where was christina? perhaps already she was being imprisoned in the country somewhere and could not get word to him—punished possibly until she consented to marry that horrible old man or some one equally disgusting.
the fear that he might now be too late—felt by him for the first time—made him cold with dread. hitherto, from the moment when he had first seen the crimson feather in the circus he had been sure that fate was with him, that the adventure had been arranged from the beginning by some genial, warm-hearted olympian smiling down from his rosy-tipped cloud, seeing henry trenchard and liking him in spite of his follies, and determining to make him happy. but suppose after all, it should not be so? what if christina's life and happiness were ruined through his own weakness and dallying and delay? he was so miserable at the thought that he started back a step or two half-determining to face the horrible mrs. tenssen again. but there was nothing at that moment to be gained there. he turned down peter street, baffled as ever by his own ridiculous inability to deal with a situation adequately. what was there lacking in him, what had been lacking in him from his birth? good, practical common sense, that was what he needed. would he ever have it?
he decided that peter was his need. he would put his[pg 287] troubles to him and do what he advised. outside the upper part in marylebone high street he rang the little tinkly bell, and then waited an eternity. nobody stirred. the house was dead. a grey, sleepy-eyed cat came and rubbed itself against his leg. he rang again, and then again.
suddenly peter appeared. he could not see through the dim obscurity of the autumn afternoon.
"who's there?" he asked.
"it's me. i mean i. henry."
"henry?"
"yes, henry. good heavens, peter, it's as difficult to pass your gate as paradise's."
peter came forward.
"sorry, old man," he said. "i couldn't see. look here——"
he put his hand on henry's shoulder hesitating. "oh, all right. come in."
"what! don't you want me?" said henry, instantly, as always, suspicious of an affront. "all right, i'll——"
"no, you silly cuckoo. come in."
they passed in, and at once henry perceived that something was different. what was different? he could not tell. . . .
he looked about him. then in the middle of his curiosity the thought of his many troubles overcame him and he began:
"peter, old man, i'm dreadfully landed. there's something that ought to be done and i don't know what it is. i never do know. it's christina of course. i've just had the most awful scene with her mother; she's cursed me like a fishwife and forbidden me to come near the house again. of course i knew that this was coming, but christina warned me that when it did come it would mean that her mother had finally made up her mind to something and wasn't going to waste any time about it. . . . well, where's christina, and how am i to get at her? i don't know what's happening. they may be torturing her or anything. that woman's capable of. . . ."
he broke off, his eyes widening. the door from the inner room opened and a woman came out.
"henry," said peter, "let me introduce you. this is my wife."
[pg 288]
henry's first thought was: "now i must show no surprise at this. i mustn't hurt peter's feelings." and his second: "oh dear! poor thing! how terribly ill she looks!"
his consciousness of her was at once so strong that he forgot himself and peter. he had never seen any one in the least like her before: this was not peter's wife come back to him, but some one who had peered up for a moment out of a world so black and tragic that henry had never even guessed at its existence. not his experiences in the war, not his mother's death, nor duncombe's tragedy, nor christina and her horrible parent were real to him as was suddenly this little woman with her strange yellow hair, her large angry eyes, her shabby black dress. what a face!—he would never forget it so long as life lasted—with its sickness and anger and disgust and haggard rebellion.
yes, there were worse things than the war, worse things than assaults on the body, than maiming and sudden death. his young inexperience took a shoot into space at that instant when he first saw clare westcott.
she stared at him scornfully, then she suddenly put her hand to her throat and sat down on the sofa with pain in her eyes and a stare of rebellious anger as though she were saying:
"i'll escape you yet. . . . but you're damned persistent. . . . leave me, can't you?"
peter came to her. "clare, this is henry trenchard—my best friend."
henry came across holding out his hand:
"how do you do? i'm very glad to meet you?"
she gave him her hand, it was hot and dry.
"so you're one of peter's friends?" she said, still scornfully. "you're much younger than he is."
"yes, i am," he said. "but that doesn't prevent our being splendid friends."
"do you write too?" she asked, but with no curiosity, wearily, angrily, her eyes moving like restless candles lighting up a room that was dark for her.
"i hope to," he answered, "but it's hard to get started—harder than ever it was."
"peter didn't find it hard when he began. did you, peter?"[pg 289] she asked, a curious note of irony in her voice. "he began right away—with a great flourish. every one talking about him. . . . didn't quite keep it up though," she ended, her voice sinking into a mutter.
"never mind all that now," peter said, trying to speak lightly.
"why not mind it?" she broke in sharply. "that young man's your friend, isn't he? he ought to know what you were like when you were young. those happy days. . . ." she laughed bitterly. "oh! i ruined his work, you know," she went on. "yes, i did. all my fault. now see what he's become. he's grown fat. you've grown fat, peter, got quite a stomach. you hadn't then or i wouldn't have married you. are you married?" she said, suddenly turning on henry.
"no," he answered.
"well, don't you be. i've tried it and i know. marriage is just this: if you're unhappy it's hell, and if you're happy it makes you soft. . . ."
she seemed then suddenly to have said enough. she leant back against the cushion, not regarding any more the two men, brooding. . . .
there was a long silence.
peter said at last: "are you tired, dear? would you like to go and lie down?"
she came suddenly up from the deep water of her own thoughts.
"oh, you want to get rid of me. . . ." she got up slowly. "well, i'll go."
"no," he answered eagerly. "if you'll lie down on this sofa i'll make it comfortable for you. then harry shall tell us what he's been doing."
she stood, her hands on her hips, her body swaying ever so slightly.
"tum-te-tiddledy . . . tum-te-tiddledy. poor little thing——! was it ill? must it be fussed over and have cushions and be made to lie down? if you're ever ill," she said to henry, "don't you let peter nurse you. he'll fuss the life out of you. he's a regular old woman. he always was. he hasn't changed a bit. fuss, fuss—fuss, fuss, fuss. oh! he's very kind, peter is, so thoughtful. well, why shouldn't i stay? i haven't[pg 290] seen so many new faces in the last few days that a new one isn't amusing. when did you first meet peter?"
"oh some while ago now," said henry.
"have you read his books?"
"yes."
"do you like them?"
"yes, i do."
she suddenly lay back on the sofa and, to henry's surprise, without any protest allowed peter to wrap a rug round her, arrange the cushions for her. she caught his shoulder with her hand and pressed it.
"i used to like to do that," she said, nodding to henry. "when we were married years ago. strong muscles he's got still. haven't you, peter? oh, we'll be a model married couple yet."
she looked at henry, more gently now and with a funny crooked smile.
"do you know how long we've been married? years and years and years. i'm over forty you know. you wouldn't think it, would you? . . . say you wouldn't think it."
"of course i wouldn't," said henry.
"that's very nice of you. why, he's blushing! look at him blushing, peter! it's a long time since i've done any blushing. are you in love with any one?"
"yes," said henry.
"when are you going to be married?"
"never," said henry.
"never! why! doesn't she like you?"
"yes, but she doesn't want to be married."
"that's wise of her. it's hard on peter my coming back like this, but i'm not going to stay long. as soon as i'm better i'm going away. then he can divorce me."
"clare dear, don't——"
"just the same as you used to be."
"clare dear, don't——"
"clare, dear, you mustn't. . . . oh, men do like to have it their own way. so long as you love a man you can put up with it, but when you don't love him any more then it's hard to put up with. how awful for you, peter darling, if i'm[pg 291] never strong enough to go away—if i'm a permanent invalid on your hands for ever—— won't that be fun for you? rather amusing to see how you'll hate it—and me. you hate me now, but it's nothing to the way you'll hate me after a year or two. . . . do you know chelsea?"
"i've been there once or twice," said henry.
"that's where we used to live—in our happy married days. a dear little house we had—the house i ran away from. we had a baby too, but that died. peter was fond of that baby, fonder than he ever was of me."
she turned on her side, beating the cushions into new shapes. "oh, well, that's all over long ago—long, long ago." she forgot the men again, staring in front of her.
henry waited a little, then said a word to peter and went.
