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diff --git a/56932-0.txt b/56932-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a80731 --- /dev/null +++ b/56932-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9849 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 56932 *** + + + + + + + + + +PETER PARAGON + +A Tale of Youth + +BY + +JOHN PALMER + +[Illustration: Decoration] + +NEW YORK + +DODD, MEAD & COMPANY + +1915 + + +COPYRIGHT, 1915 +BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY + + +TO + +MILDRED + + + + +PETER PARAGON + + + + +I + + +Peter might justly have complained that his birth was too calmly +received. For Peter's mother accepted him without demur. Women who nurse +themselves more thoroughly than they nurse their babies will +incredulously hear that Mrs. Paragon made little difference in her life +on Peter's account until within four hours of his coming. Nevertheless +Peter was a healthy baby, shapeless and mottled. + +Mrs. Paragon was tall and fair, with regular features and eyes set well +apart. They looked at you candidly, and you were aware of their friendly +interest. They perfectly expressed the simplicity and peace of her +character. She was mild and immovable; with a strength that was felt by +all who dealt with her, though she rarely asserted it. She had the slow, +deep life of a mother. + +Mr. Paragon was at all points contrasted. He was short, and already at +this time he was stout. He had had no teaching; but he was not an +ignorant man. He was naturally of an active mind; and he had read +extensively the literature that suited his habit of reflection. + +Mr. Paragon was the son of a small tradesman, and had by the death of +his parents been thrown upon the London streets. After ten years he had +emerged as a managing clerk. + +Had Mr. Paragon been well treated he might have reached his fortieth +year sunny and charitable, with a cheerful faith in people and +institutions. But living a celibate life, insufficiently fed, shabbily +clothed, and never doubting his mental superiority to prosperous +employers, he had naturally adopted extremely bitter views of the world. + +Surmounting a shelf of Mr. Paragon's favourite books was a plaster bust +of Bradlaugh. The shelf itself included Tom Paine's _Rights of Man_, +Godwin's _Political Justice_, and the works of Voltaire in forty English +volumes. Mr. Paragon talked the language of Godwin's philosophic day. +Priests, kings, aristocracies, and governments were his familiar bogies. +He went every Sunday to a Labour church where extracts from Shelley and +Samuel Butler were read by the calendar; and he was a successful orator +of a powerful group of rebels among the railwaymen. + +Mr. Paragon was more Falstaff than Cassius to the eye. There was +something a little ludicrous in Mr. Paragon, with legs well apart, hands +deep in his trousers, demonstrating that religion was a device of +government for the deception of simple men, and that property was theft. + +Mrs. Paragon loved her husband, and ignored his opinions. He on his side +found rest after the bitterness of his early years in the shelter of +her wisdom. His anarchism became more and more an intellectual +indulgence. Gradually the edge was taken from his temper. He began to +enjoy his grievances now that they no longer pinched him. His charity, +in a way that charity has, extended with his circumference. He was +earning £4 a week, and he had in his wife a housekeeper who could make +£4 cover the work of £6. Mrs. Paragon did not, like many of her friends, +overtask an incompetent drudge at £10 a year. She saved her money, and +halved her labour. Ends met; and things were decently in order. Mr. +Paragon was happy; insured against reasonable disaster; with sufficient +energy and spirit left at the end of a day's work to take himself +seriously as a citizen and a man. + +There were times when Mr. Paragon took himself very seriously indeed. On +the evening of the day when Mr. Samuel, curate of the parish, called to +urge Mrs. Paragon to have Peter christened, Mr. Paragon talked so +incisively that only his wife could have guessed how little he intended. + +"No priests," he said. "That's final." + +He looked in fierce dispute at Mrs. Paragon; but meeting her calm eyes, +looked hastily away at Peter, who was sleeping by the fire in a clothes +basket. + +Mrs. Paragon was dishing up the evening meal; and Mr. Paragon saw that a +reasonably large pie-dish had appeared from the oven, from which arose a +browned pyramid of sliced potatoes. The kitchen was immediately filled +with a savour only to be associated with Mr. Paragon's favourite supper. + +Mrs. Paragon ignored the eagerness with which he drew to the table. +Shepherd's pie is a simple thing, but not as Mrs. Paragon made it. Mr. +Paragon, as he spooned generously into the steaming dish, had forgotten +Mr. Samuel till Mrs. Paragon reminded him. + +"Mr. Samuel," she said, "is only doing his duty." + +Mr. Paragon washed down a large mouthful of pie with small beer. Another +mouthful was cooling upon the end of his fork. + +"Who made it his duty?" he asked. + +Mrs. Paragon never answered these rhetorical questions; and Mr. Paragon +added, after a mouthful: + +"There are honest jobs." + +"Yes, dear; but Mr. Samuel believes in christening." + +"Perhaps he does. Mr. Samuel believes that the animals went in two by +two." + +There was a long pause. Then Mrs. Paragon left the table to serve a +large suet pudding studded with raisins. + +She dealt with it in silence. Mr. Paragon, as always on these occasions +when they were pulling different ways, felt as if he were trying to make +waves in a pool by blowing upon the surface. He could never more than +superficially ruffle the spirit of his wife. He was obscurely aware +that she had inexhaustible reserves. + +The meal concluded without further conversation; but, when Mr. Paragon +had eaten more than was good for him, he began to feel that impulsive +necessity to be generous which invariably overtook him sooner or later +in his differences with Mrs. Paragon. He looked at her amiably: + +"I see it like this," he said. "Mr. Samuel thinks he's right. But he's +not going to stuff it into my boy. I'm an independent man, and I think +for myself." + +"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Paragon. "I don't know whether Mr. Samuel is +right or wrong. I want to do the best for Peter." + +Mr. Paragon looked sharply at his wife. She was sitting comfortably +beside the clothes basket, resting for the first time since seven +o'clock in the morning. There was not the remotest suggestion that she +was resisting him. Nevertheless Mr. Paragon was aware of a passive +antagonism. He was sure she wanted Peter to be christened; he was also +sure that none of his very reasonable views affected her in the least +degree. + +He was right. Mrs. Paragon liked to hear her husband talk. But logic did +not count in her secure world. She knew only what she wanted and felt. +Calm and unutterable sense was all her genius; and Mr. Paragon felt, +rather than knew, that his books and opinions were feathers in the +scale. + +"If Peter isn't christened," Mrs. Paragon softly pursued, "he'll be +getting ideas into his head. I want him to start like other boys. Let +him find out for himself whether Mr. Samuel's right or wrong. If you +keep Peter away from Church he'll think there's something wrong with +it." + +"Something wrong with it!" exploded Mr. Paragon. "I'll tell you what's +wrong with it." + +Mr. Paragon proceeded to do so at some length. Mrs. Paragon was quite +content to see Mr. Paragon spending his force. Mr. Paragon talked for a +long time, ending in firm defiance. + +"I don't see a son of mine putting pennies into the plate for the +clergyman's Easter Holiday Fund," he noisily concluded. "When my son is +old enough to read Genesis, he'll be old enough to read the _Origin of +Species_ and the works of Voltaire." + +Thereafter he sat for the rest of the evening by the kitchen fire +reading his favourite volume of the forty--the adventures of Candide and +of Pangloss. + +But for a few moments the reading was interrupted, for Peter suddenly +woke and yelled for food. As Mrs. Paragon sat with the child, Mr. +Paragon had never felt more conscious of her serenity, of her immovable +strength, of her eternity. He watched her over the pages of his book. + +When he again looked into the adventures of Candide they had lost +something of their zest. He wondered between the lines whether the +patriarch of Ferney would have written with quite so definite an +assurance and clarity if once he had looked into the eyes of Mrs. +Paragon. + +A few days later Peter was christened at the local church. + + + + +II + + +Miranda was thirteen years old, and she lived in the next house. She was +Peter's best friend. They had soon discovered that their ideas as to a +good game were similar, and for many years they had played inseparably. +Already Mrs. Paragon and Mrs. Smith had decided to open a way through +the wall that divided the two gardens. + +To-day this breach in the wall had been filled in by Miranda with +packing-cases and an old chair. Miranda stood beside her defences of the +breach with sword and shield on the summit of a wall less than nine +inches across. + +At the wall's foot was Peter. He was his favourite hero--Shakespeare's +fifth Henry. + + + "How yet resolves the governor of the town? + This is the latest parle we will admit." + + +The moment had come for Miranda to descend from the wall and deliver the +keys of the city. But Miranda this morning refused the usual programme. +Peter, hearing that the text of Shakespeare would not on this occasion +be followed, resolved that none of the horrors of war should be spared. + +He came to the attack with a battering-ram. + +"Saint George! Saint George!" he shouted, and the ram rushed forward. + +"France! France!" Miranda screamed, and unexpectedly emptied a pail of +cold water upon Peter's head. + +Peter left the ram and swiftly retreated. + +Both parties were by this time lost to respect of consequences. Into +Peter's mind there suddenly intruded Shakespeare's vision of himself. + + + "... And at his heels, + Leashed in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire + Crouch for employment." + + +Fire! Obviously this was the retort. + +Nothing in the world burns so fiercely as a well-dried bundle of straw. +Within half a minute of the match there was literally a roar of flame, +ascending into the crevices of Miranda's breach. She rushed into the +smoke, swayed, and leaped blindly into her father's marrow-bed. + +Her father's marrows had been tenderly nursed to the threshold of +perfection. It was a portion of his routine to come into the garden +after breakfast to inspect, feel, weigh in his hands, and liberally to +discourse upon marrows. But nothing at that moment could sober Miranda. +She did not care. + +Peter was for the moment awed into inaction by a fire which burned more +rapidly than he had intended; but he climbed at last upon the wall, saw +Miranda prone among the marrows, and, surging with conquest, leaped +furiously upon her. + +Peter was more complicated than Miranda. Miranda did not yet know that +she had ruined her father's marrows. She was mercifully made to feel and +to know one thing at a time; and at this moment she felt that the only +thing in the world that mattered was to kill Peter. + +But Peter realised in mid-air that he, too, would soon be standing amid +extended ruins of the marrow-bed. His moment of indecision was fatal. +Spreading his legs, to avoid a particularly fine vegetable, he fell +headlong. Miranda was swiftly upon him, and they rolled among the shoots +and blossoms. Peter forgot his scruples. He drew the dagger at his belt, +and stabbed. + +Triumph was stillborn. He felt himself suddenly lifted from the +marrow-bed, and was next aware of some vigorous blows indelicately +placed. + +Mrs. Smith had returned from marketing, and looked for her daughter. The +fire was not difficult to perceive; it was roaring to heaven. Nor was +Miranda easily overlooked, for she was in her death-agony. + +Miranda calmly stood by, waiting until Mrs. Smith was free to deal with +her. Miranda was always sensible. Her turn would come. + +Mrs. Smith suddenly dropped Peter into the marrows, and turned the +garden hose upon Peter's fire. Peter, scrambling to his feet, watched +her with dry, contemptuous eyes. The fire was furiously crackling, +shooting up spark and flame. It was beautiful and splendid. Peter found +himself wondering in his humiliation how Mrs. Smith could so callously +extinguish it. + +"I never saw such children," said Mrs. Smith. "I don't know what your +father will say, Miranda." + +Mrs. Smith was a hard-working wife. She had no time for thought or +imagination. She dealt with Miranda, and children generally, by rote. +"Mischief" was something that children loved, for which they were +punished. It was recognised as the sort of thing serious people avoided. + +"I don't know what your father will say, Miranda." The phrase was +automatic with Mrs. Smith. Miranda knew that her father would say less +than her mother. + +"It was my fire," said Peter, smouldering wickedly; "and they are my +marrows." + +"I wasn't talking to you," said Mrs. Smith; "you'd better go away." + +At this point Mrs. Paragon appeared above the wall. + +"Peter," she said, "you might have burned the house down." + +How different, Peter thought, was his mother from Mrs. Smith. His mother +understood. Obviously it was wrong to burn the house down. He saw the +point. His mother hadn't any theories about mischief. + +Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Paragon exchanged some sentiments on the waywardness +of children, and the fire being quenched, Miranda was kept indoors for +the rest of the day. Peter wistfully wandered between meals about the +scene of his morning's adventure. He was burning with a sense of wrong. +He admitted his fault. He had imperilled the house, and he had helped to +destroy his neighbour's marrows. But he felt that Mrs. Smith's view of +things was perverse, and that his humiliation had been out of all +proportion to his offence. At the thought of Miranda's imprisonment he +savagely flushed. + +Peter ended the day in a softer mood. In the evening he had seen Mr. +Smith inspecting the ruins of his marrow bed. He knew exactly what Mr. +Smith was feeling. He remembered how he himself had felt when Mrs. Smith +had made him destroy a platform he had built in the chestnut tree at the +foot of the garden. + +Peter dashed through the gap in the wall. Mr. Smith, a kind little man +with the temperament of an angel, looked him sorrowfully in the face. +Peter's contrition was manifest and perfectly understood. + +"Bit of a mess, eh!" said Mr. Smith with an affectation that it did not +matter. + +"I'm sorry," said Peter. "It's a shame. I'm awfully sorry." + +"That's all right," said Mr. Smith. Then he added cheerfully: "Your +father will put it right." + +Mr. Smith, as a gardener, was the pupil of Mr. Paragon. But though he +had complete confidence in his instructor, his belief that anyone would +ever be able to make anything of the mangled vegetation between them was +obviously pretended for Peter's sake; and Peter knew this as well as he. + +Peter brushed away the necessary tears, and was about to obey an impulse +to grip Mr. Smith's hand in sympathy, when Mrs. Smith called her husband +sharply to supper. + +Peter watched him disappear into the house with a sudden conviction that +life was difficult. Already he heard the voice, thin and penetrating, of +Mrs. Smith, raised in a discourse upon mischief. + +Peter went in to his mother to tell her that he had apologised to Mr. +Smith. He knew it would please her, and he also knew that his father, +when he came home, would treat him with justice and understanding. + + + + +III + + +Mr. Paragon was intended for a gardener. Had he been put upon the land +at an early age he would neither have read books nor misread men: +missing these opportunities for cynicism. He might have given his name +to a chrysanthemum; and in ripe age have been full of meditated wisdom. + +That Mr. Paragon at this time should sensibly have softened from the +bitterness of his youth, was as much due to his large garden as to the +influence of his wife and the effect of his prosperity. In his oldest +and toughest clothes, working as English labourers worked before they +had lost the secret, Mr. Paragon in no way resembled himself as member +of the Labour church and a popular orator. The land absorbed him. He +handled his spade in an indescribable, professional manner. You +recognised the connoisseur who gathers in his palms the rarest china. +You trust the man who by mere handling of an object can convey to you a +sense of its value. In the same way you trusted Mr. Paragon with a +spade. When Mr. Paragon took a cutting it always struck. When he +selected seeds they always were fruitful. When he built a bank or +rounded the curve of a plot the result was always pleasing; and it came +of itself, without reflection or difficulty. His gift was from nature. +He had read no literature of gardening, and he had had no instruction. +It was his charming privilege that a garden naturally blossomed under +his hands. + +Mrs. Paragon encouraged in every possible way her husband's love of the +soil. Instinctively she divined that here he was best, and that here he +was nearest herself. She was rarely without some of his flowers upon her +table or pinned in her dress; and when on free days Mr. Paragon spent +absorbed and laborious hours in the garden, Mrs. Paragon brought him +cheese and beer, or tea and muffins, waiting at his elbow, interested +and critical, while he discussed his plans, and asked her for advice +which he never regarded. Had Mrs. Paragon neglected to feed him on these +occasions he would not have noticed it, for he lost all count of time, +and did not remember he was hungry till darkness came. + +The most striking event of the year for Mr. Paragon and his house was +the disposal of the season's rubbish. For twelve months it accumulated +in a large hole, rotting in the rain and sun. Mr. Paragon dug it +carefully into the soil at the end of the year, using it as a foundation +for beds and banks. Usually the whole family assisted at the carting of +the rubbish, with a box on wheels. + +Peter was master of the convoy for carting the rubbish, and this was a +military enterprise. Miranda harassed his operations to the best of her +ability. There were ambuscades, surprises, excursions and alarms. + +Mr. Smith looked upon these operations with delight. He liked to see Mr. +Paragon at work in the garden. He was proud of his successful neighbour, +and took real pleasure in his competence. Moreover, he delighted in +Peter's lively and interesting pretences. He would himself have led the +attack upon Peter's convoy had he been free of Mrs. Smith's critical and +contemptuous survey from the back-parlour window. Once he had actively +taken part, and Mrs. Smith discovered him on all fours among the +gooseberries, whence he had intended to create a diversion in Peter's +rear. The rational frigidity with which she had come from the house to +inquire what he imagined himself to be doing effectually prevented a +repetition. + +This afternoon there was a sharp encounter. This was a great moment in +Peter's life owing to a brief, almost instantaneous, passage. Miranda +met Peter's onslaught in her manly fashion, and soon they were locked in +a desperate embrace. Suddenly Peter saw Miranda, as it seemed to him +afterwards, for the first time. Her head was flung back, her cheeks +crimsonly defiant, eyes shining, and hair scattered. For Peter it was a +vision. He saw with uneasy terror that Miranda was beautiful. He had a +quailing instinct to release her. It passed; but Miranda met the look +that came into his eyes and understood. + +Who can say how softly and insensibly the change had been prepared? The +books they had read; the strange couples that walked in the evening, +curiously linked; the half-thoughts and surmises; queer little impulses +of cruelty or tenderness that had passed between them--all were suddenly +gathered up. + +Peter realised the difference in his life that this moment had made for +him in the late evening when Mr. Paragon was showing him a transit of +Jupiter's third moon. Astronomy was a passion with Mr. Paragon. +Astronomy overthrew Genesis and confounded religion. He had picked up +cheap a six-inch reflecting telescope, and very frequently on fine +evenings he probed the heavens for uninspected nebulæ, resolved double +stars, mapped the surface of the moon, followed the fascinating mutation +of the variables. Peter was very soon attracted and absorbed into his +father's pastime. It had a breathless appeal for him. Awed and excited, +he would project his mind into the measureless dark spaces. It was an +adventure. Sometimes they would rise after midnight, and these were the +times Peter loved best. The extreme quiet of the hour; loneliness upon +earth giving a keener edge to the loneliness of heaven; the silence of +the sleeping street lending almost a terror to the imagined silence of +space; the secret flavour which crept into the enterprise from the mere +fact of waking while the world was asleep--all this gave to the +situation, for Peter, an agreeable poignancy. Already he had discovered +the appeal of Shelley, and he would repeat, pleasantly shuddering, +passages of his favourite story: + + + "I have made my bed + In charnels and on coffins, where black death + Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, + Hoping to still these obstinate questionings + Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, + Thy messenger, to render up the tale + Of what we are." + + +The contrast was striking at these times between Peter and his father. +For Mr. Paragon every double star resolved was a nail in the coffin of +the Established Church; every wonder of the skies, inspected and +verified, was a confirmation that society was built on stubble. But for +Peter these excursions were food for fancy, the stuff of his dreams. He +soared into space, not as Mr. Paragon intended, to discover the fraud of +priests and kings, but to voyage with Shelley's Mab through the +beautiful stars. + +To-night the adventure had lost its edge. Nothing could be more exciting +than a transit of Jupiter's third moon. The gradual approach of the tiny +moon to the edge of the planet; its momentary extinction; the slow +passage of the little shadow on the cloud-bright surface--the loveliness +of this miniature play was sharpened for Peter by knowledge of its +immensity. Mr. Paragon gave up the telescope to Peter, and waited for +breathless exclamation. But Peter was silent. + +"Well," said Mr. Paragon, "can't you see it?" + +"Yes," answered Peter indifferently. + +"Perhaps the focus isn't quite right," suggested Mr. Paragon. He looked +anxiously at Peter. Peter's indifference was unusual. + +"It's all right, father, I can see it well. It's a black spot, and it's +moving across." + +"Wonderful!" said Mr. Paragon. "Think of it, Peter. Jupiter to-night is +60,000,000 miles away. It would easily hold 1300 of us, and it's got +five moons. Looks as if it were made for lighting people to bed, don't +it?" + +"Yes, father," said Peter without interest. + +Peter's fancy had suddenly flown to a passage in _Romeo and Juliet_, +hitherto passed as absurd--something about cutting up Romeo into little +stars. Peter smelled the wet earth and remembered Miranda. His +imagination to-night refused the cold voyage into space. His father's +figures, after which his mind had so often adventurously strained, were +senseless. + +His attention fell suddenly asleep at the telescope. + +He realised that his father was asking him whether the transit was +finished. He started into watchfulness and replied, still indifferently, +that it was. + +Mr. Paragon was mortified. He showed Peter the wonders of the universe +with a sort of proprietary satisfaction. He was proud of the size of +Jupiter. He was personally exalted that the distance between the earth +and the moon should be 240,000 miles. He had the pride of a +conscientious cicerone; of the native who does the honours of his town. +Peter to-night was disappointing. + +"Well," said Mr. Paragon desperately, "what do you think of it?" + +"It was very clear," Peter dutifully answered. + +"There's not many lads your age," grumbled Mr. Paragon, "that have seen +a transit of Jupiter's third moon." + +"I know," said Peter, trying to feel excited and grateful. He had been +looking forward to this evening for weeks. Why was he unable to enjoy +it? + +He repeated the question to himself as, half an hour later, he lay +peacefully in bed. Then he found himself trying to remember the exact +phrase about Romeo and the little stars. + + + + +IV + + +Peter went daily to school in a dirty quarter of the town at least two +miles from home. The house of the Paragons was upon the borders of the +western or fashionable suburb of Hamingburgh. The school barely escaped +the great manufacturing district to the east and south. It was a branch +school of the great local foundation of King Edward VI. In the phrase of +the local roughs, through whose courts and alleys he passed, Peter was a +"grammar-cat." + +He was supposed to go to school by the main road, where he was more or +less under the protection of the police. For between the roughs and the +grammar-cats was perpetual war; and to take the shorter route through +the courts and alleys was an act of provocation. But Peter hankered +after the forbidden road. His father, showing him the way to school, had +stopped at a certain corner: + +"This," he said, "is the shortest way; but you had better go round by +the main road." + +"Why?" Peter had asked. + +"It's a nasty neighbourhood," said Mr. Paragon. + +From that moment the shortest route became for Peter a North-West +Passage. He would stand at the fatal corner, looking up the street with +its numberless small entries. Then, on a memorable day, he plunged. + +First he had a soaring sense of his audacity. He felt he had left the +laws behind. To win through now must entirely depend on his personal +resource. At the doors of an immense factory men, women, and boys stood +in line, waiting for the signal to blow them into work. Peter felt with +a sinking at the stomach that he was an object of curiosity. He indeed +looked strangely out of place in his neat suit of a small tar, with a +sailor's knot foppishly fastened at the breast. The curious eyes of the +waiting group followed him up the street. He was painfully aware, as he +passed, that jocular remarks in sleepy midland slang were freely +exchanged upon his apparition. Higher up the street a little rough +stopped for a moment and stared, then started into an alley screaming. + +The street was suddenly alive. Peter, flinging self-respect to the +winds, started to run. A stone caught him smartly on the heel, and he +thought he was lost. But another cry was almost immediately sounded. The +helmet of a policeman came glinting up the street. + +The roughs vanished as quickly as they had appeared. + +Peter did not again venture into this district alone. At least a dozen +of his school friends lived in the western suburb. He formed them into +a company, which daily took the forbidden way to school. Such was the +origin of a feud whose deeds and passages would fill a chronicle. +Peter's company was long remembered. + +He soon made some striking discoveries. You cannot fight with a +persistent enemy, even though his methods are not your methods, without +touching his good points. It soon became evident that he and the roughs +were less bitterly opposed than either of them was to the police. It was +also clear that the men and women of the factory were "sports." They +encouraged the boys quite impartially, and saw fair play. + +Peter particularly remembered one morning of snow and dirt outside the +big factory, when he slipped and fell, squirming with bitter pain of a +snowball hard as ice in his ear. A stalwart woman with naked arms grimed +with lead, picked him up and pressed him in a comfortable and friendly +way against her bosom. She was in that dark hour an angel of strength +and solace. The incident always lived in Peter's memory along with the +faint smell in his nostrils of the factory grime. + +On the morning after the transit of Jupiter's third moon Peter was late. +His company had not waited. Peter had to pass his enemies alone. + +He still wondered at the change which had come over him yesterday. +Nothing that morning seemed of the least importance save a curious +necessity to be still and inquire of himself what had happened. + +He thought only of Miranda, wondering why he saw her now at a distance. + +A company of roughs lay between Peter and his friends. He was cut off; +but it did not seem to matter. Everything that morning was unreal. He +walked quite indifferently towards them. They seemed so remote that, had +they vanished into air, he would not have been surprised. + +Peter pushed loftily past a handsome young rough. + +"Now then," said the fellow. + +"Let me pass," said Peter, curiously pedantic beside the other. + +"Not so fast." + +"Let go of my arm," said Peter. + +"Not much," said the enemy. + +Peter flew into a rage. + +"Funk," he said, without point or reason. + +"Say it again." + +"Funk." + +"Who's a funk?" + +"You are." + +"Are you calling me a funk?" + +"Yes." + +"Say it again." + +"Funk." + +There was a deadlock. Peter must try something else. + +"See this face?" he inquired with deadly offensiveness, thrusting +forward his countenance for exhibition. + +"Take it away," said the other. + +"Hit it," said Peter. + +"I shall if you don't take it away." + +"Just you hit it." + +Peter's enemy did hit it. Immediately a ring was formed. Peter fell back +into his mood of indifference to the world. This fight was a nuisance, +but it had to go on. + +They fought three vigorous rounds. From every court and alley spectators +poured. Windows were flung up. + +Then a policeman was seen, and in ten seconds the street was empty +again. Peter jogged off to the main road. The roughs scattered into +holes. + +Peter, late for school, came up for inspection with a swollen lip and an +eye which became more remarkable as time went on. But pain this morning +meant as little to Peter as reproof. He was unable to take things +seriously. He felt curiously above them. + +Home at midday he avoided his family. He felt a necessity to be alone, +to dream and to exult over something that had neither shape nor name. He +went into a secret passage. + +This secret passage was intimately bound up with his life of adventure. +The gardens of Peter's road met at the bottom the gardens of a parallel +highway. The two rows were parted by a line of trees and a wall. On the +farther side of the wall a thick hedge, planted a few feet from the foot +of the wall, had been trained to meet it overhead. After many years it +formed a natural green tunnel between the gardens. This tunnel, cleared +of dead shoots and leaves, was large enough for Peter and Miranda to +crawl from end to end of the wall's foot, and gave them access, after +pioneering, to the trees which rose regularly from the midst of the +hedge. + +Peter to-day climbed into the secret passage, not for adventure but to +be alone. The old life seemed very remote. Could he really have believed +that the tree against which he leaned was a fortress that had cost him +ten thousand men? + +A humble bee bustled into the shade and fell, overloaded with pollen. +Peter watched it closely. Already he found himself seeing little +things--their beauty and a vague impulse in himself to express it. + +Peter's indifference to the impertinent call of the things of yesterday +was quite wonderful. + +"Hullo!" said Mr. Paragon at dinner, "you've been fighting." + +"Yes, father," said Peter. + +"Goodness gracious!" Mrs. Paragon exclaimed. "Look at Peter's face!" + +"Yes, mother," said Peter. + +"Tell us about it, my boy," twinkled Mr. Paragon. + +"There's nothing to tell, father." + +"Was he a big boy?" Mr. Paragon asked. + +"Middling." + +"Did you beat him?" + +"No, father." + +"Did he beat you?" + +"No, father." + +Mr. Paragon looked at Peter with misgiving. + +"Mary," said Mr. Paragon in the late evening, "Peter's growing up." + +They were sitting together in the garden, Mr. Paragon smoking a pipe +after supper. It was warm and quiet, with occasional light noises from +the wood and the near houses. It was Mr. Paragon's moment of peace--a +time for minor meditations, softened by the stars and the flowers, +equally his by right of conquest. + +Mrs. Paragon sighed. She divined a coming rift between herself and +Peter. + +"He is very young," she protested. + +"He was always older than his years," said Mr. Paragon; and, after a +silence, he added: "Don't lose touch with the boy, Mary. We have got to +help him over these discoveries. Life's too fine to be picked up +anyhow." + +"It's not easy to keep with the young. There's so much to understand." + +Mrs. Paragon said this a little sadly, and Mr. Paragon felt bound to +comfort her. + +"Peter's a good boy," he said. + +Meantime Peter in his attic was not asleep. It was his habit, shut in +his room for the night, to climb through the skylight, and sit upon a +flat and cozy space of the roof by the warm chimney. There he was +frequently joined by Miranda from the attic of the next house. + +But Peter sat this evening at the window. The garden was quick with +faint play of the wind; and Peter's ears were sensitive to small noises +of the trees. + +There was a faint tapping upon the wall. Peter was instantly alert, and +as instantly amazed at the effect upon himself of this familiar signal. +He had heard it a hundred times. It was thus that he and Miranda +communicated with one another when they went up to their nook by the +chimney. + +He looked into the dark room. The signal was repeated, but he sat by the +window like alabaster, his heart beating in his ears. + +The knocking ceased, and for a long while Peter sat still as a stone. +Then he sprang at the cord of the skylight window, opened it and crept +out. Miranda was perched between the chimneys. It was quite dark. Peter +could only see that she was staring away from him. + +"Miranda!" His voice trembled and broke, but she did not move. + +He knew now he had not been dreaming. Miranda, too, was changed. He felt +it in the poise of her averted face and in her silence. + +He waited to say he knew not what, and stayed there, a queer figure +sitting astride the slates. Miranda's arm lay along the skylight. He +touched her. + +She caught her breath, and Peter knew she was crying. + +"Miranda," he called, "why are you crying?" + +She turned in the dark and a tear splashed on his hand. + +"I'm not crying!" she flashed. "I thought you were never coming," she +added inconsequently. + +It was Peter's first encounter with a woman. He was for a moment +checked. + +"Miranda!" he said; and again his voice trembled and broke on the name. +Miranda, in a single day as old as a thousand years, vibrated to the +word half-uttered. She dropped her head into her hands, and wept aloud. + +Peter held her tight, speaking now at random. + +"I always meant to come," he quavered. "You know I always meant to come. +Miranda, don't cry so. I was afraid when first I heard you knocking." + +"You'll always love me, Peter." + +"For ever and ever." + +Every little sound was exaggerated. There was a low mutter of voices in +the garden below. Peter saw the glow of his father's pipe. So near it +seemed, he fancied he could smell the tobacco. + +Mr. and Mrs. Paragon, talking of Peter, sat later than usual. Before +going to bed, they went into the attic, and stood together for a while. +Peter had fallen happily asleep. Miranda was comforted, and he was +lifted above all the heroes. The shadow of adolescence lay upon him. +His mother saw it, and, as she kissed him, it seemed as if she were +bidding him farewell upon a great adventure. + + + + +V + + +Peter in common daylight carefully examined his face in the +looking-glass. His left eye was a painter's palette. He ruefully +remembered that the fight had yet to be finished. He was bound to offer +his adversary an opportunity of completing the good work, and he +distinctly quailed. Peter was this morning upon solid earth. The crisis +was past. He knew now that he had quickly to be a man, to get knowledge +and wealth and power. + +Boys at Peter's branch of the foundation of King Edward VI could no +higher ascend into knowledge than the binomial theorem. Peter, not yet +fifteen, was already head of the school--the favourite pupil of his +masters, easily leading in learning and cricket. Already it was a +question whether he should or should not proceed to the High School +where Greek and the Calculus were to be had. + +Peter's career was already a problem. Mr. Paragon inclined to believe +that the best thing for a boy of fifteen was to turn into business, +leaving Greek to the parsons. Mrs. Paragon had different views. Peter +was yet unaware of this discussion, nor had he wondered what would +happen when the time came for leaving his first school. + +Peter's company raised a chorus when they beheld him. They explained to +Peter what his face was like. They were proud of it. A terrible and +bloody fellow was their captain. + +When Peter met his adversary each noted with pleasure that the other was +honourably marked. + +The handsome rough thrust out a large red hand. + +"Take it or leave it," he said. + +Peter took it. The bells were calling in a final burst, and he passed +rapidly on with his company. It was peace with honour. + +Peter was in a resolute grapple with the binomial theorem when a call +came for him to go into the headmaster's room. Peter, delicately feeling +his battered face, followed the school-porter with misgiving. + +"Paragon," said the headmaster, "I don't like your face. It isn't +respectable." + +Peter writhed softly, aware that he was ironically contemplated. + +"This fighting in the streets," continued the headmaster, "is becoming a +public nuisance. I should be sorry to believe that any of our boys +provoked it. I hope it was self-defence." + +"Mostly, sir," said Peter. + +"I rely upon you, Paragon, to avoid making the school a nuisance to the +parish." + +"I realise my responsibility, sir." + +Peter was quite serious, and the headmaster did not smile. + +"Now, Paragon," he said, "I want to talk to you about something else. I +have just written to your father. Do you know what you would like to do +when you leave school?" + +"No, sir," said Peter. + +Peter had, in fancy, invented posts for himself that would tax to the +fullest extent his complicated genius. He had lived a hundred lives. +Nevertheless, bluntly asked whether he had thought about his future, he +as bluntly answered "No," and knew in a moment that the answer was +dreadfully true. His cloud cuckooland of battle and success, magnificent +with pictures of himself in all the great attitudes of history, vanished +at a simple question. He was rapidly growing old. + +The headmaster continued, pitilessly sensible. + +"I want you to go on with your education," he said. "You have done very +well with us here. I have written to your father urging him to send you +to the High School where it will be possible for you to qualify for the +University. I want you, before you see your father, to make up your mind +what you want to do." + +Peter left the headmaster's room with a sense of loss. The glamour had +gone out of life. His future, vast and uncertain, had in a moment +narrowed to a practical issue. Should he go on to another school, or +into some office of the town? These were dreary alternatives. Already he +was fifteen years old, and he had somehow to be the most famous man in +the world within the next five years. + +Peter's father went that day to visit his brother-in-law. + +Henry Prout, Peter's uncle and godfather, had at this time retired from +the retailing of hardware. He was wealthy, an alderman of the town, and +a bachelor. He took a father's interest in his nephew. There was a +tacit, very indefinite assumption that in all which nearly concerned his +sister's son Henry had a right to be consulted. + +When Peter heard his father had gone round to his uncle's house he knew +his career was that evening to be decided. + +Henry Prout was a copy in gross of his sister. Mrs. Paragon was queenly +and fair. Henry was large and florid. Mrs. Paragon was amiable and full +of peace. Henry was genial and lazy. Mrs. Paragon equably accepted life +from a naturally perfect balance of character, Henry from a naturally +perfect confidence in the inclinations of his rosy and abundant flesh. + +Uncle Henry had one large regret. He had had no education, and he +greatly envied the people who had. His admiration for the results of +education was really a part of his indolence. He admired the readiness +and ease with which educated people disposed of problems which cost him +painful efforts of the brain. Education was for Uncle Henry a royal way +to the settlement of every difficult thing. If you had education, life +was an arm-chair. If you had it not, life was a necessity to think +things laboriously out for yourself. + +Uncle Henry had made up his mind that Peter should have the best +education money could buy. Peter, he determined, should learn Greek. + +"Well, George," he said in his comfortable thick voice, "what's it going +to be?" + +He was not yet alluding to Peter's career, but to some bottles on the +little table between them. + +"Half and half," said George. + +"Help yourself," said Henry, adding, as Mr. Paragon portioned out his +whisky, "How's sister?" + +"Up to the mark every time." + +"She's all right. There's not a more healthy woman in England than +sister." + +Henry paused a little in reflection upon the virtues of Mrs. Paragon. He +then continued. + +"How's the boy?" + +"I'll tell you what," said Mr. Paragon, "he's growing up." + +"Fifteen next December." + +"Old for his age," said Mr. Paragon, nodding between the lines. + +Uncle Henry thoughtfully compressed his lips. + +"Well," he said, "I suppose the boy will have to find out what he's made +of." + +"He's very thick next door," suggested Mr. Paragon with a meaning eye. + +"I've noticed her, George. She'll soon be finding out a thing or two for +herself." + +"There's a handsome woman there," said Mr. Paragon. + +"Well enough." + +They paused again in contemplation of possibilities in Miranda. + +"I've had a letter," said Mr. Paragon at last. The headmaster's sheet +was handed over, and carefully deciphered. + +"Writes a shocking hand," said Uncle Henry. "That's education. Peter's +hand," he added contentedly, "is worse. I can't make head or tail of +what Peter writes." + +Henry mixed himself another whisky. "They seem to think a great lot of +him," he said thoughtfully. "That about the Scholarships, for instance. +They say he'll get the £30. Then he goes to the High School and gets +£50, and £80 at the University. Think of that, George." + +"I don't hold with it," Mr. Paragon broke out. + +"Education," Henry began. + +"Education yourself," interrupted Mr. Paragon. "What's the good of all +that second-hand stuff?" + +"It helps." + +"Yes. It helps to make a nob of my son. It's little he'll learn at the +University except to take off his hat to people no better than himself." + +"Can't you trust him?" + +"Peter's all right," Mr. Paragon jealously admitted. + +"There's no harm in a bit of Greek. You talk as if it was going to turn +him straight off into a bishop." + +Uncle Henry paused, and, desiring to make a point, took the hearthrug. + +"I can't understand you," he continued, with legs well apart. "If Peter +is going to have my money, he's got to learn how to spend it. Look at +myself. I have had sense to make a bit of money, but I've got no more +idea of spending it than a baby. I want Peter to learn." + +"That's all right," said Mr. Paragon. "But what's going to happen to +Peter when he gets into the hands of a lot of doctors?" + +"Peter must take his chance." + +"It's well for you to talk. You're as blue as they're made, and a +churchwarden of the parish." + +Uncle Henry solemnly put down his glass. "George," he said, "it does not +matter to a mortal fool what I am, nor what you are. Peter's got to find +things out for himself. He'll get past you and me; and, whether he comes +out your side or mine, he'll have more in his head." + +Uncle Henry ended with an air of having closed the discussion, and, +after some friendly meditation, whose results were flung out in the +fashion of men too used to each other's habit of thought to need +elaborate intercourse, Mr. Paragon rose and went thoughtfully home. + +By the time he reached the Kidderminster Road he had definitely settled +the question of Peter's career. Peter should get knowledge. He should +possess the inner fortress of learning. He should be the perfect knight +of the oppressed people, armed at all points. Thus did Mr. Paragon +reconcile his Radical prejudices with his fatherly ambition. + +Arrived home, he showed the headmaster's letter to Mrs. Paragon. + +She read it with the pride of a mother who knows the worth of her boy, +but nevertheless likes it to be acknowledged. + +Mr. Paragon watched her as she read. + +"Yes," he said, answering her thoughts, "Peter's all right." + +Mrs. Paragon handed back the letter. + +"I suppose," suggested Mr. Paragon, airily magnificent, "he had better +go on with his education?" + +"Of course," said Mrs. Paragon. + +Mr. Paragon knew at once that if he had persisted in taking Peter from +school he would have had to persuade his wife that it was right to do +so. He also knew that this would have been very difficult. + +Fortunately, however, he had decided otherwise. He could flatter himself +now that he had settled this grave question himself. It was true, in a +sense, that he had. Mr. Paragon had not for nothing lived with his wife +for nearly seventeen years. + + + + +VI + + +Peter was not happy at the High School. It is disconcerting, when you +have been First Boy and a Captain, to be put among inferior creatures to +learn Greek. Peter had risen with his former friends from the lowest to +the highest; they had grown together in sport and learning. Now he found +himself in a middle form, an interloper among cliques already +established. Moreover, the boys at the High School, where education for +such as could not obtain a foundation scholarship was more expensive +than at the lower branches, were of a superior quality, with nicer +manners and a more delicate way of speaking. He was a stranger. + +At sixteen Peter was almost a man. His father had always met him upon an +intellectual equality. They had talked upon the gravest matters. Peter +had voraciously read a thousand books which he did not altogether +understand. It needed only physical adolescence to show him how far he +had outstripped the friends of his age. + +The lot of a precocious boy is not a happy one, and Peter paid the +penalty. He made not a single friend during his two years at the new +school. He lived gravely after his own devices, quiet, observant, +superficially accessible to the kind advances of his masters and +classfellows, but profoundly unaffected. + +Nevertheless these years were the most important of Peter's life, +wherein he learned all that his father was able to teach him. Peter, +years after he had outlived much of his early wisdom, yet looked back +upon this time as peculiarly sacred to his father. From him he learned +to accept naturally the perplexing instincts that now were arisen within +him. Peter escaped the usual unhappy period of surmise and shamefast +perplexity. + +More particularly these were the glorious years of Peter and Miranda. +Peter found in Miranda the perfect maid, and Miranda, eager for +knowledge and greedy of adoration, reaching after the life of a woman +with the mind and body of a girl, found in Peter the pivot of the world. +In these years were laid the foundations of an incredible intimacy. +Daily they grew in a perpetual discovery of themselves. Peter opened to +Miranda the store of his knowledge. There was perfect confidence. At an +age when the secrets of life are the subject of uneasy curiosity at +best, and at worst of thoughtless defamation, Peter and Miranda talked +of them as they talked of their bees (Peter's latest craze); of the +stars; of the poets they loved (Miranda was not yet altogether a woman: +she loved the poets); of the life they would lead in the friendly world. + +Miranda was the more thrown upon Peter as neither of her parents was +able to direct her. Her mother was entirely unimaginative. Her fierce +affection for Miranda showed itself in a continual insistence that she +should "behave"; read and eat only what was good for her; and be as +well, if not better, dressed than the children of her neighbours. For +her father Miranda had some affection, but she could not respect him. +She saw him continually overridden by her mother, and already she +overtopped him in stature by a head. + +The months went quickly by, and soon it was the eve of Peter's journey +to Oxford as the candidate for an open scholarship. Peter was nervously +excited. Every little detail, in his heightened sensibility, seemed +important. It was late summer, a warm night, the room filling rapidly +with shadows. Miranda sat by the window, her face to the fallen sun. + +The men were talking politics. Their lifted voices grated upon Peter's +thoughts. It was a time of strikes and rioting. Mr. Paragon, as an +orator, was urgently requested in the streets of Hamingburgh. He was +full of his theme, and extremely angry with Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was an +entirely amiable little man, but he delighted in the phrases of battle. +He talked politics in a soldier's terms. He was perpetually storming the +enemy's position or turning his rear. The English political situation +was in Mr. Smith's view never far removed from war and revolution. He +delighted in images of violence. The mildest of small men, whose nerves +were shattered by an unexpected noise, he was always ready to talk of +the prime duty of governments to stamp out rebellion in blood. Mr. Smith +could not pull a cracker at Christmas without shutting his eyes and +getting as far as possible from the explosion; but, politically, he was +a Prussian. + +"Shoot them down!" + +Mr. Smith was repeating a formula by now almost mechanical. + +To Peter it was desperately familiar. The men's voices every now and +then were overborne by Mrs. Smith in one of her perpetual +recommendations to Miranda. + +"Take your elbows off the sill, Miranda." + +"Yes, mother." + +Miranda answered with the mechanical obedience of a child who makes +allowances. + +She turned at the same time into the room, full of the contrast between +the beauty of the garden and the two absurd figures in dispute upon the +hearthrug. She looked over to Peter in the shadow. + +His eyes were full of her, burning with delight. + +Miranda, meeting his look, felt suddenly too glad for endurance. She +burst from her seat. + +Her mother's voice, thin and penetrating, was plainly heard above the +ground-bass of political argument. + +"Where are you going, Miranda?" + +"Into the garden, mother," patiently answered Miranda, and with never a +look at Peter she went. + +The men talked on. Peter quietly followed Miranda into the garden, +unnoticed except by his mother. + +Mrs. Paragon had read the lines of her son's face. She sighed as he +slipped away, knowing that at that moment the world held for Peter but +one thing really precious. She smiled, not bitterly, but with +indulgence, upon the talking fathers. + +Peter and Miranda sat for many minutes without a word. The evening was +perfect, the shining of stars in a violet sky mocked on earth with the +shining of great clusters of evening primrose. How full the night +seemed! The stars were very secret, but the secret waited to be told. + +"I shall not be able to bear it," said Miranda suddenly. + +"Four days," said Peter. + +"But after that." + +"Eight weeks at a time." + +But Miranda's heart sank at the eternity of eight weeks. + +Protesting with her, Peter at last said: + +"I'm always with you, Miranda." + +She turned and found he was looking where Mirza glittered with its +companion star. He had written her a poem in which he had likened Mirza +to himself, eternally passing through heaven with his tiny friend. + +Miranda felt to-night how empty was this fancy. + +"You are going away," she said, "and you have never----" She stopped, +frightened and ashamed. She wished to run from the place, and she was +glad of the dark. + +The feeling passed, and she lifted her head, looking at Peter. Her eyes +were full of challenge and of fear, of confession, of reserve--the +courage of a maid--proud to be as yet untouched, but happy in surrender. + +"All that I have--and how beautiful it is!--is yours," was what Peter +read. + +The tears rushed into her eyes. They both were crying as Peter kissed +her. It was the first kiss of lovers two years old, the first delicate +breach of their chastity. + +Miranda lifted her head upon Peter's arm. + +"I want to be with you always," she said. "I cannot bear you to go +away." + +Footsteps intruded. Uncle Henry had come, God-speeding his nephew. Peter +had been missed, and Uncle Henry was coming to find him. Peter felt as +if the world were advancing to rob him of something too precious to be +lawfully his. He wanted to save Miranda from this intrusion. + +"Good-bye, darling!" he whispered. + +She understood. + +"Hold me near to you, Peter," she said. They kissed a second time, +lingering on the peril of discovery. She ran lightly away as Uncle Henry +parted the bushes and thrust his great head towards the seat. + +"Hullo, Peter, my boy, is that you?" + +"Yes, Uncle." + +"I thought I would look round to wish you luck." + +"Thank you, Uncle." + +"Somebody did not want to see me," said Uncle Henry, crossly following +Miranda with his eyes. + +Peter flashed an indignant look upon his uncle. He could not tell him +why Miranda had gone away; how she was too precious to suffer the +contact of dull earth. + +They walked into the house. For Peter the rest of the evening passed in +a dream. He made his plans for an early breakfast, received the last +advice as to his trains and the disposition of his money, and went as +soon as possible to his bedroom under the eaves. + + + + +VII + + +Miranda was at the window as Peter drove off next morning in a +hansom-cab. The sun was shining, the earth green after rain. Peter was +starting on his first unaccompanied journey in his first hansom-cab, and +he was unable to feel as miserable as he should. Miranda gave him a +smile that struggled to be free of sadness at losing him for four days, +and of envy at his adventure. Peter knew how she felt, and he was angry +with himself for being happy. + +The miles flew quickly by. Peter soon began to wonder in pleasant +excitement what Oxford was like. + +At Oxford station he was immediately sensible of the advantages of a +town where a great many people live only to anticipate the wishes of +young gentlemen. In Hamingburgh only people with great presence of mind +can succeed in being attended to by the men who in that independent city +put themselves, as cabmen, porters, and shop assistants, into positions +of superiority to the public. Peter was amazed at the deference with +which his arrival upon the platform was met. The whole town seemed only +anxious that he should reach his lodgings as quickly and as comfortably +as possible. + +Peter's impressions thereafter were fierce and rapid. His four days +were a wonderful round of visits. He perused the colleges, the gardens, +and the river. He called upon old schoolfellows for whom the life of +Oxford was already commonplace; who had long since forgotten that they +were living in one of the loveliest of mediæval towns; who blindly +perambulated the cloisters, weighing the issues of a Test Match. He +visited professors by invitation, and listened for the first time in his +life to after-dinner conversation incredibly polite. After his papers +were written for the day, he could make a quiet meal and issue +adventurously into the streets, eagerly looking into the career at whose +threshold he had arrived. + +Peter was in a city of illusion. He constructed the life, whose outward +activities he so curiously followed, from the stones of Oxford, and saw, +as it seemed to him, an existence surrendered to lovely influences of +culture and the awful discipline of knowledge. With reverence he +encountered in the quadrangle of the college whose hospitality he was +seeking, a majestic figure, silver-haired, of dreaming aspect, passing +gravely to his pulpit of learning. This was that famous Warden, renowned +in Europe as the author of many books wherein the mightiest found +themselves corrected. + +Later in the day he enviously saw the inhabitants of this happy world, +who in the morning had followed the Warden in to his lecture to get +wisdom, issue from their rooms (whose windows opened within rustle of +the trees and prospect of a venerable lawn) dressed for the field or +river. It particularly impressed Peter that in this attire they should +take their way unconcerned through the streets of the town. No one would +have dared, in Hamingburgh, to be thus conspicuous. How debonair and +free was life in this heavenly city! + +At evening Peter walked in the streets and quadrangles, getting precious +glimpses of an interior studiously lit, with groups, as he fancied them, +of sober scholars in grave debate upon their studies of the morning; or, +perhaps, in pleasant reminiscence of their games of the afternoon. +Sometimes Peter would hear a burst of laughter or see through the panes +of a college window a group of men deep in poker or bridge. Peter then +remembered wild tales of the license of young bloods, and was not +displeased. It added a zest to his meditations. + +Peter's last evening focussed his impressions. It was the agreeable +habit of the dons of Gamaliel College to invite their candidates to +dinner when the trial was over. Peter accepted the invitation with +dismay. It was the first time he had ever proposed to take an evening +meal by way of dinner; he was afraid. + +Nevertheless, the reality was quite pleasant. His first impression of +the dons of Gamaliel was of their kindly interest in himself. He seemed +to be specially selected for attention. The Warden in his welcome looked +perusingly at him. Peter's instinct, quick to feel an atmosphere, +warned him, as they talked, that he was being tactfully drawn. He +noticed also the smiles that occasionally passed when he plunged into +some vigorous opinion about the books he hated or loved. Insensibly he +grew more cautious, and, as the dinner advanced, he was amazed to hear +himself, as though he were listening to someone else, saying things in a +new way. Peter was beginning to acquire the Oxford manner. His old life +was receding. He caught vaguely at a memory of Miranda, but she lived in +another world. Here he sat a king of the earth. A beautifully spoken, +white-haired servant at his elbow filled his glass with golden wine, and +as he accepted regally of delicate meats from dishes respectfully +offered, he heard himself, in tones already grown strangely in tune with +those of his companions, contributing discreet opinions. + +Peter, too, was drinking. He discovered how easy it was to talk at ease, +to sparkle, to throw out, in grand disorder, the thronging visions of +his brain. Far from shrinking in diffidence from the necessity to assert +himself and to be prominent, he began now actively to intervene. + +Peter never remembered how first they came to talk of bees. But he did +not for years forget the dramatic circumstances of this conversation. He +never lost the horror with which he realised immediately after the event +that he had contradicted the Reverend Warden, and that the whole table +was waiting for him to make his contention good. + +"Well, Mr. Paragon, how do you explain all this?" + +The room had suddenly become silent. All the little conversations had +gone out. For the first time Peter felt that an audience was hanging +upon him. He flushed, set his teeth, and talked. He talked with +enthusiasm, tempered instinctively with the Oxford manner. His +enthusiasm delighted the dons of Gamaliel, to whom it was very strange, +and his experience interested them. Peter loved his bees and handled +them well. When he had ended his account, all kinds of questions were +asked. More than ever he felt elated and sure of himself. He emptied yet +another glass of the golden wine. + +"I'm becoming quite brilliant," he thought. + +Then he saw that the Warden was speaking into an ear of the white-haired +servant, glancing with ever so slight a gesture at Peter's empty glass. +This time the servant in passing round the table omitted Peter. + +Peter was quick to understand. He arrested himself in the act of saying +something foolish. Clearly the wine had gone into his head. He wondered +whether he would be able to stand up when the time came. He sank +suddenly into himself, answering when he was appealed to directly, but +otherwise content to watch the table. He thought with remorse of +Miranda, almost forgotten amid the excitement of these last days. He saw +again the garden as it looked on the evening of his farewell. He wanted +to be away from these strange people, from the raftered hall, the table +soft-lit, beautiful with silver and glass. The voices went far-off. Only +when his neighbour touched him on the shoulder did he notice that his +companions were moving. + +The Warden bade him a cordial good-bye. He smiled at Peter in a way that +made his heart leap with a conviction that he had been successful. + +"I wonder," Peter said to himself as he walked back to his rooms--"I +wonder if I am really drunk?" He had never felt before quite as he did +to-night. Now that he was in the open, he wanted to leap and to sing. + +The municipal band was playing as he turned into the street. Round it +were gathered in promenade an idle crowd of young shopkeepers, coupled, +or desirous of being coupled, with girls of the town. + +Peter noticed a handsome young woman at the edge of the crowd, hanging +upon the arm of a young man. She was closely observing him as he came +up. It seemed to Peter that she mischievously challenged him. Her +companion was staring vacantly at the bandsmen. Peter paused +irresolutely, flushed a burning red, and passed hastily away. + +He was astonished and humiliated at his physical commotion. The music +sounded hatefully the three-four rhythm of surrender. He was yet able to +hear it as he stood under the window of his room. He saw again the +enigmatic eyes of the girl, the faint welcome of her smile, so slight as +to be no more than a shadow, the coquettish recoil of her shoulders as +he paused. + +He turned into his lodgings, and ten o'clock began to strike on the +Oxford bells. He waited for several minutes till the last had sounded. +Oxford, for Peter, was to the end a city of bells. He never lost the +impression of his first night as he lay, too excited for sleep, his +thoughts interrupted with the hours as they sounded, high and low, till +the last straggler had ended. It always profoundly affected him, this +converse at night between turret and turret of the sleeping stones. It +came at last to emphasize his impression of Oxford as a place whose +actual and permanent life was in the walls and trees, whose men were +shadows. + +To-night the bells invited Peter to look into the greater life he +expected to lead in this place. The scattered glimpses of a beautiful +world at whose threshold he stood were now united in a hope that soon he +would permanently share it within call of the hours as melodiously in +this grey city they passed. + +The fumes of the evening were blown away; the band in the street was no +longer heard. Peter, awake in bed, heard yet another striking of the +hour. He was looking back to his last evening with Miranda. How did she +come into this new life? He thought of her sleeping, parted by a wall's +breadth from his empty room at home, and was invaded with a desire to be +near her greater than his envy of anything that sounded in the striking +bells. + +"Miranda." He repeated the syllables to himself as the bells were +striking, and fell asleep upon her name. + + + + +VIII + + +Peter, home after his first important absence, found that his former +life had shrunk. He had seen things on a generous scale. Only for four +days had he been away, but it was an epoch. + +He went immediately to find Miranda, trembling with impatience. But he +was struck shy when they met. Peter had imagined this meeting as a +perfect renewal of their last moments together. He had seen himself +thrilling into a passionate welcome, taking up his life with Miranda +where it had abruptly ceased with the arrival of Uncle Henry four days +ago. But at sight of her the current of his eagerness was checked. It +was that curious moment of lovers who have lived through so many +meetings in imagination that the actual moment cannot be fulfilled. + +"You're back," she said awkwardly, hardly able to look at him. + +"I've just this moment come." Peter thought it was the staring daylight +that put this constraint upon them. Then he saw in his fancy the welcome +he had expected--very different from this--and, as though he were acting +something many times rehearsed, he kissed Miranda with an intended joy. + +Miranda's constraint was now broken. + +"I have missed you dreadfully," she whispered. + +She held him tight, urged by the piteous memory of four empty days; and +Peter, rising at her passion, strained her truthfully towards him. The +disillusion of meeting fell away from them both. + +Soon he was talking to her of Oxford, and the great life he had shared. +He did not realise that a strain of arrogant enthusiasm came into his +tale--a suggestion that in these last four days he had flapped the wings +of his ambition in high air and dazzling sunshine. Miranda was chilled, +feeling she had been in the cold, divining that Peter had a little grown +away from her in the things he recounted with such unnecessary joy. At +last she interrupted him. + +"You haven't missed me, Peter." + +"But I have," answered Peter, passing in a breath to tell of his +encounter with the dons of Gamaliel. Miranda put her hand into his, but +Peter, graphically intent upon his tale, insensibly removed it for a +necessary gesture. + +"I don't want to hear," said Miranda suddenly. + +She slipped from where they sat, and, killing him with her eyes, walked +abruptly away. + +Peter was struck into dismay. Remorse for his selfish intentness upon +glories Miranda had not shared shot him through. But he stayed where she +had left him, sullenly resentful. She need not have been so violent. How +ugly was her voice when she told him she did not want to hear. Peter +noticed in her swinging dress a patched rent, and her dusty shoes down +at the heel. Spitefully he called into his mind, for contrast and to +support him in his resentment, the quiet and ordered beauty of the life +he had just seen. He retired with dignity to the house, and made +miserable efforts to forget that Miranda was estranged. + +Mrs. Paragon wanted to hear all that Peter had seen and done. Peter told +again his tale without enthusiasm. Then his father also must hear. Peter +talked of Oxford, wondering, as he talked, where Miranda had gone, and +whether she would forgive him even if he admitted he was to blame. His +experiences now had lost all their charm. He had taken a vain pleasure +in glorifying them to Miranda, but the glory now was spoiled. + +Mr. Paragon was delighted to hear Peter describing his first serious +introduction to polite company without seeming violently pleased. +Clearly Oxford was not going to corrupt him. Peter spoke almost with +distaste of his fine friends. + +"Well, my boy," said Mr. Paragon, "you don't seem to think much of this +high living." + +"It's all right, father," answered Peter, absently dwelling on Miranda. + +"What did you talk about? Mostly trash, I suppose?" + +"Yes, father." Peter was now at Miranda's feet, asking her to forgive +him. + +A little later Mr. Smith came in, and the time passed heavily away. Mr. +Smith was trying to dissuade Mr. Paragon from taking part in an angry +demonstration of railway men who had struck work in the previous week. +Already there had been rioting. To-night Mr. Paragon was to address a +meeting in the open air, and his talk was loud and bitter. Peter heard +all this rhetoric with faint disgust. He was at that time in all things +his father's disciple. But to-night his brain was dancing between a +proud girl, with eyes that hurt, swinging away from him in her patched +frock and dusty shoes, and a long, low-lit table elegant with silver and +glass. He could not listen to these foolish men; and when Mr. Smith had +reached the summit of his theme in a call to "shoot them down," and when +his father was clearly making ready utterly to destroy his enemy, Peter +went impatiently from the room. + +Mrs. Paragon made ready her husband for the meeting without regarding +Mr. Smith's gloomy fears of disorder and riot. It had always been Mr. +Paragon's amusement to speak in public, and she had decided that +politics could have no serious results. For a few minutes she watched +him diminish up the long street, and then returned to the kitchen where +Mr. Smith, balancing on his toes, talked still of the dark necessities +of blood and iron. + +Two hours later Peter's father was brought home dead, with a bullet in +his brain. + + + + +IX + + +Peter sat stonily where Miranda left him earlier in the day. It was now +quite dark, the evening primrose shining in tall clusters, very pale, +within reach of his hand. Since a cab had jingled into hearing, stopped +beside the house, and jingled away, hardly a sound had broken into his +thoughts. Each rustle of the trees or lightest noise of the garden +raised in him a riot of excitement; for he felt that Miranda would come, +and he lived moment by moment intensely waiting. He was sure she would +not be able to sleep without making her peace. + +Several times he moaned softly, and asked for her aloud. Once he was +filled with bitterest anger, and started to go back into the house. He +hated her. His brilliant future should not be linked with this rude and +shabby girl. Then, in sharp remorse, he asked to be forgiven. Tears of +self-pity had followed tears of anger and tears of utter pain, and had +dried on his cheeks as he rigidly kept one posture on the narrow bench. +He felt to-night that he had the power to experience and to utter all +the sorrow of the world, and mixed with his pain there were sensations +of the keenest luxury. + +At last a footstep sounded. He began to tremble unendurably; but in the +next instant he knew it was not Miranda. He had not recovered from his +disappointment when his mother stood beside him. + +He looked at her vaguely, not yet recalled from his raging thoughts. She +called his name, and there was something in her voice that startled him. +The moon which was now coming over the house poured its light upon her +face. Swiftly Peter was aware of some terrible thing struggling for +expression. His mother's eyes were clouded as though she was dazed from +the effect of some hard and sudden blow. Her lips were drawn tight as +though she suffered. She stood for a moment, and once or twice just +failed to speak. + +"Peter," she said at last, "I have to tell you something." + +Peter stared at her, quickly beginning to fear. + +"Don't be frightened, dear boy." Peter saw the first tears gather and +fall. + +"Mother, you are hurt." + +Her tears now fell rapidly as she stooped and strained Peter towards +her. She could not bear to see his face as she told him. + +"Something terrible has happened. There has been a fight in the streets +and father----" + +Her arms tightened about him. Peter knew his father was dead. + +"We are alone, Peter," she said at last. + +Then she rose, and there were no more tears. Erect in the moonlight, +she seemed the statue of a mourning woman. + +"He is lying in our room, Peter. Won't you come?" + +Peter instinctively shuddered away. Then, feeling as though a weight had +just been laid on him, he asked: + +"Can I help you, mother? Is there anything to do?" + +"Uncle Henry is here. Come when you can." + +Peter watched her move away towards the house. Self died outright in him +as, filled with worship, he saw her, grave and beautiful, going to the +dead man. + +Soon he wondered why, now that trouble had really come, he could not so +easily be moved. The tears, which so readily had started from his eyes +as he had brooded on his quarrel with Miranda, would not flow now for +his father. His imagination could not at once accept reality. He sat as +his mother had left him, sensible of a gradual ache that stole into his +brain. Time passed; and, at last, as the ache became intolerable, he +heard himself desperately repeating to himself the syllables: + +"Never, Never." + +He would never again see his father. Then his brain at last awoke in a +vision of his father, an hour ago or so, confronting Mr. Smith. Peter's +emotion first sprang alive in a sharp remorse. He had that evening found +his father insufferable. + +Peter could no longer sit. He walked rapidly up and down the garden, +giving rein to self-torment. He had always thought of his father, and +now remembered him most vividly, as one who had read with him the books +which first had opened his mind. His father shone now upon Peter crowned +with all the hard, bright literature of revolt. + +A harsh cry suddenly broke up the silence of the garden. A newsboy ran +shrieking a special edition, with headlines of riot and someone killed. + +The cry struck Peter motionless. He had realised so far that his father +was dead. Now he remembered the riot. The newsboy had shouted of a +charge of soldiers. + +Why had Peter not accepted his father's gospel? Why had he not stood +that evening by his father's side? The enemies of whom his father had so +often talked to Peter were real, and had struck him down. All the idle +rhetoric that had slept unregarded in Peter's brain now rang like a +challenge of trumpets. He saw his father as one who had tried to teach +him a brave gospel of freedom, who had resisted tyranny, and died for +his faith. + +Peter cursed the oppressor with clenched hands. In the tumble of his +thoughts there intruded pictures, quite unconnected, of the life he had +known at his first school--encounters with the friendly roughs, their +common hatred of the police, the comfortable, oily embrace of the woman +who had picked him from the snow. He felt now that he was one of these +struggling people, that he ought that night to have stood with his +father. In contrast with the warm years in which he had gloried in the +life of his humbler school his later comparative solitude coldly +emphasized his kinship with the dispossessed. + +Scarcely twenty-four, hours ago Peter had feasted with the luxurious +enemies of the poor. He had come from them, vainglorious and eager to +claim their fellowship. For this he had been terribly punished. Peter +felt the hand of God in all this. It seemed like destiny's reward for +disloyalty to all his father had taught. + +He went into the house, and soon was looking at the dead man. His mother +moved about the room, obeying her instinct to put all into keeping with +the cold severity of that still figure. Peter looked and went rapidly +away. He felt no tie of blood or affection. He was looking at death--at +something immensely distant. + +Nevertheless, as he went from the oppressive house, this chill vision of +death consecrated in his fancy the figure, legendary now, of a martyred +prophet of revolt. By comparison he hardly felt his personal loss of a +father. + +As he passed into the garden, he saw into the brilliantly lighted room +next door. Mr. Smith sprawled with his head on the table, sobbing like a +child. Peter, in a flash, remembered him as he had stood not two hours +ago beside his father, shrilly repeating an hortation to shoot them +down. In that moment Peter had his first glimpse of the irony of life. +He felt impulsively that he ought to comfort that foolish bowed figure +whose babble had been so rudely answered. + +Then, as Mr. Smith was seen to wipe his watery eyes with a spotted +handkerchief, Peter grew impatient under that sting of absurdity which +in life pricks the holiest sorrow. He turned sharply away, and in the +path he saw Miranda. + +She put out her arm with a blind gesture to check the momentum of his +recoil from the lighted window. He caught at her hand, but his fingers +closed upon the rough serge of her sleeve. His passion leaped instantly +to a climax. It was one of those rare moments when feeling must find +pictured expression; when every barrier is down between emotion and its +gesture. Miranda stood before him, the reproach of his disloyalty, a +perfect figure of the life he must embrace. His hand upon her dress shot +instantly into his brain a memory of that mean moment when he had nursed +his wrongs upon her homeliness. A fierce contrition flung him without +pose or premeditation on his knees beside her. As she leaned in wonder +towards him, he caught the fringe of her frayed skirt in his hands, and, +in a moment of supreme dedication, kissed it in a passion of worship. + + + + +X + + +The interim between the death of Peter's father and Peter's ascent into +Oxford was filled with small events which impertinently buzzed about +him. Even his father's funeral left no deep impression. It was formal +and necessary. Peter was haunted, as the ceremony dragged on, with a +reproachful sense that he was not, as he should, responding to its +solemnity. Passion, of love or grief or adoration, came to Peter by +inspiration. He could not punctually answer. He marvelled how easily at +the graveside the tears of his friends and neighbours were able to flow. +He himself had buried his father upon the night of his father's death, +and had started life anew. The funeral was for him no more than the +ghost of a dead event. + +Next came the removal of Mrs. Paragon into the well-appointed house of +Uncle Henry. Henry had arranged that henceforth his sister should live +with him; that Peter should look to him as a guardian, and think of +himself as his uncle's inheritor. All these new arrangements passed high +over Peter's head. They were a background of rumour and confusion to +days of exquisite sensibility and peace. Only one thing really mattered. +Uncle Henry's house was in the fashionable road that ran parallel to +that in which Peter was born, so that Peter could reach Miranda by way +of the garden, which met hers at the wall's end. + +Adolescence carried him high and far, winging his fancy, giving to the +world forms and colours he had never yet perceived. His passion, unaware +of its physical texture, had almost disembodied him. Miranda focussed +the rays of his soul, and drew his energy to a point. He was pure air +and fire. Standing on the high balcony of his new room, he felt that, +were he to leap down, he must float like gossamer. Or, as he lay in the +grass beside Miranda, staring almost into the eye of the sun, he +acknowledged a kinship with the passing birds, imagined that he heard +the sap of the green world ebb and flow; or, pressing his cheeks to the +cool earth, he would seem to feel it spinning enormously through space. + +They talked hardly at all, and then it was of some small intrusion into +their happy silence--the chatter of a bird in distress or the ragged +flying of a painted moth. Only seldom did Peter turn to assure himself +that Miranda was still beside him. He was absorbed with his own vast +content and gratitude for the warm and lovely world, his precious agony +of aspiration towards the inexpressible, his sense of immense, +unmeasured power. Miranda was his precious symbol. Uttered in her, for +his intimate contemplation, he spelled the message with which the air +was burdened, which shivered on the vibrating leaves, and burned in the +summer heat. When, after long gazing into blue distances of air, he +turned to find Miranda, it seemed that the blue had broken and yielded +its secret. + +From the balcony of his room at night he saw things so lovely that he +stood for long moments still, as though he listened. The trees, massed +solemnly together, waited sentiently to be stirred. The stars drew him +into the deep. Voices broke from the street. Light shining from far +windows, and the smoke of chimneys fantastically grouped, filled him +with a sense of pulsing, intimate life; a world of energy whose +stillness was the measure of its power, the slumber of a bee's wing. + +One of the far lighted windows belonged to Miranda. He was content to +know she was there, and recalled, clear in his mind's eye, the lines and +gestures of her face. The beauty he saw there had seemed almost to break +his heart. It wavered upon him alternate with the stars and the dark +trees of the garden. Loveliness and a perpetual riddle delicately lurked +in the corners of her mouth. Sometimes, when they were together, he +would lay his finger very softly on Miranda's lips. + +He rarely kissed her. The flutter of his pulse died under an ecstasy +bodiless as his passion for the painted sky. He did not yet love the +girl who sometimes with a curious ferocity flung her arms about him and +crushed his face against her shabby dress. Rather he loved the beauty of +the world and his inspired ability, through her, to embrace it. + + + + +XI + + +The time had now come for Peter to be removed to Oxford. Amid all the +novelty, the unimagined comfort and dignity, the beginning of new and +exciting friendships, the first encounter with men of learning and +position, Peter kept always a region of himself apart, whither he +retired to dream of Miranda. He wrote her long and impassioned letters, +pouring forth a flood of impetuous imagery wherein her kinship with all +intense and lovely things persisted in a thousand shapes. But gradually, +under many influences, a change prepared. + +First, there was his contact with the intellectual life of Gamaliel. His +inquisitive idealism gradually came down from heaven, summoned to +definite earth by the ordered wisdom of Oxford. He had lately striven to +catch, in a net of words, inexpressible beauty and elusive thought. But +his desire to push expression to the limit of the comprehensible; his +gift of nervous, pictorial speech; the crowding truths, half seen, that +filled his brain were now opposed and estimated according to sure +knowledge and the standards which measure a successful examinee. Truth, +for ever about to show her face, at whose unsubstantial robe Peter had +sometimes caught, now appeared formal, severe, gowned, and reading a +schedule. All the knowledge of the world, it seemed, had been reduced +to categories. Style was something that dead authors had once achieved. +It could be ranged in periods and schools, some of which might with +advantage be imitated. Peter found that concerning all things there were +points of view. An acquaintance with these points of view and an ability +rapidly to number them was almost the only kind of excellence his +masters were able to reward. + +The result of Peter's contact with the tidy, well-appointed wisdom of +Gamaliel was disastrous. His imagination, starting adventurously into +the unknown, was systematically checked. This or that question he was +asking of the Sphinx was already answered. He fell from heaven upon a +passage of Hegel or a theory of Westermarck. + +Peter quickened his disillusion by the energy and zeal of his reading. +He threw himself hungrily upon his books, and gloried in the ease with +which wisdom could be won and stored for reference. His ardour for +conquest, by map and ruler, of the kingdoms of knowledge lasted well +through his first term. Only obscurely was he conscious of clipped +wings. + +Hard physical exercise also played a part in bringing Peter to the +ground. He was put into training for the river, and was soon filled with +a keen interest in his splendid thews. Stretched at length in the +evening, warm with triumphant mastery of some theorem concerning the +Absolute First Cause, Peter saw himself as typically a live intellectual +animal. Less and less did he live in outer space. He began athletically +to tread the earth. + +Then, too, Peter made many friends--friends who in some ways were older +than he. He thought of Miranda as an elfin girl, but his friends talked +of women in a way Peter had never heard. For Peter sex had been one of +the things which he seemed always to have known. It had not insistently +troubled him. He now encountered it in the conversation of his friends +as something stealthily comic, perturbing and curiously attractive. He +did not actively join in these conversations, but they affected him. + +The week slid away, and term was virtually at an end. Peter sat alone in +his room with Miranda's last letter. In his ears the rhythm of oars and +the hum of cold wet air yet remained, drowning the small noises of the +fire. Miranda's letter was bitterly reproachful--glowing at the top heat +of a lovers' quarrel. Miranda felt Peter's absence more than he could +do. She now had nothing but Peter, and already she was a woman. +Unconsciously she resented Peter's imaginative ecstasies. She wanted him +to hold and to see. When he answered her from the clouds she was +desolate. Moreover, Peter wrote much of his work and play; and Miranda, +afraid and jealous of the life he was leading in Oxford, was tinder for +the least spark of difference. + +The letter Peter held in his hand was all wounded passion. He could see +her tears and the droop of her mouth trembling with anger. He had +neglected a request she had made. He had written instead a description +of the boat he had helped to victory. Something in Miranda's +letter--something he had not felt before--caught suddenly at a need in +him as yet unknown. He realised all at once that he wanted her to be +physically there. He read again her burning phrases and felt the call to +him of her thwarted hunger--felt it clearly beneath her superficial +estrangement and reproach. He flung himself desperately back into his +chair and remained for a moment still. Then he sprang up and wandered +restlessly in the dim room, at last pausing by the mantelpiece and +turning the lamp upon her photograph. It had caught the full, enigmatic +curve of her mouth, breaking into her familiar sad smile. Peter was +abruptly invaded with a secret wish, his blood singing in his ears, his +heart throbbing painfully, a longing to make his peace possessing him. +He felt curiously weak--almost as if he might fall. The room was +twisting under his eyes. He flexed his muscles and closed his eyes in +pain. Then, in deep relief, he, in fancy, bent forward and kissed her. + +He decided to plead with her face to face, and he let pass the +intervening day in a luxury of anticipation. He dwelled, as he had not +before, on her physical grace. He would sweep away all her sorrow in +passionate words uttered upon her lips. + +He reached his uncle's house by an earlier train than was expected. His +mother was not at home, and he went to his room unchallenged. Out on the +balcony the wind roared to him through the bare trees. It was warm for a +December evening, and very dark. He looked towards Miranda's house--a +darker spot on the dark; for there was no light in the windows. It +thrilled him to see how dark it was; and as he went through the garden +towards her, with the wind about him like a cloak, drawn close and +impeding him, he was glad of the freedom and secrecy it seemed to +promise. He could call aloud in that dark wind, and his words were +snatched away. His lips and face were trembling, but it did not matter, +for the darkness covered them. + +At last he stood by the house. The door was half-open. His fancy leaped +at Miranda waiting for him. He had only to enter, and he pressed in her +comfortable arms. + +He pushed open the door, and a hollow echo ran into many rooms and died +away upstairs. He was sensible now, in shelter from the wind, of a +stillness he had never known. It shot into him a quick terror. As he +stood and listened, he could hear water dripping into a cistern +somewhere in the roof. The door was blown violently shut, and the report +echoed as in a cavern. The house was empty. + +Peter lighted a match, and held it above his head. He saw that the +linoleum had been torn from the floor; that the kitchen was empty of +furniture; that the dust and rubbish of removal lay in the four corners. +The match burnt his fingers and went out. Every sensation died in Peter. +He stood in the darkness, hearing small noises of water, the light +patter of soot dislodged from the chimney, the creak and rustle of a +house deserted. + +When his eyes were used to the dark, he moved towards a glimmer from the +hall-door. He could not yet believe what he saw. He expected the silence +of his dream to break. Mechanically he went through the house, standing +at last under the eaves of Miranda's attic-room. His eyes, straining to +the far corner, traced the white outline of the sloping ceiling. He +stood where Miranda had so often slept, a wall's breadth from himself. + +The water dripped pitilessly in the roof, and Peter, poor model of an +English boy, lay in grief, utterly abandoned, his clenched hands beating +the naked floor. + + + + +XII + + +There was a veiled expression in Peter's eyes that evening when he met +his mother. Passion was exhausted. He divined already that Miranda was +irrecoverable, that pursuit was useless. He now clearly understood how +and why she had suffered. His late agony in her room she had many times +endured, looking in his letters for a passion not yet illumined, eager +to find that he needed her, but finding always that she lived in a +palace of cloud. He saw now that Miranda's love had never been the +dreaming ecstasy from which he himself had just awakened. He remembered +and understood what he had merely accepted as characteristic of her +turbulent spirit--sudden fits of petulance, occasions when without +apparent reason she had flung savagely away from him. There were other +things which thrilled him now, as when her arms tightened about his +neck, and she answered his light caress with urgent kisses. + +Peter's mother gave him a note in Miranda's hand: + + + "PETER,--We are going to Canada, and I am not going to write to + you. I think, Peter, you are only a boy, and one day you will find + out whether you really loved me. I am older than you. I shall not + come back to you, because you are going to be rich, and your + friends cannot be my friends. If you had answered my last letter, + perhaps I could not have done this. But it is better." + + +When Peter had finished reading he saw that his mother was watching him. +He was learning to notice things. His mother, too, he had never really +regarded except in relation to himself. Yet she had seen unfold the tale +of his passion. She, too, had been affected. He passed her the letter, +and waited as she read. + +"You know, mother, what this means?" he asked, shyly moved to confide in +her. + +"Yes, Peter, I think I do," she answered, glad of his trust. + +Peter bent eagerly towards her. "Can you tell me where they have gone?" + +Mrs. Paragon gently denied him: + +"No one knows. They left very quickly. Mr. Smith owed some money." + +It pained her so sordidly to touch Peter's tragedy. + +"He ran away?" concluded Peter, squarely facing it. + +Mrs. Paragon bent her head. Peter tried to say something. He wanted to +tell his mother how suddenly precious to him was her knowledge and +understanding. But he broke off and his mouth trembled. In a moment she +had taken him as a child. + +At last she spoke to him again, wisely and bravely: + +"Try to put all this away," she pleaded. "You are too young. I want you +to be happy with your friends." + +She paused shyly, a little daunted by the thought in her mind. Then she +quietly continued: + +"I don't want you to think yet of women." + +She continued to urge him: + +"Life is so full of things. You think now only of this disappointment, +but, Peter dear, I want you to be strong and famous." + +Her words, years afterwards to be remembered, passed over Peter's head. +He hardly knew what she said. He was conscious only of her +tenderness--his first comfort. It was the consecration of their +discovered intimacy. + +Uncle Henry was away from home--not expected for several days. Peter was +grateful for this. He could not have met the rosy man with the +heartiness he required. Peter spent the evening talking to his mother of +Oxford and his new friends. She quietly insisted that he should. + +But, when Peter was alone once more in his room, his grief came back the +deadlier for being held away. He sat for half an hour in the dark. Then +he left the room and knocked at his mother's door. + +"Is that you, Peter?" + +"I want to talk to you." + +The door was not locked and she called him in. He had a plan to discuss, +but it could have waited. He merely obeyed a blind instinct to get away +from his misery. His mother leaned from the bed on her elbow, and Peter +sat beside her. She raised her arm to his shoulder with a gesture slow +and large. Peter insensibly found comfort in her beauty. He had never +before realised his mother was beautiful. Was it the open calm of her +forehead or her deep eyes? + +"Can't you sleep, dear?" she asked. + +"I want to ask you something." + +"Well?" + +Mrs. Paragon tranquilly waited. + +"I want to go away," said Peter. "I can't bear to be so near to +everything." + +Mrs. Paragon was immediately practical. + +"Where do you want to go?" she asked. + +"I could spend the vacation in London," suggested Peter. + +"What will your uncle say?" + +"Tell him everything." + +Mrs. Paragon smiled at herself explaining Peter's tragedy to Uncle +Henry. + +"You want to go at once?" + +"Please." + +Peter's mother looked wistfully, with doubt in her heart. Her hand +tightened on his arm. + +"I wonder," she almost whispered. "Can I trust you to go?" + +She looked at him with her calm eyes. + +"Peter," she said at last, "you still belong to me. You must come back +to me as my own. Do you understand?" + +Peter saw yet deeper into his mother's heart--the mother he had so long +neglected to know. Her question hung in the air, but he could not trust +his voice. His eyes answered her in an honourable promise. Then suddenly +he bent his head to her bosom. Her arms accepted him. + +Scarcely half an hour later Peter was fast sleeping in his room. Already +the torrent of his life was breaking a fresh channel. He had dedicated +himself anew. + + + + +XIII + + +Peter reached London in the late afternoon. Already he was looking +forward. + +His impetuous desire to get away from Hamingburgh was blind obedience to +an instinct of his youth to have done with things finished. He was most +incredibly young. His late agony for Miranda left him only the more +sensitive to small things that tended to be more freshly written upon +his mind. It might crudely be said that his first impulse was to forget +Miranda. He had in a few hours burnt out the passion of several years; +and he already was seeking unawares fresh fuel to light again his fire +upon a hearth which suddenly was cold. + +The intensity of his need to feel again the blow which his checked +aspiration towards Miranda had so suddenly kindled was leading him +blindly out and away from her. Paradoxically he was starting away from +Miranda upon a pilgrimage to find her--a pilgrimage which could only +come full circle when again the passion she had raised could be felt and +recognised. The penalty of his early visitation by the Promethean spark +was about to be exacted. Henceforth life must be a restless and a +perpetual adventure. London now was his immediate quest, a quest which +seemingly had nothing now to do with Miranda, though ultimately it +confessed her. + +A mild excitement struggled into his mind as the train plunged him +deeper and deeper into the city. London, the centre of the world, was +spread before him. + +He took rooms in Cursitor Street at the top of a tall building. His +sitting-room opened upon Chancery Lane. There was a sober gateway into a +quadrangle which suggested Oxford. + +That evening Peter, muffled in a heavy coat, rode for hours upon the +omnibuses. His first excursion, in the early evening, presented the +workers of London pouring home. The perpetual roar and motion of this +multitude soothed Peter, and gradually crushed in him all sense of +personal loss. He began to feel how small was his drop of sorrow. At a +crossing of many streets he saw a man knocked down by a horse. The hum +and drift of London hardly paused. The man was quickly lifted into a cab +and hurried away. Many passengers in the waiting omnibuses on the +pavement were unaware that anything had happened. The incident +profoundly affected Peter. In this great torrent of lives it seemed that +the mischance of one was of no importance. + +Late at night he stood in the bitter cold outside one of the theatres. +The doors were suddenly flung open, and the street was broken up with +jostling cabs and a babel of shouting and whistling. Delicately dressed +women waited on the pavement or were whirled away in magnificent, +shining cars. Peter caught some of their conversation: fragments of new +plans for meeting, small anxieties as to whether some trivial pleasure +would be quite perfect, comments on the play they had seen--wisps of +talk reflecting beautiful, proud lives. + +In a few moments the street was silent again. The wretched loafers who +had swarmed about the doors, thrusting forward their services, vanished +as swiftly as they had appeared. + +For the next few days Peter tramped London from end to end. He realised +its bitter contrasts and brutal energy. He lived only with his Oxford +books and with this growing vision of modern life superficially +inspected. He began to think. He did not look for any of the men he +knew, but brooded and watched alone. + +From his window in the morning he saw the workers pass--girl-clerks and +respectable young men, afterwards the solicitors; and, passing through +the gates in front of him, men with shining hats, keen-faced and seeming +full of prosperous respectability. A man with one arm sold papers from a +stand at the corner. Several times, as the day passed, a pale and urgent +youth would fly down the street on a bicycle, dropping a parcel of +papers beside the man with one arm. Peter traced these bicycles one day +to a giant building where the papers were printed. + +Peter read in the middle part of the morning. For lunch he went East +into the City or West into the Strand. In the East he lunched beside +men of commerce--men who ate squarely and comfortably from the joint or +grill. West he lunched with clerks and people from the shops, with +actors and journalists, publishers and secretaries. + +In the afternoon Peter sometimes walked into the region of parks and +great houses. He saw the shops and the women. Bond Street particularly +fascinated him. Somehow it seemed just the right place for the insolent +and idle people who at night flashed beside him in silk and fur. One +afternoon he went at random from far West to far East, touching +extremes, and once he went by boat to Greenwich, curiously passing the +busy and wonderful docks. He knew also the limitless drab regions to the +north and west--cracks between London and the better suburbs. + +Gradually the monster took outline and lived in his brain. He watched +the lesser people passing from their work and followed them to villas in +Hammersmith or Streatham. The shiny hats be tracked to Kensington; the +furred women in Bond Street to some near terrace or square. + +All that Peter saw, or filled in for himself, though it took shape in +his mind, did not yet drive him into an attitude. He was interested. The +sleeping wretches on the Embankment; men who stopped him for pence, +women who stole about the streets by night, were all part of this vivid +and varied life he was learning to know. It was not yet called to +account. It was just observed. + +But the train was laid for an intellectual explosion. London waited to +be branded as a city of slaves, with beggary in the streets and surfeit +in men's houses. + +He went one evening to a theatre. A popular musical comedy was running +into a second edition. Peter had never before visited a theatre since as +a boy he had seen the plays of Shakespeare presented by a travelling +company at home. + +He watched the people from an upper part of the house. The women +attracted him most. They were more easily placed than the men. He could +better imagine their lives. Their faces and clothes and manners were +more eloquent of position and character. Peter was amazed at the +diversity of the stalls--substantial dames, platitudes in flesh and +blood, whom he instinctively matched with the men who lunched solidly to +the east of Fleet Street; women, beside them, who breathed ineffable +distinction; vivacious young girls bright with pleasure and health; +women, beside them, boldly putting a final touch to an elaborate +complexion. Other parts of the house were more of a kind. The balcony +beneath him presented a solid front of formal linen and dresses in the +mean of fashion. Topping all, in the gallery, was a dark array of +people, notably drab in the electric blaze. + +Except from the conversation of his Oxford friends Peter was quite +unprepared for the entertainment that followed. At first it merely +bewildered him. The perfunctory sex pantomime between the principal +players; recurring afflictions of the chorus into curious movements; the +mechanical embracing and caressing; the perpetual erotic innuendo--this +was all so unintelligible and strange, so entirely outside all that +Peter felt and knew about life, that his imagination hesitated to +receive it. Gradually, however, there stole into his brain a mild +disgust. + +Finally there was a ballet. Its principal feature was a stocking dance. +Eight young women appeared in underclothing, and eight of their total +sixteen legs were clad in eight black stockings--the odd stockings being +evenly divided. The first part of the ballet consisted in eight black +stockings being drawn upon the eight legs which were bare. The second +part of the ballet consisted in removing eight original black stockings +from the legs adjacent. The ballet was performed to music intended to +seduct, and the girls crooned an _obligato_ to the words, "Wouldn't you +like to assist us?" + +Peter flushed into astonishment and anger. He felt as if a strange hand +had suddenly drawn the curtain from the most secret corner of his being. +He felt as though he had been publicly stripped. He drew himself tightly +back into his seat. + +The curtain dropped, and the lights went up for an interval. People in +the stalls talked and smiled. No flutter of misgiving troubled the +marble breasts of the great ladies. Men looked as before into the eyes +of their women. Nothing, it seemed, had happened. + +Peter was amazed--his brain on fire with vague phrases of contempt. His +fingers shook in a passion of wrath as he gathered up his hat and coat. + +Missing his way, he went into the bar. It was crowded with white-fronted +men, their hats set rakishly back, discussing with freedom and energy +the quality of the entertainment. Nothing of what Peter had seen or felt +seemed to have touched them. Suddenly Peter was greeted: + +"Hullo, Paragon!" + +The Hon. Freddie Dundoon was a Gamaliel man--one for whom Peter and the +college generally had much contempt, an amiable fool, of good blood, +but, as sometimes happens, of no manners or intelligence. + +Peter muttered a greeting and passed on. But he was not so easily to get +away. Dundoon caught him by the arm. + +"You're not going?" he protested. + +"Yes, I am," said Peter, turning away his head. He did not like people +who breathed into his face. + +"Stuff. Come and have a brandy and soda." + +"No, thanks." + +"What's the hurry?" + +Peter stood in bitter patience, too exasperated to speak. + +"Won't you really have a drink?" Dundoon persisted. + +"No, thanks," Peter wearily repeated. + +"Come home and see the mater. She's your sort. Books and all that." + +"Many thanks," said Peter more politely. "I'm afraid I can't." + +"Sorry you won't stop. I'd take you to Miss Beryl. Third stocking from +the right." + +"Curse you. Let me get out of this." + +Peter wrenched his arm rudely away. He blundered into a pendulous fat +man in the door, and turned to apologise. Dundoon was still looking +after him, his jaw fallen in a vacant surprise. + +Peter thankfully breathed the cold pure air of the street. He walked at +random. He tried to collect himself, to discover why he had felt so +bitterly ashamed, so furiously angry. His young flesh was in arms. He +had seen a travesty of something he felt was, in its reality, great and +clean. His senses rebelled against the mockery to which they had been +invited. Sex was coming to the full in Peter. It waited in his blood and +brain. He was conscious in himself of a sleeping power, and conscious +that evening of an attempt to degrade it. He shrank instinctively. + +Men at Gamaliel had called him a Puritan. He chafed at the term, feeling +in himself no hostility or distrust of life. It was the sly, mechanical +travesty of these things, peeping out of their talk, which offended him. +To-night he had seen this travesty offered to a great audience of men +and women. Brooding on a secret which had painted the butterfly and +tuned the note of an English bird, he had seen it to-night, for the +first time, as a punctual gluttony. Impatiently he probed into the roots +of his anger. It was not sex which thus had frightened him, but its +prostitution in the retinue of formal silliness. + +The audience he found incredible. Either the entertainment meant nothing +at all or it was hideously profane. But the witnesses, whose diversity +of class, sex, age, and habit he had so enviously noted before the +curtain rose, seemed to see nothing at all. Mentally he made an +exception of the man from Gamaliel. He at any rate seemed to have a +scale of intelligible values--a scale whereby the third stocking from +the right could be accurately placed. + +Peter had walked for about an hour. He had wandered in a circle and +found himself again outside the theatre he had left. The people were +streaming on to the pavement, unaffectedly happy after an evening of +formal fun--men and women who had been held in the grip of life, or who +stood, as Peter stood, upon the threshold, yet who apparently did not +object to witness a parody of their great adventure in a ballet of black +stockings. He watched the street noisily emptying as the audience +scattered. Soon he stood lonely and still, tired of the puzzle, his +anger exhausted. + +A hand was slipped gently under his arm. He looked into a pretty +childish face, and realised that the woman was addressing him. + +"You are waiting?" she suggested. + +Peter stared at her for a moment--not realising. She met him with a +professional smile, her eyes filmy with a challenge, demurely evading +him. He understood, and shrank rudely away from her, with a quick return +of his anger. He saw in her face an effort to steel herself against his +impulsive recoil. He felt the repercussion of her shame. + +But it passed. Her mouth hardened. She took her hand from his arm, and +mocking him with a light apology, slipped quietly away. + +Peter moved impetuously forward. He felt a warm friendliness for the +woman in whom he had read a secret agony. For the first time that +evening he had come into touch with a fellow. She, too, felt something +of what was troubling him. His gesture of sympathy was not perceived. He +watched her dwindling down the street, and started to follow her. She +was allied with him against a world which had conspired to degrade them. + +Then he saw she was no longer alone. She stood talking with a man upon +the pavement. Her companion hailed a cab, and they drove away together, +passing Peter where he had paused, transfixed with a pain at his heart. + +Was it jealousy? Peter flung out his hands at the stars; tears of +impotent rage came into his eyes. The pain he endured was impersonal +jealousy for a creature desecrated. He was jealous not for the woman +whose soul for a moment he had touched, but for life itself profaned. + + + + +XIV + + +All that night, with his window wide to the cold air, Peter pondered the +life of London. Early next day, his head confused with grasping at ideas +whereby intellectually to express his disgust, he went into the streets. + +He walked into a broad Western thoroughfare famous for cheap books. +Embedded among the more substantial warehouses was an open stall which +Peter had frequently noticed. The books in this shop were always new, +always cheap, very strangely assorted, and mostly by people of whom +Peter had never heard. There were plays, pamphlets, studies in economy +and hygiene, in mysticism and the suffrage, trade-unionism and lyric +poetry, Wagner and sanitation. Peter looked curiously at an inscription +in gold lettering above the door: "The Bomb Shop." + +The keeper of the stall came forward as Peter lingered. He was tall, +with disordered hair, neatly dressed in tweeds. He looked at Peter in a +friendly way--obviously accessible. + +"You are reading the inscription?" he said politely. + +"What does it mean?" Peter asked. + +"Have you looked at any of the books?" + +"They seemed to be mixed." + +"They are in one way all alike." + +"How is that?" + +"Explosive." + +The keeper of the stall looked curiously at Peter, and began to like his +ingenuous face. + +"Come into the shop," he said, and led the way into its recesses. + +"This is not an ordinary shop," he explained, as Peter began to read +some titles. "I am a specialist." + +"What is your subject?" Peter formally inquired. + +"Revolution. Every book in this establishment is a revolutionary book. +All my books are written by authors who know that the world is wrong, +and that they can put it right." + +"Who know that the world is wrong?" Peter echoed. + +"That's the idea." + +"I know that the world is wrong," said Peter wearily. "I want to know +the reason." + +"It's a question of temperament," said the bookman. "Some like to think +it is a matter of diet or hygiene. Here is the physiological, medical, +and health section. Some think it is a question of beauty and ugliness. +The art section is to your right. Or perhaps you are an economist?" + +Peter, who had not yet compassed irony, looked curiously at his new +friend. + +"Seriously?" he said at last, and paused irresolutely. + +"You want me to be serious?" + +"I've been in London for five days. Last night I was at a theatre. Then +a woman spoke to me in the street. I don't understand it." + +"What don't you understand?" + +"I don't understand anything." + +The bookman began to be interested. + +"Have you any money?" he briefly inquired. + +Peter pulled out a bundle of notes. "Are these any good?" he asked. + +The bookman looked at the notes, and at Peter with added interest. + +"This is remarkable," he decided. "You seem to be in good health, and +you carry paper money about with you as if it were rejected manuscript. +Yet you want to know what's wrong with the world. Have you read +anything?" + +"I have read Aristotle's _Ethics_, Grote's _History of Greece_, and +Kant's _Critique of Pure Reason_. I'm a Gamaliel man," said Peter. + +The bookman's eyes were dancing. + +"Can you spend five pounds at this shop?" + +"Yes," said Peter dubiously. + +"Very well. I'll make you up a parcel. You shall know what is wrong with +the world. You will find that most of the violent toxins from which we +suffer are matched with anti-toxins equally violent. This man, for +instance," said the bookman, reaching down a volume, "explains that +liberty is the cause of all our misfortunes." + +He began to put together a heap of books on the counter. + +"Nevertheless," he continued, adding a volume to the heap, "a too rigid +system of State control is equally to blame. Here, on the other hand, is +a book which tells us that London is unhappy because the sex energy of +its inhabitants is suppressed and discouraged. Here, again, is a +book--_Physical Nirvana_--which condemns sex energy as the root of all +human misery. You tell me that last night a woman spoke to you in the +street. Here is a writer who explains that she is a consequence of long +hours and low wages. But she is equally well explained by her own +self-indulgence and love of pleasure." + +He broke off, the books having by this time grown to a pile. + +"There is a lot to read," said Peter. + +"It seems a lot," the bookman reassured him. "But these modern people +are easy thinkers." + +Peter looked suspiciously at the bookman. "You don't take these books +very seriously yourself." + +"But I've read them," said the bookman. "You'd better read them too. +It's wise to begin by knowing what people are writing and thinking. It +saves time. Read these books, and burn them--most of them, at any rate." + +Peter left the shop wondering why he had wasted five pounds. He drifted +towards Trafalgar Square and met a demonstration of trade-unionists +with flying banners and a brass band that played a feeble song for the +people. He followed them into the square, and joined a crowd which +collected about the foot of the Monument. + +The speeches raised a sleeping echo in Peter's brain, a forgotten +ecstasy of devotion to his father's cause. The speaker harshly and +crudely denounced the luxury of the rich as founded upon the indigence +of the poor, dwelling on just those brutal contrasts of London which had +already touched Peter. The speaker's bitter eloquence moved him, but the +narrow vulgarity of his attack was disconcerting. Peter was sure that +life was not explained by the simple villainy of a few rich people. + +He walked away from the crowd towards Westminster, trying to realise as +an ordered whole his distracting vision of London. The dignity of +Whitehall was mocked in his memory by eight black stockings, by the +provoking eyes of the man at the bookshop, by the fleeting shame of a +strange woman who had spoken to him in the street. + +Peter thought again of his father and of the books they had read. His +father had rightly rebelled. All was not well. On the other hand, Peter +got no help from his father's books. They had prepared in him a +revolutionary temper; but they were clearly not pertinent to anything +Peter had seen. They dealt with battles that were won already--problems +that had passed. Priests and Kings, Liberty and Toleration, Fraternity +and Equality--all these things were historical. + +Early that evening, with his window open to the noises of London, he +began to struggle through the wilderness of modern revolutionary +literature. Book after book he flung violently away. His quick mind +rejected the slovenly thought of the lesser quacks. + +At last he came upon a book of plays and prefaces by an author whose +name was vaguely familiar--a name which had penetrated to Oxford. Peter +began to read. + +Here at last was--or seemed to be--the real thing. Soon his wits were +leaping in pursuit of the most active brain in Europe--a brain, too, +which dealt directly with the thronging puzzles of to-day. Peter exulted +in the clean logic of this writer--the first writer he had met who wrote +of the modern world. + +Peter's excitement became almost painful as he found passages directly +bearing upon things he had himself observed, giving them coherence, +stripping away pretence. Peter, vaguely aware that life was imperfect, +his mind new-stored with pictures that distressed and puzzled him, now +came into touch with a keen destructive intelligence which brought +society tumbling about his ears in searching analysis, impudent and +rapid wit, in a rush of buoyant analogy and vivid sense--an +intelligence, moreover, with a great gift of literary expression, at the +same time eloquent and familiar. It seemed as if the writer were +himself present in the room, talking personally to the reader. + +Peter hunted from the pile of books all of this author he could find, +and sat far into the night, breaking from mood to mood. Many times he +audibly laughed as he caught a new glimpse of the human comedy. In turn +he was angry, triumphant, and deeply pitiful. Above all, he was aware in +himself of a pleasure entirely new--a pleasure in life intellectually +viewed. He felt he would never again be the same after his contact with +the delicate machinery of this modern mind. Once or twice he shut the +book he was reading and lay back in his chair. His brain was now alive. +It went forward independently, darting upon a hundred problems, ideas, +and questions, things he had felt and seen. + +He even began to criticise and to differ from the author whose book had +shocked his brain into life. Peter had only needed the spur; and now he +answered, passing in review the whole pageant of things respectable and +accepted. His young intellect frisked and gambolled in the Parliament +and the Churches; stripping Gamaliel; exploding categories; brandishing +its fist in the noses of all reverend names, institutions, and systems; +triumphantly yelling as the firm and ancient world cracked and tumbled. + +Tired at last, he shut the last of many volumes and went to bed, not +without a look of contempt towards the corner whither his Oxford +studies had previously been hurled. His brain shouted with laughter in +despite of his learned University. Derisively he shut his eyes, too +weary to be quite sure whether he precisely knew what he was deriding. + +He woke late in the morning, the winter sun shining brilliantly into his +room. Revolutionary literature lay to right and left--the small grey +volumes which had precipitated his intellectual catastrophe quietly +conspicuous in a small heap by themselves. Peter walked to the window +and looked into the street. It was altogether the same, with men of law +in shining hats passing under the archway opposite into their quiet +demesne. London stood solidly as before. Peter looked a little dubiously +at the grey books. They, too, apparently were real. + + + + +XV + + +Peter was at home for a day before returning to Oxford. Hamingburgh +seemed to have grown very small and quiet. He felt in coming back a loss +of energy. In London he had seemed at the heart of a hundred questions. +He had watched the London crowds with intimacy. They were very real. He +lost this reality in the quiet streets of Hamingburgh. Life ceased to +ask urgently for an explanation. + +He noted on his way from the station that people were moving into +Miranda's empty house. But it hardly seemed to matter. + +Peter enjoyed one happy evening with his mother, and left for Oxford. + +But Oxford had disappeared. Where was the beautiful city--offering +illimitable knowledge, sure wisdom, lovely authority? Peter had come +into touch with life. He had craved to find order and beauty in the +pageant of London. Now, in the stones of Oxford, he saw only the frozen +ideas of a vanished age--serene accomplishment whose finality +exasperated him. He looked from his window across the shaven green of a +perfect lawn to the chapel tower. The hour chiming in quarters from a +dozen bells marked off yet another small distance between Oxford and the +living day. His disillusion of the previous term was now openly +confessed and examined. + +Peter was not alone. Gamaliel drew to itself some excellent brain. It +was celebrated for young men prematurely wise--young men who had learned +everything at twenty-two, and never afterwards added to their store. +Peter became a leading character in the intellectual set. They jested in +good Greek, filling their heads with knowledge they affected to despise, +taking in vain the theories of their masters, merrily playing with their +grand-sires' bones of learning. They snorted with delight at the efforts +of their chief clerical instructor to evade the Rabelaisian Obscenities +of Aristophanes or a too curious inquiry into certain social habits of +old Greece. They reduced Hegel to half-sheets of paper, suggested +profanely various readings for Petronius, speculated without reverence +on the darker habits of mankind from Aristotle to the Junior Prior. But +in all this horseplay of minds young and keen was a strain of +contemptuous fatigue. Gamaliel, out of its clever youngsters, bred civil +servants, politicians, or university professors. Intellectual pedantry +waited for those whom Gamaliel intellectually satisfied. Intellectual +cynicism--the cynicism of a firm belief that nothing is important or +new--waited for those who played the game of scholarship with humour +enough to find it barren. + +Peter, therefore, was not alone in his reaction against the formal +discipline of the College, but he was alone in the obstinate ardour of +his youth. He had just discovered that life was absorbing. Though he sat +far into many nights in scholarly gymnastics with his friends, he came +away to watch the grey light creeping into a world he keenly wanted to +understand. He jested only with his brain, driven to the game by +physical energy and friendly emulation. He was never really touched by +the cynicism and horse laughter of his set. He often left these meetings +in a sudden access of desolation. + +Peter's directors began sadly to shake their heads. They knew the +symptoms--knew he was already marked for failure. The Warden gravely +reasoned with him. + +"Mr. Paragon," he said, handing Peter his papers for the term, "these +are second class." + +Peter was mortified. His intellectual comrades mocked, but they also +satisfied, their masters. Peter was of another fibre. He could do +nothing without his entire heart. Various readings in Horace no longer +fired him. The kick had gone out of his work. His brain was elsewhere. + +He took the papers in silence. He could not understand his failure. +Hitherto satisfying the examiners had been for Peter a matter of course. + +"You have neglected your reading?" the Warden suggested, as Peter turned +silently away. + +"No, sir." + +"Won't you take us a little more seriously?" + +"I cannot be interested," Peter shot out impulsively. + +"Is this wise?" the Warden gravely inquired. "We expect you to do well." + +"I will try, sir." + +Peter was sad, but not sullen. + +"You owe it to the College," said the Warden, drily incisive. Then he +added: "Why must you go so quickly, Mr. Paragon? You are not yet ready +for things outside." + +Peter was suddenly grateful. He was, at any rate, understood. + +"I will try with my whole soul," he ardently exclaimed. + +"Meanwhile," the Warden concluded with a smile, "notes on gobbets need +not be written in the manner of La Rochefoucauld. There isn't time." + +Peter, passing into the quadrangle, met Dundoon. He was in riding +breeches. He lived in riding breeches, till they became for Peter a +symbol of well-born inanity. Moreover, he was freely indulging his +principal pleasure--namely, he was vigorously cracking a riding-whip, +making the walls ring with snap after snap. + +"Hullo," he said as Peter passed within careful distance. + +"Idiot," muttered Peter between his teeth. + +"Freshly roasted by the Wuggins--What?" + +"Dundoon, you're a damned nuisance. Put it away." + +"It's most important, Peter Pagger. It's most devilish important. +M.F.H.--What?" + +Dundoon cracked his whip rather more successfully than usual. The snap +tingled in Peter's brain. In a fit of temper he sprang at Dundoon, and +wrenched the whip from his hand. + +Dundoon looked at Peter's gleaming eyes as though he had seen the devil. + +"What's this? In the name of Hell what _is_ it?" he said at last. + +"I'm sorry," said Peter with withering humility. "Here is your whip." + +He handed it back to Dundoon, who took it cautiously. Peter moved away. +But Dundoon arrested him. + +"Peter Pagger," he said thoughtfully, "do I understand that you've been +rude to me?" + +"As you please." + +"Because you'll be ragged, that's all. You'll be jolly well ragged." + +The party of Dundoon was strolling up, and was invited to hear the news. + +"Here, you fellows. Peter Pagger has been very rude to me. What shall we +do to him? Peter Pagger has been roasted by the Wuggins for his naughty +life in London. Third stocking from the right--What?" + +Peter strode off boiling with anger. + +Dundoon belonged to a set which derived principally from a famous +English school. It was a set traditionally opposed to the +intellectuals; indeed these two principal sets fed fat an ancient +grudge. College humour mainly consisted at this time in the invention of +scandalous histories by members of one set concerning members of the +other. Needless to say the Paggers far excelled the Dundoons in the pith +of their libels, so that the Dundoons had often to assert their +supremacy in other ways. Upon one cold winter night, for example, the +Paggers, one and all, retiring to rest had missed a necessary vessel. +Thick snow covered the garden quadrangle, of which the Dundoons had +built an immense mound upon the lawn. After three days a thaw set +vigorously in, and the Junior Prior, looking from his window in the +dawn, was shocked by an unutterable stack of College china mocking the +doubtful virginity of the snow. The enterprises of the Dundoons were not +subtle. + +The Junior Prior was not at this time happy. Quite recently he had +himself been one of the Dundoons. He was a young professor of +mathematics; and, because he was also an astronomer, they called him +Peepy. He was brilliant on paper, but an admitted failure in dealing +with the men. His discipline was openly flouted. + +Peter, who naturally did not know that the Junior Prior was an error of +judgment, confessed by the authorities, regarded him, unfairly to +Gamaliel, as typical of the place. He derided in him a wholly +ineffectual and pedantic person whose dignity at Gamaliel reduced life +to absurdity. Peter was barely civil to the Junior Prior. It was +characteristic of the Junior Prior that he tactlessly favoured the +Dundoons. They used his pet name, and paraded with him linked in +familiar conversation. Naturally, when his discipline fell upon men +outside the set he favoured, it was bitterly resented. It was +remembered, a fact unknown to the Fellows, that in the term before Peter +came to Gamaliel the Junior Prior had been pushed downstairs by a robust +man from the Colonies who, though he happened to be reading theology, +was old enough to be the father of the Junior Prior, and had, it was +believed, actually killed people somewhere in Mexico. + +The incident between Peter and Dundoon naturally splashed rather rudely +into these College politics. Clearly it needed very little to raise a +scandal. One of the Dundoons talked with Peter in the boat that +afternoon, telling him that vengeance was intended, but Peter was +wearily contemptuous. + +In the evening he sat peacefully at his window. To-day they had paddled +far, passing through the locks to lower reaches of the river. Peter was +tired and contemplative, his brain still rocking with the boat and +filled with desolate echoes of shouting over lonely water. + +Big Tom was belling his hundred-and-one. The lawn was deserted and very +quiet. Peter could recover distantly the rhythm of the town band. He +remembered the night of his first introduction to the dons of +Gamaliel--the infinite promise that once had sounded in the Oxford +bells. + +A riotous party broke into the far corner. Peter was not long in doubt +as to who they were. Dundoon was cracking his whip. + +Peter sat still as they came irregularly towards him. + +"Peter Pagger," said Dundoon, not quite certain of his syllables, "we +have come to rag you. Have you any objections?" + +He stood below on the grass. He had been drinking and was very serious. + +"None at all," said Peter indifferently. He looked down, as it were, on +a group of animals. + +"He hasn't any objections," said Dundoon confidentially to his +supporters. + +"Listen to me," he continued, addressing the open window. "This is most +important. You've been very rude to me. What are you going to do about +it?" + +"I'm sitting here," said Peter. + +He heard them blundering up the wooden staircase. He might have sported +a strong oak, locking them out until his friends had come together. But +it hardly seemed worth while. + +He leaned upright by the open window, his hands in his pockets, as the +Dundoons playfully rearranged the furniture. The etiquette on an +occasion like this was simple. He must not make himself ridiculous by +taking too seriously the frolic of men not entirely sober. Neither must +he allow himself to be insulted. Peter looked carelessly on, very calm +but alert to decide when the joke had gone as far as the decorum of +Gamaliel allowed. + +One of the Dundoons was arranging Peter's coal neatly upon the +mantelpiece. Another was turning his pictures to the wall. His +tablecloth and hearthrug were transposed. His wardrobe was assorted into +heaps upon the floor and labelled for a sale by auction. + +Suddenly Peter saw that Dundoon was about to empty a water-jug into the +bed. Peter passed swiftly towards him. + +"I don't think we'll do that," he said. "It would be nasty." + +"You've been very rude to me," said Dundoon, dangerously tilting the +jug. + +Peter grasped him firmly by the arm and took the jug away. He put it +back into the corner. + +Dundoon looked at Peter for a moment in drunken meditation. Then he put +his hand on Peter's shoulder. + +"Peter Pagger," he said, "this is most important. Sorry to +say--absolutely necessary to cleanse and purify unwholesome bed." And he +walked to the corner. + +Peter followed him. + +"Dundoon," he said sharply. + +Dundoon turned and found Peter at his elbow. Peter shook his fist under +the nose of Dundoon. + +"Pick up that water-jug and I'll punch your damned head." + +"Here, you fellows," shouted Dundoon. "Come and hear what Peter Pagger +is saying. He's been very rude to me." + +The Dundoons crowded into the little bedroom, and someone called: "Take +away his trousers!" + +Peter stood back. There was an uproar and a movement towards him. + +"Mind yourselves," he shouted. "I'm going to fight." + +There was a knock at the bedroom door, and silence fell suddenly. + +"Come in," called Peter, not without relief. + +The Junior Prior stood in the doorway. He had heard an uproar in Peter's +rooms, and he did not immediately see the company. + +"Mr. Paragon," he said with the dignity of a sergeant, "what's all this +noise?" + +He had got as far as this when Dundoon suddenly put a fond arm around +his neck. + +"It's all right, Peepy," he said. "Peter Pagger's been very rude to me." + +The Junior Prior changed colour, and Peter enjoyed his confusion. The +Junior Prior's attempt at discipline collapsed. He had come to assert +his authority over a mere member of the college, but he had fallen among +friends. + +"Don't you think this has gone far enough?" He almost pleaded with +Dundoon. + +"Peter Pagger's been very rude to me." + +"Yes. But I think you ought to come away." + +"But, Peepy, this is most important." + +One of the Dundoons, more alive to the position than the rest, hastily +pushed his leader from the room. Already the other men had discreetly +vanished. + +"What are you doing?" Dundoon protested. + +"Come out of it, you fool," whispered the man of tact. "Don't you see +you're making it awkward for Peepy?" + +"Awkward for Peepy?" said Dundoon very audibly. "Why is it awkward for +Peepy?" + +The Junior Prior went scarlet under Peter's dancing eyes. + +"Your room seems to have suffered," he dimly smiled. "I must look to +Dundoon," and he dived hastily into the passage. Peter heard a sharp +scuffle. He saw, in his mind's eye, the embarrassed man of authority +forcing his tactless crony from sight and hearing. He flung up his hands +in glee. + +The story did not lose in Peter's telling. Peter improved his +description as the days went by. "Awkward for Peepy," passed into the +language. + +The Paggers, one and all, decided that it would be extremely awkward for +Peepy if, after collapsing before Dundoon, he should ever again actively +interfere with themselves. + + + + +XVI + + +The term drew to an end. Peter's boat went head of the river in five +bumps. There was a large dinner in the College hall, and a small dinner +of Peter's friends upon the following day. This last dinner had +important consequences. The toasts were many, and Peter was not a +seasoned man. He put vine leaves in his hair, and scarcely conscious of +his limbs, danced lightly into Gamaliel quadrangle. It was a dinner at +Peter's expense, exclusively of Paggers; and at one o'clock in the +morning they began to do each what his brain imagined. + +Peter secured a beautiful enamel bath which belonged to Dundoon, and for +an hour he could not be interrupted. To sit in the bath of Dundoon, and +to clatter hideously from flight to flight of the stone steps of the +College hall was a perfect experience. It never palled. Meanwhile +Peter's friends had discovered an open window of the buttery, and +announcements were made to Peter from time to time. Peter sat gravely in +his bath and smiled. + +"Rows of chickens for the evening meal," said a man from the deeps of +the larder. The chickens were handed out and spread decently upon the +lawn. + +Reports were made of a wonderful breakfast waiting to be cooked. + +"How well they provide for us," said Peter, gazing upon rows of fish, +joints of beef and mutton, hams and sides of bacon. Then Peter stood up +in his bath and prophesied: + +"Gentlemen," he said. "All kinds of food grow upon trees of the field. I +should not be at all surprised--" He broke off, sunk in contemplation of +a spreading elm. + +Then he again carried his bath to the head of the steps, and his friends +were busy for the next half hour. At the end of that time the trees were +heavy with strange fruit. + +Peter was then invited to join in a choral dance; but he would not leave +his bath. + +He felt a sudden need for violent rhythm, and began heavily to beat the +bath of Dundoon. + +Windows were flung up, and protesting shouts were heard from sleepy men +in garments hastily caught up. The Junior Prior, who had as long as +possible refrained, saw he must intervene. He flung on a few necessary +clothes and issued from his turret. + +Peter lay directly in his path. He paused irresolutely at the foot of +the steps. + +"Mr. Paragon." + +The Junior Prior asserted his authority with misgiving. + +"Sir?" + +"Go to your rooms." + +Peter descended the steps unsteadily. Then he stopped, looking +wistfully towards his bath. It was too much. He began to climb back +again. + +"Mr. Paragon," repeated the Junior Prior. + +"Sir?" + +"Need you do that again?" + +"This," objected Peter with the faintest parody of Dundoon, "is most +important." + +The Junior Prior was seen to flush in the lamplight. + +"Mr. Paragon, come down!" + +Peter sighed and again started to descend. He missed a step and fell +rudely towards the Junior Prior, who stepped back to receive him. But +the Junior Prior caught his slippered heel in a low iron railing that +skirted the lawn, and fell with his legs in the air. Peter, caught by +the parapet, gazed thoughtfully at the legs of the Junior Prior. + +The Junior Prior was loosely clad. He had put his legs hastily into a +pair of trousers, kept in place by the last abdominal button. Disordered +by his sudden fall, the ends of the trousers projected beyond his feet. + +Everything happened in a moment. Peter saw his enemy delivered up. His +bland good-fellowship of the evening surrendered to Berserker rage. He +stooped, and in a flash caught hold of the loose ends of the trousers. +Unconscious of his enormous strength, he pulled sharp and wild. The +button gave with a snap, and Peter, staggered for a moment by the +recoil, was next seen rushing up the lawn, a strange banner streaming +about his head. + +Peter's friends were awed into silence. The ceremony which so largely +figured in conversation at Gamaliel had at last been performed, and it +had been performed on the Junior Prior. + +Peter, in mad rush, came upon a meditative figure. The Warden, working +late into the night, was at last disturbed. He had arrived in time to +see Peter staggering back from a recumbent figure in the middle +distance. He watched Peter in his furious career down the lawn, and saw +Peter's miserable victim glimmer hastily away into the far turret. The +Warden was not ignorant of College politics. He already suspected that +this was no ordinary achievement. + +"Well, Mr. Paragon," he said as Peter forged into view. "Are these your +property?" + +He caught at the trousers, and Peter, struck comparatively sober, +decided to temporise. + +"They are not my property, sir. They are, f-f-th' moment, borrowed." + +Peter felt very politic and clever. + +"Who is the owner of this property?" asked the Warden. + +"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot tell." + +Peter was beginning to feel how impossible it was to face the fact that +he had removed the trousers of the Junior Prior. He could not tell the +Warden. It seemed indelicate. He wanted to cover the shame of his +victim. + +"You know, of course, to whom this property belongs?" the Warden +persisted. + +"Yes, sir." + +"But you refuse to say." + +Peter was struck miserably silent. He did not like to deny the Warden, +but he could not utter the outrage he had committed. + +"Very well," said the Warden. "I will impound the property. Doubtless it +will be claimed." + +He quietly took possession of the trousers and turned to go. + +"Mr. Paragon." + +"Yes, sir?" + +"I rely on you to see that the College is in bed within the next ten +minutes. I shall send for you in the morning. Good night." + +"Good night, sir." + +Peter soberly reported the interview to his friends, and they decided to +sleep. + +Already the zest was beginning to go out of life. A comfortless grey +light was beginning to peer dimly at the hanging burden of the trees. + +Peter sat wakefully at his window. His revolt against the discipline of +Gamaliel came merely to this--that he had removed the trousers of the +Junior Prior. He had been noisy and foolish, and it had seemed the best +joke in the world that his friends should give the laborious College +servants at least an hour's extra work to do in the morning. A large +side of bacon hanging grotesquely in the pale light intolerably mocked +him from the noble elm beside his window. He felt very old and tired. +In the morning he was summoned to the Warden's house. The Warden met him +seriously, as though, Peter thought, he instinctively knew how to make +him ashamed. + +"Well, Mr. Paragon, the property has been identified." + +"I'm sorry, sir." + +"I, too, am sorry, Mr. Paragon. You are sent down for the remaining days +of the term, and I shall seriously have to consider whether I can allow +you to come back after the vacation. I suppose you realise that the +discipline of the College must be observed?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"The Junior Prior," the Warden continued with perfect gravity, "has been +offered an important post in a Japanese university. Perhaps he will +accept it. He desires to study the refraction of light in tropical +atmospheres. It may therefore be possible for you to join us again next +term. Otherwise I am afraid we shall have to strike you from the books. +I think you understand the position, Mr. Paragon?" + +"Yes, sir." + +Peter cut short his friends when they asked for an account of his +roasting. + +"The Wuggins," he said emphatically, "is a big man. I'm going down by +the seven-forty to Hamingburgh." + +Peter wanted to get away without fuss, but the Paggers would not hear +of it. It was decided there must be a procession to the railway station. +All the folly had gone out of Peter, but he was now helplessly a hero. + +The procession started from the College gates. Fifty hansom-cabs, +decorated with purple crape, formed up under the Warden's windows. The +town band was hired to play a solemn march. Peter, compelled to bear the +principal part in a joke which he no longer appreciated, was borne to +the leading cab pale with mortification. The slow journey to the station +seemed interminable. All Oxford was grinning from the creeping pavement. +At last the station was reached. Peter leaped from duress, heartily +cursed his friends, and, safe at last in the train, began to wonder how +his uncle would receive him. + +The Warden of Gamaliel had watched Peter's funeral procession from +behind the curtains of his window. He smiled as he saw Peter borne +forth, clearly reflecting in his expressive young face an ineffectual +dislike of his notoriety. The Warden turned from the window as the +strains of a solemn march weakened along the street. He smiled again +that day at odd times, but sometimes he pressed his lips together and +shook his head. + +"Peter Paragon is a good boy," he told the Fellows at dinner, "but I +don't in the least know what we are going to do with him." + + + + +XVII + + +Peter spent the vacation at home solidly reading and digesting without +enthusiasm the Oxford books. He soon heard from his friends that the +Junior Prior had vanished, and that he himself would be invited to +return. He spent his days regularly between classical literature for a +task and modern literature for pleasure. + +Mrs. Paragon gravely listened to Peter's story of his indiscipline. She +did not, of course, find it in any way ridiculous. She brooded upon it +as evidence of Peter's abounding life, and she instinctively trembled. +Peter's energy was beginning to be dangerous. + +Peter's uncle flung up his great head and laughed. He made Peter, to +Peter's rage, recur to the story again and again, asking for unspeakable +details. His red face shone and twinkled. He roared with delight. + +In the middle of the vacation the author who first had stirred Peter to +intellectual enthusiasm came to Hamingburgh, and talked Socialism to a +local branch of the Superior Socialists. Peter was wrought to so high an +admiration of the art with which the great man handled his audience, by +the clarity, vigour, and wit of his speaking, that he dared at the end +to ask publicly some very pertinent and searching questions. The speaker +could not answer him immediately; but afterwards promised to write to +Peter if Peter would remind him. + +Peter thus became one of the fortunate correspondents of an author whose +private letters were better than his published works. Before he returned +to Oxford he already had a small pile, thumbed with continuous reading. + +Peter acquitted himself reasonably to the satisfaction of his masters +when he returned to Gamaliel. He wrote without vigour or interest, but +his grim industry saved him from absolute failure. All through the term +he stuck hard at the necessary books, and trained hard for the summer +eights. His spare energy now went into socialist oratory, blue books, +and public speaking. He made sudden appearances at the Oxford Union, +cutting into the debates with ferocious contempt for the politics there +discussed. To Peter the world was very wrong, and it seemed easy to put +it right. He denounced the imbecility of the party game--played in the +midst of so much urgently calling to be done. He drowned his audiences +in terrible figures and unanswerable economy. He extirpated landlords +and destroyed wagery. He abolished the oldest profession in the world as +accidental to a society badly run. Peter became famous as an orator. It +was confidently said that next term he would be given a place on the +Committee of the Union. One evening he was taken by the Proctors, +prophesying from a cart in the Broad. He was fined, ostensibly for +appearing ungowned in the streets at an unlawful hour. + +Peter's access of political fervour was aggravated this term by an +unfortunate accident. He sprained a tendon of his leg, and had to drop +out of the boat a few days before the races. The effect of this physical +relaxation was to increase his energy for discontent. For several +blissful days he lay upon his back in a punt upon the Char, happy to be +lazy, to breathe the heavy scent of hawthorn, to be rocked by noises of +water and of voices over the water. Then he began to dream; and blue +books marched in the avenues of his brain, mocking the elaborate +idleness of the afternoon. The week itself of the races forced once +again upon his imagination the contrasts he had seen in London. The +merry pageant of the river, brilliant with summer dresses; the pleasant +evening parties at the Old Mitre where his mother and uncle were +staying; everywhere an expensive and careless life accepted as +normal--these things were bright against a dark background of neglect +and oppression. Peter was now a very serious young man. + +His brooding at this time was only lightened during the summer week by +the presence in Oxford of his mother and uncle. There was much to +arrange and to observe. Peter had been afraid of his uncle. How would +his uncle behave among the Oxford people? Peter was not really happy +until he had dined very near Dundoon and his party. The father of +Dundoon was a nobleman with 10,000 acres of urban land. Yet, Peter +cynically reflected, you could scarcely distinguish him from Uncle +Henry. He, too, had a large red face, ate with more heartiness than +delicacy, and talked in an accent entirely his own. Peter breathed more +freely. Instinctively he began a peroration as to aristocracy true and +false, with interpolated calculations as to the possible unearned +increment upon 10,000 acres conveniently near London. + +Uncle Henry, of course, had to be shown exactly where the Junior Prior +had fallen; and Peter had to stand by, embarrassed and fuming, while +Uncle Henry rehearsed the scene in pantomime. + +Peter was proud and glad to see how rapidly his friends came to praise +and admire his mother. They instinctively felt her strength and peace. +They began at once to confide in her, though her answers were rarely of +more than one syllable. Of all Peter's friends Lord Marbury liked her +best. + +Marbury was at this time Peter's nearest friend at Gamaliel. Peter had +met Marbury only this last term. He had one day sat next to a stranger +at dinner. Finding the stranger to be a man of excellent intelligence +Peter had begun vigorously to denounce the aristocracy of England. The +stranger had mildly protested that English lords were rather more +various in character than Peter supposed, and that perhaps they had a +use in politics and society. Peter contested this, overwhelming his new +friend with facts, figures, arguments, and devices for buying out all +the vested interests of the nobility at a reasonable figure. Two days +after, at a college ceremony which required the men to answer to their +names, Peter heard with distaste that a new title was being called. He +looked contemptuously round, and to his dismay saw his new friend rise +in answer. Marbury smiled pleasantly at Peter and chaffed him in the +best of humour. + +The friendship rapidly grew. Marbury was all that a man of lively +interest and fancy can be who has mixed from a boy with polite citizens +of the world. He knew all that Peter had yet to learn; but Peter's world +of ideas attracted him as a country unexplored. Peter less consciously +drew towards Marbury as one who seemed, in all but purely intellectual +things, unaccountably wise. He really felt the curb of Marbury's +knowledge of things as they are, whereas Marbury delighted in Peter's +enthusiasm for things as they should be. + +Marbury's charm for Peter rested, too, upon his ability to talk in a +perfectly natural and unaffected way of intimate and simple things. +Marbury at once declared his pleasure in Peter's mother. His own people +had not come to Oxford for the races, and he devoted himself almost +entirely to Mrs. Paragon. + +"It's pleasant just to carry her mackintosh," he said to Peter one +evening after they had come from the hotel. + +"I'm glad you like her." + +"Like her?" protested Marbury. "Don't be inadequate. She is simply +wonderful." + +Peter asked himself how Marbury had discovered this. + +"What have you been talking about all the evening?" he inquired. + +"I haven't the least idea. Mostly nonsense." + +"Then how do you know she is wonderful?" + +"Peter," said Marbury, "sometimes you annoy me. It's true that I haven't +the least idea what your mother thinks about the English aristocracy or +George Meredith. I simply know that your mother is wonderful." + +Peter leant eagerly forward: + +"I understand how you feel." + +"Good," jerked Marbury. "I'm glad you are not quite insensible." + +He looked reflectively at Peter, and continued: + +"I am almost hopeful about you now that I've met your mother. I cannot +help feeling there must be some sanity in you somewhere. But where did +you get all your nonsense?" + +"My father was shot down in the street," said Peter briefly. + +"I'm sorry," said Marbury after a pause. "I did not know." + +The summer races were run to an end, and only three weeks of term +remained. Peter, physically unemployed, accumulated stores of energy. He +became insufferably violent in conversation, and Marbury, after telling +him to put his head in ice, said he would have no more to do with him +till he no longer addressed his friends as if they were a public +meeting. + +That Peter did not that term fly into flat rebellion was due to a lack +of opportunity. For a similar reason he continued to get through another +year between Oxford and Hamingburgh. His weeks at home with his mother +were like deep pools of a stream between troubled reaches. At Oxford +Marbury, with his imperturbable sanity and good humour, kept him a +little in check. They were inseparable. Peter would not again go on the +river. He bought a horse and rode with Marbury through the winter and +spring in the country about Oxford, or sailed with him in the desolate +river beyond Port Meadow. Meantime he gored at his books like an angry +bull, was the favourite hot gospeller of the Oxford Socialists, and was +elected Secretary of the Union as an independent candidate--a fact +recorded with misguided enthusiasm in the Labour press. Peter's first +summer term was the model of the two which followed; and his second +summer term might harmlessly have passed like the first had not Marbury +been called away. Marbury was his uncle's heir, and his uncle was not +expected to live through the year. Henceforth Marbury would have to +spend most of his time upon his uncle's estate. Thus, in the singing +month of May, and in his second year, Peter was left unbridled. + + + + +XVIII + + +Marbury had been away for three weeks when Peter was arrested one +morning by a placard outside the Oxford theatre. A play was announced by +a young dramatist who followed the lead of Peter's acknowledged master. +Peter knew the play well, knew it was finer in quality than the majority +of plays performed in London or elsewhere. There had been preliminary +difficulties with the Censor as to the licensing of this play, but in +the end it had been passed for public performance--not until the +intellectual press had exhaustively discussed the absurdities implied in +the Censor's hesitation. Peter knew by heart all the arguments for and +against the Censorship of plays. Musical comedy and French farce ruled +at the Oxford theatre--productions which Peter had publicly denounced as +intentionally offered for the encouragement of an ancient profession. He +was, therefore, agreeably pleased to read the announcement of a play +morally edifying and intellectually brilliant. + +But two days later a mild sensation fluttered the gossips of North +Oxford and splashed into the conversation of the Common rooms. The +Vicegerent of the University, who had an absolute veto upon performances +at the Oxford theatre, suddenly decided that the play must not be +presented. + +Peter heard the news at dinner. For the remaining weeks of the term he +was a raging prophet. Too excited to eat, he left the table and walked +under the trees, smouldering with plans for exposing this foolish and +complacent tyranny. + +First he would exhaust clearly and forcibly upon paper its thousand +absurdities. Peter wrote far into the night, caught in a frenzy of +inspired logic. Having argued his position point by point, having rooted +it firm in reason, morality, and justice, he flung loose the rein of his +indignation. He ended by the first light of day, and read over his +composition in a glow of accomplishment. Surely this conspiracy must +collapse in a shout of laughter. + +He took his MS. to a friend who at that time was editing the principal +undergraduate magazine. Half an hour later he returned to his room +gleaming with fresh anger. His friend had refused to publish his MS., +saying it was too rude, and that he did not want to draw the evil eye of +authority. Peter called him coward, and shook his fist under the +editorial nose. + +In the evening he arranged with a local publisher to print a thousand +copies in pamphlet form. Later he attended a seminar class under the +Vicegerent, and at the end of the hour waited to speak with him. + +"Well, Mr. Paragon?" + +Peter was outwardly calm, but for sixty interminable minutes he had +boiled with impatient anger. + +"Sir, I wish to resign from the seminar." + +The Vicegerent detected a tremor of suppressed excitement. He looked +keenly at Peter. + +"What are your reasons?" he asked. + +"I need more time for private reading." + +"For example?" + +"I am interested in the modern theatre." + +Peter had intended merely to resign. He had not intended to offer +reasons. But he could not resist this. The words shot rudely and +clumsily out of him. + +The Vicegerent saw a light in Peter's eye. He was a man of humour, and +he smiled. + +"H'm. This, I take it, is a sort of challenge?" he said. + +"It is a protest," Peter suggested. + +The Vicegerent twinkled, and Peter helplessly chafed. The Vicegerent put +a gentle hand upon his arm. + +"Well, Mr. Paragon, I'm sorry your protest has taken this particular +form. I shall be sorry to lose you. However, your protest seems to be +quite in order. So I suppose you are at liberty to make it." + +"And to publish my reasons?" Peter flared. + +"I have published mine," smiled the Vicegerent. + +He took up a copy of the Oxford magazine, underlined a brief passage in +blue pencil, and handed it to Peter. Peter read: + +"The Vicegerent has decided that _Gingerbread Fair_ is not a suitable +play for performance at the Oxford Theatre. He does not think the moral +of the play is one that can suitably be offered to an audience of young +people. It will be remembered that this play was licensed by the Lord +Chamberlain only after serious consideration of its ethical purport." + +Peter choked. + +"These are not reasons," he flamed. + +"Mr. Paragon," said the Vicegerent, "this is not for discussion." + +Peter dropped the magazine upon the table between them and went from the +room without a word. + +The Paggers joyfully roared when Peter's pamphlet issued from the press. +Peter had improved it in proof with an Appendix, wherein, helped by his +learned friends, he presented an anthology of indecorous passages +collected from classical texts recommended for study by the Examiners. +Peter explained to the world that the young people whose minds must not +be contaminated by _Gingerbread Fair_ would in default of its +performance spend the evening with masterpieces by Aristophanes, +Petronius, and Ovid of the "ethical purport" indicated in the cited +examples. + +Peter posted a copy of his pamphlet to every resident Master of Arts in +Oxford, and awaited the result. He expected at least to rank with +Shelley in conspicuous and reputable martyrdom. But nothing happened. +The Warden met him with the usual friendly smile. The Vicegerent nodded +to him affably in the Corn Market. They did not seem to have suffered +any rude or shattering experience. The walls of learning stood yet, +solemn and grey. + +Words, it seemed, were wasted. Reason was of no account. Peter was +resolved somehow to be noticed. He would break down this cynical +indifference of authority to truth and humour. + +Upon the morning when _Gingerbread Fair_ should first have been +performed in Oxford, Peter saw its place upon the placards taken by a +play from London. The picture of a young woman in lace knickerbockers +was evidence that the play would abound in precisely that sort of +indecency which, as Peter had proved in his pamphlet, must necessarily +flourish in a Censor-ridden theatre. That this kind of play should, by +authority, be encouraged at the expense of the new, clean drama of the +militant men whom Peter loved, pricked him to the point of delirium. He +then and there resolved that the day should end in riot. + +The Paggers were ready. They cared not a straw for Peter's principles; +but, when he suggested that the play at the Oxford theatre should be +arrested, they rented four stage-boxes and waited for the word. Peter, +at urgent speed, had leaflets printed, in which were briefly set forth +the grounds on which the men of Oxford protested against a change of +bill which substituted the woman in knickerbockers for _Gingerbread +Fair_. The play dragged on. Peter waited for the bedroom, and with grim +patience watched the gradual undressing of the principal lady. He +intended to make a speech. + +The interruption came sooner than Peter intended. He was about to +scatter his leaflets and leap to the stage when an outrageous innuendo +from one of the actors inspired a small demonstration from some Paggers +in the pit. + +"Isn't it shocking?" said a voice in an awed, but audible, undertone. + +"Order! order!" shouted some people of the town. + +There were counter-cries of "Shame!" and in a moment the theatre was in +an uproar. Peter scattered his leaflets with a magnificent gesture and +jumped on to the stage. The Paggers tumbled out of their boxes, arrested +the stage manager in the act of lowering the curtain, and began to carry +off the stage properties as lawful spoil. + +Peter had counted on being able to make a speech--to explain his +position with dignity. He did not know how quickly an uproar can be +raised. Also he had reckoned without the Paggers. They wanted fun. + +When it was over Peter remembered best the frightened eyes of the woman +on the stage. For no reason at all madness had burst into the theatre. +She heard a great noise, and saw Peter with a gleaming face leap towards +her. She screamed, and continued screaming, but her voice was lost. + +Meantime her husband and manager, inferring that his wife had been +insulted, came rushing from the wings. + +Peter vainly trying to make himself heard, suddenly felt a violent push +in the back. He turned and saw a furious man, apparently speaking, but +his words were drowned. This man all at once hit Peter in the face. + +Peter forgot all about the Censor, and shot out hard with his left. The +man went down. Peter noticed that more than one person was rolling on +the floor. + +Seeing another member of the player's company before him with a lifted +fist he hit him hard on the jaw. This man fell away, and Peter prepared +to hit another. Then he noticed that the next man to be hit was a +policeman; also that the Paggers were climbing hastily back into their +boxes loaded with booty. He started after them, but, as he was stepping +over a prostrate carcase, the carcase gripped him by the leg. He fell to +the stage with a crash, knocking his head violently on the boards. + +When Peter came to himself he was in the open air. The police were +disputing for his body with the Senior Proctor. He sat up and felt his +head. By this time the Senior Proctor had established his rights of +jurisdiction, and the police, leaving Peter to the University, departed. + +When Peter was able to stand, he confessed his name and accepted a +summons to appear before the Vicegerent in his court of justice. He then +went back to Gamaliel. + +The Paggers were assembled in his room when he returned, telling stories +of the evening and dividing the spoil. There was eager competition for +some of the articles, more especially for personal property of the +principal lady. All such garments as she had already discarded had been +thoughtfully secured. They lay in a fascinating heap upon Peter's rug. +It had just been decided, when Peter arrived, that they should be +knocked down to the highest bidder, and that the proceeds should be +handed over to the college chaplain for charitable uses. + +At sight of Peter these proceedings were interrupted. It was admitted +that Peter had first claim. + +"Peter," they said, "has suffered." + +"I have an idea," said a man from the colonies. "I know what Peter would +like to do." + +Peter was racked with headache, and sick with a sense of futility. + +"Shut up, you fools," he growled at them. + +"Peter is ungrateful after all we have done for him; but we know what +Peter would like to do with these pretty things. He would like to wrap +them up in a parcel, and send them to St. James' Palace. Won't the Lord +Chamberlain be surprised? We will enclose a schedule--List of Garments +Discarded by Principal Lady under the Aegis of the Lord Chamberlain at +the Oxford Theatre on the Fourteenth Instant." + +"There cannot be a schedule," said another wag. "How are we to name +these pretty things?" + +"Our definitions will be arbitrary. Here, for instance, is a charming +trifle, fragrant as flowers in April. Mark it down as 'A +Transparency--Precise Function Unknown.'" + +"Camisole," suggested a voice. + +"Will the expert kindly come forward?" + +It seemed hours before Peter, after much perfunctory ribaldry, was left +alone with his remorse. The little heap of white garments accused him +from the table of rowdiness and vulgarity. They filled his room with the +scent of violets, and he remembered now the eyes of the woman he had so +rudely frightened. + +In the immediate future he saw the red tape of being formally sent +down--a grave reprimand from the authorities, twinkling amusement from +the Warden. They would treat him like a child. Had he not behaved like a +child? All his fine passion had turned to ridicule. Peter, solitary in +his room, found comfort in one thought alone. The world was waiting for +him in London, where he would be received as a man, and be +understood--where passion and a keen mind could be turned to high ends +and worthily expended. He accused authority of his excesses, and +dedicated himself afresh to resist and discredit his rulers. He was now +a responsible revolutionary, with a hard world in front of him to be +accused and beaten down. He thought again of his father--now a bright +legend of intellectual revolt. + +Next day Peter listened quietly to all that was said to him, receiving +as of course an intimation that he was finally expelled from the +College. This time the funeral was spared. Peter's friends were too busy +packing for the vacation. His last farewell was spoken on the platform +of Oxford station. Marbury, returning for a night to college, hailed him +as he jumped from the cab. + +"Hullo, Peter," he said at once. "You're a famous man!" + +"Don't rot." + +"Have you seen the local paper?" + +"Why?" + +"There are some rather good headlines," answered Marbury, unfolding the +sheet. + + + RAID UPON THE OXFORD THEATRE + SUDDEN UPROAR + DESTRUCTION OF STAGE PROPERTIES + PRINCIPAL LADY PROSTRATED WITH SHOCK + + +He finished reading, and handed the paper to Peter. + +"What on earth have you been doing?" he asked, as Peter seized and +devoured it. + +Peter ran his eye over the lines. Reported in the common form of a local +scribe it read like a drunken brawl. + +"Were you tight?" asked Marbury briefly. + +"No, I was not tight," Peter snapped. "Look here, Marbury," he +continued, "this wasn't a picnic. It was damn serious." + +"Serious?" + +"It was a protest." + +"This is interesting," said Marbury. "What was it about?" + +"It was a protest," Peter declared with high dignity, "against the +censorship of stage plays." + +Marbury looked at Peter for a moment. Then went into peals of laughter. +Peter looked at him intending to kill. + +"Don't be angry, Peter. I don't often laugh. But this is funny." + +"I don't agree with you." + +"Peter, dear boy, come away from your golden throne." + +Marbury smoothed his face. "I suppose this means you're going down for +good." + +"Thank Heaven for that!" + +"Look me up in London. I'm going down myself next term." + +"Sick of it?" asked Peter. + +"Not at all. But my uncle is far from well, and I'm next man on the +estate. I have just been seeing the lawyers." + +"We're going different ways, Marbury." + +"Stuff." + +"I'm in the other camp," Peter insisted. + +"Very well," said Marbury cheerfully; "when you're tired of the other +camp remember you've a friend outside. Good-bye, and good-luck." + +Peter could not resist Marbury's good temper. He was beginning to feel +in the wrong. + +"Marbury," he said, "why am I always rude?" + +Marbury smiled into Peter's lighted face: + +"You were born younger than most of us. Meantime, your train is moving." + +Peter scrambled into a passing carriage, and Marbury threw his luggage +in at the window. + +Peter waved him a friendly farewell, and retired to reflect upon his +inveterate want of grace. + +Marbury looked after the train in smiling meditation. He expected to see +Peter within the year. He rather enjoyed the prospect of Peter loose +among the intellectuals of London. He knew what these people were like. + + + + +XIX + + +Uncle Henry was at first inclined to be angry when Peter appeared for +the second time a banished man. Peter wisely forebore trying to explain +the motive of his riot. + +"The fact is, Uncle, I have had enough of Oxford," he said. + +"Oxford seems to have had enough of you," his uncle grumbled. "I told +you to get education." + +"There isn't any education at Oxford. It's in London now." + +"What will you do in London?" + +"I could read for the bar," Peter suggested. + +"Alone in London, eh? I don't think so. You want a nursemaid." + +"Let the mater come and keep house." + +Uncle Henry reflected. "Peter," he said, "keep out of the police court. +I draw the line at that." + +"I shall be all right in London. Oxford annoyed me, Uncle." + +"Very well. I leave it to your mother." + +Peter's mother agreed to come to London and manage a small flat. + +"I shall just love to have you, mother," Peter said to her when the +plans were laid. + +"I wonder?" she said, searching his face. + +"You're not worried about this Oxford mess?" + +"I'm thinking, Peter. You're so terribly impatient." + +Peter himself hunted out the flat and furnished it. + +"Let him handle a bit of money," his uncle suggested. + +Incidentally Peter learned something about the housing of people in +London; something, too, of agents and speculators in housing. Finally he +perched in Golder's Green in a small flat over a group of shops. The +agent assured him it was a district loved by literary and artistic +people. + +His mother quickly followed him to London with plate and linen. A maid +was engaged, and Peter settled down to happiness and comfort. + +His first sensations were triumphant. He kicked his heels. The grey +walls of Oxford fell away. He tramped the streets of London, and flung +out the chest of a free man. Moreover, he had the zest of his new +employment. He broke his young brains against the subtleties of the law. + +Within a few weeks he began tentatively to know the intellectual +firebrands of the time. He had sent his pamphlet concerning _Gingerbread +Fair_ to the distinguished author whose epistolary acquaintance he had +made in Hamingburgh. The great man, who independently had heard the full +story of Peter's assault upon the Lord Chamberlain's stage at Oxford, +was tickled, and sent him an introduction to a famous collectivist pair +whose salon included everybody in London who had a theory and believed +in it. + +Peter met Georgian poets, independent critics and reviewers, mystics of +every degree, diagrammatic and futurist painters, musicians who wrote in +pentametric scales, social reformers, suspected dramatists--everybody +who had proved anything, or destroyed anything, or knew how the world +should be run; experts upon constitutional government in the Far East, +upon beautiful conduct in garden cities, upon the incidence of taxation, +upon housing and sanitation, upon sweated labour, upon sex and marriage, +upon vaccination and physical culture, upon food-bases, oriental +religion and Hindu poetry. + +Peter did not meet all these people at once. There was a period of six +months during which he gradually intruded among these jarring +intelligencies. During this time he was continually seeing things from a +new angle and weighing fresh opinions, continually pricked to explore +untrodden ways of speculation. The chase of exotic views was for a time +fun enough to keep him from measuring their value. + +Peter for nearly eighteen months mingled with this fussy and bitter +under-world of thinkers and talkers. He listened seriously to all it had +to say, at first with respect and curiosity. But gradually he grew +suspicious--even hostile. As he knew these people better, and talked +with them more intimately, he discovered that their energy was much of +it superficial. When, in his lust for truth, he pushed into their +defences, he found that many of their views were fashionable hearsay. +They echoed one another. Only a few had deeply read or widely observed +for themselves. Each clique had its registered commonplaces. Each was a +nest of authority. Peter suffered a series of small shocks, hardly felt +individually, but insensibly breaking down his faith. Often as he pushed +into the mind of this person or that, thrilling to meet and clash with a +pliable intelligence, he found himself vainly beating against the +logical blank wall of a formula. + +Among Peter's new acquaintances was the editor of a collectivist weekly +Review. This man discovered Peter's literary gift and turned him loose +upon the theatres. For several months Peter wrote weekly articles, with +liberty to say what he pleased. Peter said what he pleased with +ferocity. His articles were a weekly battery, trained upon the +amusements of modern London. All went well till Peter began to quarrel +with the intellectual drama of his editor. One week Peter grew bitter +concerning a new stage hero of the time--the man of ideas who talks +everybody down. Peter said flatly that he was tired of this fidgety +puppet. It was time he was put away. The editor sent for him. + +"Here, Paragon, this won't do at all." + +"What's wrong?" + +"You've dropped on this fellow like a sand-bag. We're here to encourage +this sort of drama." + +Peter put his nose into the air. + +"What is the name of this paper? I thought you called it the _Free +Lance_." + +"You can say what you like about plays in general." + +Peter then and there resigned. But he was too good a pen to lose. His +editor borrowed a gallery ticket from a London daily paper, and sent +Peter to attend debates in the House of Commons as an impartial critic +of Parliamentary deportment and intelligence. Three weeks shattered all +Peter's fixed ideas of English public life. He forgot to detest the +futility of the party game--as he had at the Oxford Union so +persistently contrived to do--in sincere enjoyment of a perpetually +interesting comedy. Moreover, the figures he most admired were the +figures he should by rote have denounced. He delighted in the perfect +address of a statesman he had formerly reprobated as an old-fashioned +Liberal; and, listening to the speeches of the old-fashioned Liberal's +principal Tory opponent, he felt he was in contact with a living and +adventurous mind. Peter recognised that this man--hitherto simply +regarded as an enemy of the people--was, like himself, an explorer. He +was feeling his way to the truth. + + + + +XX + + +Peter stood one evening in early March--it was his second spring in +London--upon the terrace at Westminster. The friendly member who had +brought him there had for a moment disappeared. Perhaps it was the first +stirring of the year, or the air blowing up from the sea after the fumes +of the stuffiest room in London, but Peter felt a glad release as he +watched the tide sweeping in from the bridge. He had just heard the +speech of a socialist minister reflecting just that intellectual +rigidity from which he was beginning to recoil. The day was warm, with +faint ashes of a sunset dispersed over a sky of intense blue. Peter +watched a boat steaming out into a world so wide that it dwarfed the +towers under which he had that afternoon been sitting. Dead phrases +lingered in his brain, prompting into memory a multitude of doctrines +and ideas--the stuff on which he had fed since he set out to explore +revolutionary London. He shot them impatiently at the open sky. They +rattled against the impenetrable blue like peas flung at a window. Peter +impulsively breathed deeply of the flowing air. It rushed into the +corners of his brain. + +He left the House, and walked towards Charing Cross. He fitfully turned +over in his mind passages of the speech he had heard that afternoon, +but repeatedly the windy heavens rebuked him. He began to feel as if, +with adventures all about him, he had for days been prying into a heap +of rubbish. + +He pulled up on the pavement beside a great horse straining to start a +heavy dray. Sparks flew from his iron hoofs, which, in a desperate +clatter, marked the rhythm of his effort. The muscles of his flank were +contracted. His whole form was alive with energy. The dray started and +moved away. + +Elfinly there intruded upon Peter, watching the struggle of this +beautiful creature, a memory of the ministerial orator. The one seemed +grotesquely to outface the other. The straining thews of the horse were +in tune with the sky. The breath in his nostrils was that same air from +the sea which had met Peter upon the terrace. Nature was knit in a +friendly vitality, mysteriously opposed to all the categories. The +categories were somehow mystically shattered beneath the iron of the +horse's beating hoofs; were shredded by the wind which noisily fluttered +Peter's coat. + +That same evening he attended a fashionable lecture, wherein it was +explained that marriage was an affair of State. The theme touched in +Peter a strain of feeling that had slept from the moment he had lost +Miranda. When the lecturer had shown how the erotic forces now loose in +the world, and acting blindly, could be successfully run in leash by a +committee of experts, Peter left the meeting and sat in a restaurant +waiting for dinner. The place was gay with tongues. The tongues were +German and French, or English that clearly was not natural; for this was +a dining place of men who paid the bill for women they had not met +before. The company was very select; and Peter, devouring an expensive +meal, admired with the shyness that beauty still raised in him, the +clothes, faces, and obvious charms of the lovely feeders. Sometimes his +heart beat a little faster as the insolent, slow eyes of one of these +women curiously surveyed him. There was a beautiful creature who +especially fascinated him. He felt he would like just to look at her, +and enjoy the play of her face. He could not do as he wished, because +now and then she glanced at him, and he would not have met her eyes for +the world. Once, however, there was a clashing of their looks, and Peter +felt that his cheeks were burning. + +Tumultuously rebuking his pulse, Peter caught an ironic vision of +himself leading a long file of these brilliant women to the lecturer +from whom he had just escaped, with a request that he should deal with +them according to his theory of erotic forces. + +May was drawing to an end when Peter's mother decided she must spend a +few weeks with her brother in Hamingburgh. Peter realised, as she told +him of this, how quietly necessary she had been to him during these last +months. Always he returned to the still, beautiful figure of his mother +as to something rooted and safe. Sometimes, as he entertained some of +his talking friends, he watched her sitting monumentally wise, passively +confounding them. + +"I won't stay alone in London," Peter suddenly announced. + +His mother calmly considered him. + +"I can easily arrange it for you," she suggested at last. + +"I should go mad," said Peter briefly. He crossed to where his mother +was sitting. + +"Why, Peter," she said, "I hardly see anything of you." + +"You are always there," said Peter, putting his arm around her shoulder. +"You simply don't know what a comfort it is to have you. Somehow you +keep things from going to the devil. I don't mean the housekeeping," +continued Peter, answering his mother's puzzled look. "The fact is, +mother, you're quite wonderful. You're the only person I know who hasn't +any opinions. You just _are_." + +Peter decided to go into the country, and return to London when his +mother was ready to come back. The time for this had almost arrived, +when he met Marbury in the lobby of the House of Commons. + +Marbury broke away from his friends as Peter was hesitating whether to +pass him. + +"Hullo, Peter, what are you doing in this dusty place? I thought you +were loose in the theatre." + +"Was," Peter briefly corrected. + +"Then you got tired?" + +"No, I squabbled with the editor." + +"How are you getting on?" asked Marbury, quietly inspecting his friend. + +"Very badly. How are you?" + +"I'm standing in a month or so for the family seat," answered Marbury. +"That's why I'm here. You must come and see the election. Politics from +within." + +"Damn politics." + +"I'll tell you what it is, Peter. It's the Spring." + +"I want to get away from all this infernal talking," said Peter. + +"You've discovered that some of it's a bit thin?" + +"I'll tell you what I've discovered," said Peter savagely, "I've +discovered that almost any damn fool can be intellectual." + +"Try the stupid fellows who are always right." + +"Who are they?" + +"Latest definition of a Tory. Come and talk to the farm-labourers." + +"Not yet. I'm going to live in the air." + +"What will you do? Books?" + +"I hate books." + +"Come now, Peter, not all books," protested Marbury. "Let me send you +some. Books for the open." + +"Can you find me a book that has nothing to do with any modern thing--a +book that goes with the earth and touches bottom." + +"What's wrong with Shakespeare?" asked Marbury. + +"I've packed Shakespeare." + +"I'll send you some more." + +"Be careful," Peter warned him; "I shall pitch anything that looks like +a talking book into the fire." + +"You mustn't do that, Peter. The books I am going to send you are +valuable." + +They were walking now in Whitehall. + +"When do you begin to be elected?" asked Peter, suddenly expanding. + +"Almost at once. I'll send for you when the time comes." + +"What's the idea of that?" + +"You must come round the constituency--fifty miles across in its +narrowest part. I want someone to feed me with sandwiches and keep my +spirits up. Besides it will do you good. You'll meet some people who +have never written a book and haven't any opinions." + +"Beasts of the field," said Peter. + +"Not at all. They're all on the register; and they will vote for +Marbury." + +By the time they had reached Charing Cross Marbury had persuaded Peter +to tell his address. He also agreed to join Marbury immediately he was +summoned. The next day he went with his mother to Hamingburgh, and +afterwards packed for the country. He would wander aimlessly in +Worcestershire from village to village till Marbury sent for him. + +Already he was happier for the meeting. He felt an access of real +affection for Marbury on being interrupted in his packing by the arrival +of the books Marbury had promised. He pitched them unopened into his +trunk, in confidence that Marbury had chosen well. + + + + +XXI + + +Peter finally quartered himself upon a lonely farm in Worcestershire. +The estate was large and wild, running down steep hills and banks to a +brook and tiny falls of water. The family who owned it scraped a +livelihood from odds and ends of country employment. They had some +orchard, and pasture for half a dozen cows. But there was no arable, and +they made up a yearly deficit by receiving visitors from the town. + +Peter had the place to himself, and the peace of it was deeply +refreshing. The house stood high, whence the shapely hills of the +country were visible--Malvern hanging like a small cloud on the horizon. +For many days he lay in the June sun, listening to the stir of leaves, +watching with curiosity the lives of small creatures he could not name. +In deepest luxury he sat day by day on a fallen trunk across the stream, +grateful after the blazing descent of a broken hill for the cool shade +of trees meeting overhead, watching a fish lying under the bank or +rising to snap at a fly. Or he would be buried in grass, softly topped +by the light wind, diverted after long, empty moments by the appearance +of a rabbit or a bird not suspecting him. Peter dreamed away whole days, +utterly vacant of thought, recording things. He counted the number of +times a glossy black cow, munching beside him, masticated her food +between each return of the cud. There was a horse which had brought his +trunk to the house who always stood with his head thrust through a gap +in the hedge. Peter watched the flies collect upon his eyelids, and +waited lazily for the blink which regularly dispersed them in a tiny +cloud. Peter, in reaction from the fruitless activity of his last months +in London, rested and was pleased. It seemed as he lay upon the earth +that the scent of the grass was life enough; that reality, humming in +wings of the air, in the splashing of water, in noises of the cattle, +was sufficient for his uninquiring day. He took an enormous pleasure in +small material things--the spiriting of warm milk into the pail; the +breath of an old dog as he stood, watchful and erect, in the cold +morning; the slow, graceful sweeping of a scythe; the shining of the +first star after sunset; the clipping of hot fingers into the brook; the +odour of ham frizzling in the farmer's pan. + +At night, with the curtains drawn, and by the light of an oil lamp whose +smell was ever after associated in Peter's mind with these rustic days, +he played with the books which Marbury had packed for him. Among them +was Burton's _Arabian Nights_ and Urquhart's _Rabelais_. Marbury had +well chosen. Peter had never felt before the wonder of _Rabelais_. Here, +alone with the beasts and with people whose lives were taken up with +their feeding and breeding, Peter smelt in _Rabelais_ the fresh dirt and +sweat of the earth. He squarely received between his shoulders the +hearty slap of a laughter broad as mankind. _Rabelais_ was the evening +chorus of his day in the fields. The voices of the hearty morning, the +slow noon, and the quiet evening sounded between the lines where +Grangousier warmed his great bulk by the fire and Gargantua thrived to +enormous manhood. + +It was only after many days that Peter looked into Burton. He wondered +why Marbury should have included a book he knew only as a series of +pretty tales. Then he found that beside his _Rabelais_ upon the shelf +was the greatest song of the flesh yet uttered. + +After his first night with Burton, Peter flung wide his window to the +air. A cat slunk cautiously into the garden and away. The farmer and his +wife came out for a moment to read the sky, and stood in the light of +the door. The old man lifted his face, and was moulded clearly in +silhouette--a face beaten hard with weather, but untroubled after +seventy years of appetites healthily satisfied. He was sagacious as +befitted his high species; he had eaten and drunk for sixty-five years, +and had bred of his kind. All this he had inevitably done as a creature +with his spade in the earth and his hand heavy upon the inferior beasts. + +Mere flesh and blood was good, and it endured. Peter's heart was +pulsing now with a song older than an English farmer--a song of man who +was tickled under an Eastern sun and laughed, who was pricked with +absolute lust--who found his flesh not an obstacle between himself and +heaven, but his heritage and expression. + +Peter was not thinking. He idly looked and received a faint rain of +impressions from the still night and from memories of a tale. A barrier +of fresh earth mounted between him and his troubles of the year. He was +content to rest and dream. He turned from the window, weary with air and +sun, stretching his elbows in an agreeable yawn. He felt the clean +flexion of the muscles of his arm. He stretched again, repeating a +healthy pleasure, and yawned happily to bed. + +Haymaking under a burning sun began on the following day, and Peter +offered help to the farmer. The old man looked favourably at Peter's +broad shoulders and friendly eyes. Then there were long back-breaking +hours in the open field. Peter learned why there was leisure and grace +in the movements of his companion, and tried to imitate, under pleasant +chaff, the expert's artful economy of power. + +Peter soon found in his new friend a surprising fund of wisdom painfully +gathered. The farmer's knowledge was limited, but very sure. He had +learned life for himself, with scraps inherited from his father and +collected from his friends. His prejudices, even when absurd, were +rooted in the earth. Peter felt he would exchange all his books for a +blank mind where Nature could write in so firm a hand. + +His wife brought cider and cheese to them in the field, and they sat +under a hedge contemplating the morning's work in the pauses of a rough +meal. + +"Plenty to do yet," said Peter, looking at the large field with a sense +of labour to come. + +"Matter o' twenty-four hours." + +The old man paused on the rim of his mug, and narrowed his eyes at the +blue sky. "We can be gentle with the work. You'll find it pays to be +gentle." + +Peter drank gratefully at the cool cider. + +"Thirsty, sir?" The old man filled Peter's mug and watched him drink it. + +"That's good liquor. Forty years she's brewed it." He jerked his thumb +towards the house. + +"Your wife?" asked Peter most politely. + +"Married forty years," nodded the old man. "It's well to marry when +you're lusty. Nature's kind when you live natural, but, if you thwart +her, she turns you a beast in the end. Married yourself?" he suddenly +asked, surveying Peter as a likely young animal. + +"I'm only twenty-one," said Peter, with a shocked inflexion. + +"Not too young for marriage," grossly chuckled the old man. "There's +many uneasy lads of your age and less would do well to be married. The +devil tickles finely the members of a young lad." + +Peter had heard these things discussed in a public hall, but the +language had been decently scientific or medical. How vulgar and timid +seemed these late evasions under the burning sun! Peter was ashamed not +to be able frankly to meet an old man who talked clearly of nature +without picking his words. + +Peter sweated through the day, and in the evening sat happily tired at +the window. His day's work had brought him nearer yet to the earth. The +faint smell of the drying grass, and a dim line of the field where the +green blade met the grey, was witness of a day well spent. Manual labour +was delightful after lounging weeks of mental work with nothing to show. +There was something ultimate and real about physical expenditure. Could +anything in the world be finer than to be just a very sagacious animal? + +A low, gurgling song--it seemed the voice of a woman--came and went +among the trees of the garden. Then there was silence. Soon there were +footsteps, and two figures appeared in the shadow of some bushes beside +the gate which gave upon the lawn beneath him. The figures stood close, +and a man's voice, pleading, alternated with low laughter in the tone +which previously had been the tone of the song. At last the man moved +forward, and the woman, still laughing, allowed herself to be kissed. As +Peter drew instinctively back he heard her laughter muted by the man's +lips. The incident stirred Peter more than he cared to acknowledge. He +heard his heart beating, and saw his hand tremble on the sill. + +He angrily shut the window, and, lighting the lamps, took down his books +from the shelf. But the books would not hold his brain. The stifled +laugh of the woman by the gate echoed there. He caught himself staring +at the page, restless, feeling that the room oppressed him. It seemed +that life was beating at the window, that the room in which he sat was +unvisited, and that he was holding the visitor at bay. + +He gave up all pretence of reading, and again let in the air. He stared +into the garden, which now seemed the heart of the world. The figures by +the gate had vanished, but Peter fancied he heard, from the dark, whiffs +of talk, and breathing movements. + +At last there were steps unmistakable, and the same low song Peter had +first heard. This time the woman was alone. She carried a hat in her +hand. She stood by the gate a moment, and pushed the pins into her hair. +Then she came over the lawn into the light of the house window, walking +free and lithe. She paused at the window and looked mischievously in +upon the old couple below. Clearly she had come to surprise them. She +opened the door upon them in a gleam of sly excitement. Peter saw with a +renewed beating of the heart how full were the smiling lips he had +heard stifled into silence. His mind threw back the girl, as she stood +in the light, into the shadow of a man's embrace. + +A clamour of greeting from below scattered his thoughts. + +"Why, if it isn't Bess!" he heard the old man say. Then there was a +hearty kissing, and the door was shut on a murmur of welcoming talk. + +Peter lay long into the night, listening to the clatter of tongues over +a meal below. Bess was clearly a favourite. When the kitchen door +opened, and the family tramped to bed, he heard once more the low +vibrating voice of the girl. + +"Good night, grandpa!" + +Then he heard the women above him in the attic, making up a bed. One of +them came down, and the house dropped into silence save for the quiet +movements of the girl upstairs. + + + + +XXII + + +Peter in the morning was early awake. He had asked the day before, as a +fledged labourer, to take his breakfast with the farmer that they might +begin early with the hay. He felt shy of the girl whose appearance had +so disconcerted him the night before. But there was no one in the +kitchen except the old man and his wife. + +"You heard us in the night, I reckon?" said the old man over his mug of +tea. + +"You had a visitor?" + +"My son's first daughter. Come to lend a hand with the work. She's +strong in the field--strong as a good man. You'll make a good pair," +chuckled the old man. "We'll finish the ten acre to-day." + +"I'll have the start, anyway," said Peter, affectedly covering his +tremors. He did not relish the idea of being second labourer to a girl +who already had made him nervous. + +The old man laughed in the unending way of people who enjoy one joke a +day, but enjoy it well. + +"You'll not get the start o' Bess," he said at last. "She's milked this +half-hour, and she'll a' dug taters for a week 'fore we're sweated." + +They left the house and worked silently through the first half of the +morning. Peter was silent, preoccupied with his strange terror of +meeting the farmer's granddaughter. Yet, as they rested at noon, he was +disappointed that she had not come. He had not found content in his +labour. + +Then, suddenly, he saw her coming over the field with a tray. At once he +felt a panic to run or to disappear. He could feel his flesh burning +beneath the sweat of his morning's work. He could not look directly at +the girl, but in swift glances he embraced the swing and poise of her +advance. + +For a miserable moment Peter stood between his terror of the girl and +his instinct to run and relieve her of the heavy tray. He felt +himself--it seemed after hours of indecision that he did so--spring to +his feet. He met her ten yards from the spot where they had sheltered +under the hedge. + +"Let me," he said, taking the tray into his hands. He did not look at +her, but knew she was smiling at his strange, polite way. + +"The young gentleman's in a mighty hurry to know you, Bess," said the +farmer, amused at Peter's incredibly gallant behaviour. + +"He's a young gentleman, to be sure," said the girl in the low, even +note which again stirred Peter to the bone. He felt her eyes surveying +him, and in an agony of resolution looked her in the face. + +He could only endure for a moment her steady, impudent gaze. Her lazy +smile accented the challenge of her eyes. Peter was conscious only of +her sex, and she knew it at their first meeting. In every look and +motion of her face and body was provocation. Her appeal was not always +conscious, but it was never silent. Peter saw now what had moved him as +she stood in the light of the window the evening before with mischief in +her eyes. Even then, though she had no thought of a lover, it was +woman's mischief. He saw it now fronting him in the sun. He could hardly +endure to meet it, yet it was vital and sweet. + +They sat and talked of the work before them. + +"You've come in good time, Bess. 'Twill be a storm before the week ends, +and we must get the ten acre carried." + +She sat calmly munching bread and cheese, waiting to catch Peter in one +of his stealthy glances. + +"Yes, grandpa, I've come in good time. Perhaps I knew you had a handsome +young labourer." + +How could she play among the messages that quickened in their eyes? + +Peter angrily flushed, and she laughed. The old man chuckled, seeing +nothing at all. He was not a part of their quick life. + +The old man scythed steadily through the afternoon. Peter and the girl +tossed the long ranks of hay, working alternate rows. He was never for a +moment unaware of her presence. Starting from the extreme ends of the +field, they regularly met in the centre. As the distance between them +vanished, Peter became painfully excited, almost terrified. Though he +seldom looked towards the girl, he somehow followed every swing of her +brown arms. She invariably stopped her work as he approached, and Peter +felt like a young animal whose points are numbered in the ring. He +passed her three times, doggedly refusing to notice her. At the fourth +encounter he shot at her a shyly resentful--almost sullen--protest. But +the eyes he encountered were fixed on the strong muscles of his neck +with a look--almost of greed--which staggered him. She knew he had read +her, and she laughed as, in a tumult of pleasure, stung with shame, he +turned swiftly away. + +"Good boy," she murmured under her breath. Peter angrily turned towards +her, and found her eyes, lit with mockery, openly seducing him. + +"What do you mean?" said Peter foolishly. + +"You're working fine, but you're not used to it." + +"I'm all right." + +"You're dripping with heat." She dropped her fork, and caught at her +apron. It was a pretty apron, decorated with cherry-coloured ribbons. + +"Come here," she said. + +Peter stared at her like a fascinated rabbit. She stepped towards him, +and wiped the running sweat from his face and neck. He pettishly shook +himself free. Laughing, she stood back and admired him. Then, with a +little shrug, she turned away and went slowly down the field. Peter +watched her for a moment, troubled but hopelessly caught in the ease and +grace of her swinging arms. Her face, as she came to him, had seemed as +delicately cool as when first she appeared from the house, though a fine +dew had glistened in the curves of her throat. She was lovely and +strong; yet Peter had for her a faint, persistent horror. + +He felt when evening came, and the field was mown, a glad release, +curiously dashed with regret. His room had about it the atmosphere of a +sanctuary. He was grateful for the peace it held, yet it was also +desolate. After supper he sat at the window, watching the hills fade +into a violet sky. As the light softened he heard once again a low song +from the orchard. Peter's heart started like a spurred horse. The song +continued--the faint crooning, as it were, of a thoughtful bird--and at +last it became intolerable. Peter shut down his window and opened a book +upon the table near him. It was a volume of Burton left from last +evening. It fell open easily at a page; and, as Peter lifted it in the +dim light, he read the title of a frank and merry tale concerning the +way of a woman with a boy less willing than she. Peter suddenly dashed +down the book as though he had been stung. Flouting his eyes between the +leaves of this tale was a fragment of cherry-coloured ribbon. + +He went from the house into the warm air, and flung himself down on the +cut grass. He felt as if he were being hunted. In vain he avoided the +image of the girl who had challenged him. He shut his eyes, and she +again stood clearly before him in the hot sun. He buried his ears in +the cool grass, and he heard her low singing. Then, in a sudden +surrender, he suppressed his shy terror, and in fancy looked at her as +in the flesh he had not dared to look, tracing between himself and the +sky the outline of her lips and throat. + +How sultry it was, and still! The air was waiting oppressively for a +storm. Peter felt himself in tune with the hanging thunder. He felt he +would like to hear the running water of the brook. The pearly wreck of a +sunset lighted him down the hill, and soon he was sitting in a chosen +nook of the river, his ears refreshed by small noises of the stream. + +The silence was deep, for there was not a breath in the valley. The +trees seemed to be mildly brooding--sentient sad creatures waiting for +the air. Once Peter heard the bracken stir; but the silence closed again +over the faint sound, leaving the world waiting as for a signal. + +It seemed as if Nature was standing there bidding the earth be still +till the creature she had vowed to subdue was beaten down. Peter flung +his thoughts to the blank silence of the place, and they returned, +reverberating and enforced. + +Suddenly a shot shivered the silence into quick echoes. Peter guessed +the farmer was in the warren after rabbits. Thinking to meet him and get +away from the intolerable obsession of the day, he started to climb the +hill. The second shot rang out surprisingly near, and almost immediately +a figure rose from a bush among the bracken. It was the farmer's +granddaughter. He cried out in surprise, and the figure turned. + +She greeted him with an inquiring lilt of the voice. Peter came +awkwardly forward. + +"Did you hit?" he asked, for talking's sake. + +"Two." + +She leaned on the gate, hatefully smiling at him. Peter felt he must +turn and run from her eyes, or that he must answer them. + +He moved quickly towards her, but she did not stir. He gripped her by +the arm, looked deliberately into her face, then bent and kissed her. +She remained quite still, seeming merely to wait and to suffer. She +neither retreated nor responded. Passion died utterly in Peter at the +touch of her smiling lips. He stood away from her, brutal and chill. + +"You asked me to do that," he said. + +Still she smiled, betraying no sign that anything had occurred. + +"You must help me to find the rabbits," she said, looking away at last +towards the warren. "We're losing the light." + +There was a suspicion of the fine lady in her manner, assumed to deride +him. They hunted among the bracken. Peter found the dead rabbits, and +they moved silently up the hill. At the garden gate they paused while he +handed over his burden. Her face still kept the maddening expression of +the moment when he had kissed her. But Peter's eyes now blazed back at +her in wrath, and her look changed to one of slyly affected terror. + +"Are you going to kiss me again?" she asked. + +"Not here," Peter roughly answered. "This is where you sing. I saw you +here yesterday evening." + +A look of angry suspicion flashed into her eyes and passed. + +"Men are very rude and sudden," she said. + +"Why do you sing in the dark?" + +"I sing for company," she answered. + +She passed through the gate; then turned, for a moment, hesitating: + +"You don't tell tales?" she abruptly asked. + +"No." + +"The man you saw last night," she suggested. + +"I did not see him." + +"He will not come again. Not yet." + +"It is nothing to me," said Peter indifferently. + +"Indeed?" she retorted. "I thought you asked why I sing in the dark." + +Peter kept his eyes sullenly fixed on the ground, making no answer. + +She shut the gate. + +"Do you really want to know why I sing in the dark?" + +Peter's silence covered a wish to kill this creature. There was a long +silence; and when at last he looked up, her eyes were again +mischievously playing him. On meeting his look of resentment and +dislike, she inconsequently asked: + +"Have you found a piece of cherry-coloured ribbon?" + +Peter flung up his hands, and turned away into the garden. She had no +need to see that he was cursing her in the shelter of the trees. She +went towards the house crooning the song which was now intolerable to +Peter. + + + + +XXIII + + +It was arranged next morning at breakfast that Peter should work in the +field with the farmer, and that his granddaughter should clear the +remains of last year's crop of hay from the site of the stack into the +loft. Peter was grateful for this division of their work; yet, again, he +was strangely disappointed. Halfway through the morning, when he had +done all he could for the farmer, he sat miserably in the shadow of the +hedge, fighting a blind impulse to look for the girl whose presence he +detested. Surely the hot sun was burning into his brain. He went towards +the house, meeting on his way the farmer's wife. + +"I wonder if you'd tell Bess there's lunch waiting to be taken. I +daren't leave the butter this half-hour." + +"Where shall I find her?" Peter asked. + +"She's in the loft, to be sure." + +Peter went slowly to the yard. He seemed to be two men--one lured by the +echo of a song, the other hanging upon his feet, unwilling that he +should move. + +The last of the stack had disappeared into the loft, wisps of hay lying +in a trail from the foot of the ladder. The yard was empty. + +Peter paused at the ladder's foot. Then began slowly to climb. + +She was resting in a far corner, and he did not see her till he had +stepped from the ladder. Then he found himself looking down at her +stretched at length upon piles of sweet hay. She had fallen asleep +easily as a cat, and, unconscious of her pose, was freely beautiful. Her +loveliness caught at Peter. Could she but lie asleep for ever, he could +for ever watch. Sleep had smoothed from her features the impudent +knowledge of her power. Her beauty now lay softly upon her, held in the +pure curves of her throat. + +Peter leaned breathlessly towards her, filling his eyes. Had he really +feared this magic? Such loveliness as this his soul had caught at in +scattered dreams, and now it fronted him, and he had feared to take it. +Surely he had fancied that the smile of her perfect mouth was hateful, +that her eyes, so beautifully lidded, had in their pride and gluttony +dismayed him. + +Peter dropped softly beside her. She seemed too like a fairy to be +rudely touched. He delicately brushed her lips in a kiss scarcely to be +felt. She started and sat upright, alert in every fibre. + +Peter saw again the creature who had troubled him. He was looking into +greedy pools where her lids had seemed as curtains to hide an +intolerable purity. + +"You kissed me?" + +"It was not you," Peter muttered. + +"Funny boy! How long have you been here?" + +"I have come to say that lunch is waiting." + +"Peter." She sang the name in her low voice, as though she were trying +the sound of it. + +"You kissed me, Peter. Tell me. How do I look, asleep?" + +Peter closed his eyes. + +"You are beautiful." + +"Even you can see that," she flashed. + +Peter felt she was profaning her loveliness. He kept his eyes painfully +closed. She looked at him, partly in anger, partly in contempt. + +"Good boy. So very good," she murmured. + +As he opened his eyes, she dropped lightly towards him. In a flash she +had taken his neck between her hands, and he felt her lips and teeth +upon the muscles of his neck, where her eyes had rested when first he +had read them. + +Then she nestled there with a little purr. + +Peter broke roughly away, and she laughed. + +"Good boy." She mocked him again from the ladder as she went down. + +Peter waited with clenched hands till the trembling of the ladder had +ceased. Then he looked into the yard. She had not yet disappeared. A +young farmer had ridden into the drive, and was talking to her from his +horse. She seemed to be deprecating his anger. They paused in their talk +as Peter drew near them. The man was good-looking, with honest eyes. But +he looked at Peter with angry suspicion, carefully searching his face, +as though he desired to remember him if they should meet again. + +That afternoon Peter left the farm and walked into the country. Thunder +echoed among the hills, seeming the voice of his trouble. He was +humiliated by the lure of a woman he disliked and feared. He vehemently +told himself that he would break away. But he continually felt the +strong tug of her sex. He shook under the pressure of her mouth, his +neck yet bitten with that strange caress. He shunned the memory, yet +returned to it, thrilling with an excitement, sweet even as it stung +him. + +The thunder waited among the hills all that day. As the evening wore, +and Peter, back at the farm, watched the summer lightning come and go, +it seemed as though batteries were closing in from all points of the +heaven. But the sky was still open to the stars, and there was no rain. + +Peter stood with the farmer by the garden gate. He told Peter that the +little hill where they united was mysteriously immune, in a tempest, +from the water which deluged the valley. + +As Peter, with his thoughts full of the farmer's granddaughter, listened +to the farmer's tale of a dry storm which, with never a spot of rain, +had fired the stack in the yard, it seemed as though, now and then, he +could hear her low singing. It floated on the heavy air. Peter could +scarcely tell whether it were really her voice or an echo in his tired +brain. He strained his ears, between the pauses of the farmer's talk. +The low note swelled and died. + +The farmer moved into the house, and Peter could more connectedly +listen. Now he heard it clearly, a faint persistent singing, implacably +fascinating. To find that voice was above all things to be desired. + +Peter listened, faint at heart with a struggle which suddenly seemed +foolish. Pleasure caught at him. He saw her beautiful, as when she +slept, the low notes of her voice breathed from lips that were neither +mocking nor cruel. Her hands again crept upon his throat, and he did not +draw away. He needed them. + +Where should he find her? Peter went like a young animal, tracking +through the dark. He paused, quietly alert; as he discovered that her +murmuring came from the loft where he had found her sleeping. He climbed +the ladder, and stepped into the darkness. The singing stopped, and he +stood still while his eyes measured the place. At last he saw her almost +at his feet. He dropped beside her without a word. She did not stir, but +said as softly as though she feared to frighten him away: + +"So you have come to me?" + +Her voice was very gentle. It was the voice of the woman who had slept. + +Peter could descry her now, half sitting against the hay. He perceived +only the curve of her face and neck beautifully poised above him, for he +had fallen at her feet. + +"I cannot see you," she said. "Are you still afraid and angry?" + +She stooped over him, trying to read his face. She was very quiet. Her +voice parted the still air as placidly as a dropped stone makes eddies +in the water. + +It seemed to offer him an endless comfort. + +"I had to come to you," he whispered. + +She gathered him into her arms, and kissed him as softly as he had +kissed her sleeping. Peter felt as though he were sinking. As she drew +her cool hands across his forehead and took his face between them, he +found her tender and compelling, and he leaned upon her bosom with the +waters of pleasure closing above him. + +But the girl had played too long with her passion. She had met him +delicately, deliberately holding back her greed, enjoying the tumult in +herself and the coming delight of throwing the barriers down. She bent +to kiss Peter a second time, and Peter waited for the caress of her song +made visible. But, even as she stooped, there came into her eyes a lust +which the darkness covered. + +Suddenly the veil was torn. A vivid flash of lightning lit her, and +flickered away, snatched from cloud to cloud above them. For an instant +Peter saw her eyes as she stooped to him. Then darkness blotted her +out, and her mouth closed down upon him. + +He struggled in her arms. She did not measure the strength of his +revolt, but held him fast. + +"Kiss me, Peter." + +The words were hot upon his cheek. + +Peter put forth his whole strength, and she staggered away from him. +There was a short silence. She had fallen back from the excess of his +recoil. He saw her dimly rise from among the hay. + +"You beast!" + +The words hissed at him in the dark. Venomous anger was in her tone, and +bitter contempt. + +There was a silence in which their pulses could be heard. Then she spoke +again. + +"Why did you come to me?" + +Peter could not answer. His soul was a battlefield between forces +stronger than himself. She walked to the door, and Peter stared vacantly +at her going. The next moment he was alone. + +"Why did you come to me?" + +The question beat at Peter's brain all through the dreadful night. +Scarcely had he got back to his room than the storm burst from the four +quarters with incredible light and clamour. But Peter's ears were deaf +and his eyes were blind. He sat at his window, but heard neither the +rain rushing in the valley below, nor the intolerable din in the sky +above him where still the stars were clear. + +Had he acted the green fool, or was he proved of a finer clay than he +had allowed? He had drifted towards this girl to take her, obeying the +blind motion of his blood. Then fiercely his whole being had revolted. +He could not do this thing. Was his refusal a base fear of life? Had he +denied his youth and the power of passion? He could not measure his +deed. He now saw something fine, something consistent and strong in the +girl he had refused. His own share of the story seemed only +contemptible. It was even absurd. He had ineffectually played with +forces beyond him. + +Had he really thwarted and denied his nature? He asked it again and +again. He had wanted the girl. He wanted her yet. But he could not take +her with his whole soul. Therefore he could not take her at all. What +was the meaning of this ugly riddle? Why was he monstrously drawn to a +thing he could not do? + +He denied with his whole soul that he lacked passion--the gift without +which man is a creeping thing. His passion even now outplayed the +lightning which forked and ran and fired the trees in the valley. + +Thus Peter went wearily round his conduct of the last few hours, without +advancing. Late in the night he packed to leave in the morning, and +afterwards tried to sleep. But his tired brain trod the old circle of +his thoughts--catching at his sleep with pale gleams of speculation, +calling him into momentary consciousness, suffering him only briefly to +forget. + +In the morning he was flushed and uncertain. He shivered from time to +time, though the storm had not lifted the summer heat. He had never felt +so tired, and so utterly without strength or comfort. + + + + +XXIV + + +Peter, finding the farmer and his wife at breakfast, told them he was +leaving, and asked that his luggage should be taken to the station. The +station was two miles from the house, and Peter started to walk. He had +turned into the drive, and was passing the last of the farm buildings, +when he ran upon two figures vehemently talking. Their voices troubled +his miserable brooding; but he was hardly yet aware of their presence +before his way was barred. He looked up from the ground and was +confronted with a man visibly blazing with anger. + +He looked aside for an explanation, and saw that the man had been +talking with the farmer's granddaughter. She was watching them with +expressionless eyes, but with a cold satisfaction hiding in the line of +her mouth. + +"What does this mean?" said Peter, making an attempt to pass. + +He looked swiftly from one to the other, recognising his opponent as the +man he had seen talking from his horse in the yard yesterday. + +The man struck at Peter with his whip. + +Peter caught the blow on his arm, and flung out his fists. + +"What's your quarrel with me?" asked Peter. + +"Well you know it," said the man. + +Peter turned to the farmer's granddaughter. She smiled at him, and he +understood. He was filled with a desolating sense of the futility of +resisting the event. + +"I've no quarrel with you," he drearily protested to the man, "why do +you force it?" + +"It's late to talk of forcing." + +"Forcing? I don't understand." + +Again Peter turned to the woman. Her metallic outfacing of his question +flashed the truth at him. + +"He knows that you have insulted me." + +The words came from her on a low malicious note. + +"Are you going to fight?" the man blazed at him, flinging his weapon to +the ground. "Or are you going to take that?" He pointed to the whip +lying between them. + +Peter flung off his coat. Standing in the sun, he felt weak and vague. +He swayed a little. He felt he must get away from the intolerable heat. +He looked into the shed beside them, and the man nodded. + +They went in and faced each other upon a dusty floor of uneven stone. +The girl sat on Peter's coat, indecently fascinated. The man looked +grimly at Peter's strong arms and professional attitude. But Peter was +faint and sick. He saw his fists before him as though they belonged to +another--white and blurred. Dreamily he realised that a blow had started +upon him out of the grey air. He met it with an instinctive guard; but +he weakly smiled to feel something heavy and strong break through his +arm like paper. Then everything was blotted out. + +In a moment the man was kneeling beside him, astonished at the strange +collapse of his opponent. Peter had gone down like a sack, striking his +head on the stone floor. The man had hardly touched him. Indeed, he had +himself nearly fallen with the impetus of a blow which had fallen upon +the air. + +He felt Peter's pulse and forehead, awed by his stillness and the stare +of his eyes. The girl was now beside him. + +"Quick," she said. "Run to the house. We must get him to bed." + +The man looked at her, hard and stern. + +"You're a bit too anxious," he said. + +"Can't you see? The boy's dying." + +He looked implacably into her eyes. + +"Let the blackguard lie." + +"Fool!" + +She almost spat at him, with a gesture of impatient agony for Peter on +the floor. + +"You've been lying to me," suddenly said the man. + +She did not answer, but he persisted: + +"You told me----" + +"He did not." + +He lifted his hand to strike her. She did not flinch, but said quietly: + +"Who's the blackguard now?" + +He turned and walked swiftly from the shed. She heard him running to the +house, and took Peter's head on her lap. His lips were moving. +Compassion stirred in her--a sensual compassion, feeding upon her +complete possession of Peter, helplessly at her pleasure. + +The man returned with the farmer's cart, and Peter was taken to the +house. A telegram was sent to Hamingburgh, and the local doctor was +called. He said that Peter had had a stroke of the sun. He was in a +raging fever. The farmer's granddaughter was occasionally left with him. + +She sat for several hours beside the bed watching Peter's restless and +feeble movements. Sometimes she heard him talking vaguely and softly, +but for long she could catch no syllable of what he said. Again she was +stirred with delicious pity. She put her hands upon his cheeks, and +leaned over his stirring lips for a long hour. Then suddenly she began +to hear what he was saying, piecing his broken words. + +He was walking alone in a dark house. It was very dark and quite still +except for the dripping of water into a cistern. Peter always returned +to this dripping water. He was looking for someone, and he stood where +she used to sleep. At last a strange name came to his tongue--endlessly +repeated. + +The listening girl drew away from him. She went to the window to get +beyond range of his voice. She was empty and thwarted. The name pursued +her and she turned back to the bed. Maddened by his repeated murmur, she +felt as if she were fighting for a place in his mind. She put her hand +upon his mouth, trying to still the name upon his lips. But she felt +them moving under the touch of her fingers, with the syllables that shut +her out. + +She dropped on her knees beside him, becoming a part of his madness. + +"Here is the woman you want," she sang to him. Tears of vexation and +jealousy--quick as a child's--started down her face. + +"Peter, boy, don't you remember? You came to me, and dropped in the hay. +I sang to you in the dark, and you came." + +But Peter stood in a dark house, muttering a name she had never heard. +Now he was striking matches one after another, peering into the empty +corners of a deserted room. Then he spoke of an attic with rafters, and +again of the dripping water. + +The girl looked into his vacant eyes. + +"Can't you see me, Peter?" + +It was someone else he saw: he talked now of her dusty frock and of a +garden where he sat and waited. + +The woman by the bed could not come between him and this lovely ghost. +She strained Peter towards her, and put her face to his cheek. + +"No, Peter; it's me that is here. Can't you feel that I am holding +you?" + +Her pressure started in him another disordered memory. He struggled +against her, and raised himself upon an elbow. His eyes looked quite +through her. He saw her in his brain, but he did not see her in the room +before him. The girl shuddered to hear him struggling with a mirage of +herself. He was back in the loft. At first she thought it was the sight +of her visibly before him in the room that caused him to speak of her. +She drew back, and with a shudder saw he was talking to the air. + +"You are not Miranda," he said, accusing the shape of his brain. "She +smiled, but she did not smile like that." + +The girl could no longer endure it. She went from the room, and, till +Mrs. Paragon came, the farmer's wife sat beside him. + + + + +XXV + + +Mrs. Paragon arrived late in the afternoon. Peter could not be made to +perceive her, and a physician was sent for from London. + +Mrs. Paragon sat with Peter through the night, stifling her fear. His +talk perplexed her in the extreme. The empty house where he wandered +became as real to her as the room in which she sat. He had gone there to +find Miranda, and this it was that so grieved and puzzled his mother. +Peter had never once spoken of Miranda since the night he had arranged +to go to London for the first time. She did not think he had of late +thought of Miranda. Had he been eating his heart in secret? + +The farmer's granddaughter waited upon Mrs. Paragon through the night. +They talked only of his condition, but Mrs. Paragon noted her extreme +interest in the patient. + +Towards the morning they were together by the bedside. Peter had begun +again to talk, and Mrs. Paragon suddenly saw the girl shrink away. Then +almost immediately she turned and left the room. + +Mrs. Paragon bent to listen. Peter was treading again the weary round of +his thoughts of the preceding day. After a few moments his mother's +face became very thoughtful. + +When in the morning the girl brought her some breakfast, she said to her +quietly: + +"How long have you been here?" + +"Two days." Already the girl knew she was detected. + +"What has happened to my son?" + +"How am I to know better than the doctor?" she countered. + +"You know very well indeed." + +"He is nothing to me." + +Mrs. Paragon inexorably faced her: + +"How could you be so wicked?" she said in a low voice. + +"What do you mean?" + +"You are not surprised when I talk to you of my son, and you have been +here only two days." + +Peter's mother stood like marble. The girl saw she was open to be read. +Her pride was broken. + +"Do not send me away," she pleaded. "I must know whether he lives or +dies." + +"What right have you to know?" + +The girl was silent, and Mrs. Paragon shivered. She hardly dared be made +sure. + +"Has my son belonged to you?" + +"No." + +The girl hated to confess it, but quickly used it as a plea: + +"Now will you let me stay?" she entreated. + +Mrs. Paragon turned coldly away. + +"Please go," she commanded. + +The girl was struck into a hopeless humility. + +"I will not trouble him again," she pleaded. + +"I myself shall see to that." + +Mrs. Paragon spoke calmly, and did not stir. Peter lay on the bed safely +in her shadow. + +The girl looked her farewell at him and passed out. + +The specialist from London arrived before noon. He at once took a +cheerful view. After listening to the local doctor's account of Peter's +night, and examining the patient himself, he relieved Mrs. Paragon of +her fears. + +"What's the boy been doing?" he asked, after deciding there was nothing +to keep him in Worcestershire. "This might well be mistaken for a touch +of the sun," he said, smiling at the local man, "but it's not quite so +simple. It looks as if he'd been trying to put himself straight with +things, and not quite succeeded. He's suffering from acute mental +excitement, but he's a healthy youngster and his temperature's falling. +He won't talk any more." + +"There's a thing that rather puzzles me, doctor," Mrs. Paragon +hesitated. + +"Well?" + +"My son has been troubled, greatly troubled, by someone here, but most +of his talk was about someone else." + +"I don't quite understand." + +"He has talked of a girl I thought he had forgotten. At least I did not +think she had lately been in his mind." + +"Very likely not, Mrs. Paragon. The mind's not at all a simple thing. +Usually in cases like this the memories which come uppermost are things +forgotten. We call it the subconscious self. This girl your son has been +talking about--probably he does not know that he remembers her. +Perhaps--of course I don't know all the circumstances--he has not +thought of her for years. But evidently she is a vital memory. She is +sleeping in his mind. Pardon my running on like this," the doctor +concluded, smiling, "but you look interested." + +"I think I understand." + +"Is that all you want to know?" + +"You are sure he is quite safe?" + +"There's nothing to be anxious about. He only wants well nursing." + +The doctor paused and looked keenly at Mrs. Paragon. + +"You are very proud of him," he suggested. + +"Prouder to-day than ever." + +"He looks quite a splendid fellow. Send for me if anything goes +seriously wrong." + +Mrs. Paragon now sat happily with Peter, for he grew continually calmer, +and she felt he was safe. A proud content sank deep into her heart as +she put together the story of these last days. She pondered also the +doctor's words, and wondered whether Peter had consciously called +Miranda to his help. Or did she lurk as a secret angel under the surface +of his life? + +Forty-eight hours later Peter woke from a long sleep, and found his +mother beside him. He did not stir, but just accepted her. He felt too +weak to talk, and, taking some food, went immediately to sleep again. + +Next time he woke Mrs. Paragon was not in the room, the farmer's wife +having taken charge for a moment. Peter raised himself on one elbow, +wondering to feel himself so weak. + +"How long have I been like this?" he asked. "I feel as if I'd been in +bed for a year." + +"You're all right now, lad. You've been too much in the hot sun and got +a touch o' fever." + +Peter looked round the room. + +"Didn't I see my mother here?" he asked. + +"You did, to be sure. We sent for her when you were took with the heat. +It was Bess that found you, lying in the road." + +Peter remembered now how and where he had fallen. + +Mrs. Paragon came in at that moment, and the farmer's wife greeted her. + +"The lad's awake, and talking like a Christian." + +Mrs. Paragon came and kissed him, the farmer's wife softly leaving them +together. Peter looked tranquilly at his mother. + +"I'm afraid I've frightened you," he said at last. + +"Only for a little while," she reassured him. + +"What time is it? I mean, how long have you been here?" + +"Only three days." + +"It feels like a hundred years," said Peter. "As if it had all happened +to someone else. There was a girl here, mother. Where is she now?" + +"She has gone away." + +Peter sank peacefully back. After a while his mother said to him: + +"Have you been grieving for anyone, Peter, during these last years?" + +"Grieving?" Peter was making diagrams of the cracks and stains on the +ceiling. + +"You've been talking, Peter." + +"What have I been talking about?" he idly inquired. + +"You've been talking about your troubles." + +"I haven't any troubles." Peter turned from the ceiling to his mother's +face, feeling how pleasant it was to see her there. + +"You've been talking about someone who troubled you," Mrs. Paragon +persisted. + +"But, mother," he objected, "you tell me she has gone away." + +"There is no one else?" + +"No one at all." + +Peter lived deliciously for a week with his mother in the shaded room. +He never seemed to have felt so happy. His mind was content to be idle. +When he was tired of collecting into groups the roses on the +wall-paper, or watching for hours the blue square of the window across +which once or twice in a day a bird would fly, he would ask his mother +to read to him old tales of Ainsworth and Marryat. He affected an +imperious self-indulgence. + +It was decided at last that Peter was strong enough for the journey +home. Cordial thanks and farewells were exchanged with the farmer and +his wife. Peter even left a kind message for the farmer's granddaughter, +who had fled for fear of infection. He no longer thought of her as one +who could trouble him. + + + + +XXVI + + +Peter soon picked up his strength at Hamingburgh. Three weeks passed and +he thought of returning to London. Then came a letter from Marbury. + +His uncle had applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and Marbury was to +stand at once in a contested by-election. He lightly but cordially asked +Peter to come and stay with him through the fight and meet some of the +distinguished people it would draw into the constituency. + +Peter eagerly accepted. Next day he met Marbury at York, leaving the +train to avoid a tedious slow journey of forty miles. + +Lord Haversham's principal seat was at Highbury Towers, a lonely house +on the edge of a moor. The nearest town was ten miles away. + +It was a fortress of civilisation planted in a wilderness. In a bad +winter, with snow lying deep, it was sometimes cut off for days from the +world outside. + +"There's something impudent about the place," said Marbury, as the car +rushed over the moors. "It flies in the face of Nature. The Towers is +the most comfortable home in England, and it is in a desert." + +"A very beautiful desert," said Peter. He was feasting on the superb +line of a moor-end, red with the heather. + +"You must see it in the winter. I went through last election with my +uncle. It was December, and we did well if we managed to keep half our +appointments." + +"Tell me about your uncle." + +"He's dying, Peter." Marbury conveyed this as a simple fact. He did not +intend an effect. + +"You mean that he's very ill," suggested Peter. + +"I mean that he's dying. The doctors give him six months or a year in +Egypt. Here they allow him till the autumn." + +"When is he going away?" + +"He isn't going away," answered Marbury. "He thinks it worth while to +die at home." Again Marbury spoke without insisting in the least on the +heroic implication of his words. + +"But six months of life and the sun," protested Peter. + +"Six months is not long. We have lived at Highbury for a thousand years. +Besides, my uncle wants things to go smoothly when he dies. He is +posting me up in the estate--all the small traditional things." + +Marbury talked of these things with a curious tranquillity. He simply +recorded them. He fell very silent; and at the journey's end looked with +interest at the large old house at which they had arrived. + +Marbury took Peter upstairs to a room beside his own, and left to dress +quickly for dinner. He would come back for Peter and show him the way +down. When Peter was ready, he stood for a few minutes at the window. He +looked on to a terrace and a garden which ended abruptly and fell +suddenly to the moor. At the end of the terrace, magnificently poised +and fronting desolation, was the copy of a famous statue by a +contemporary sculptor, audaciously asserting the triumph of art--the +figure of a naked youth superbly defiant. + +Soon Marbury joined Peter at the window and put a hand affectionately on +his shoulder. + +"That's what I mean," he said, following Peter's look towards the statue +in silhouette against the moor, "when I say that this place seems to fly +in Nature's face. He's insolent, don't you think? He's looking over +thirty miles of moor--not a house between himself and the open sea. In +the winter the snow piles up against him, and storms bang into him from +the German Ocean. He is the last exquisite word of the twentieth century +asserting our mastery over all that." + +Marbury waved his arm towards the open moor, and laughed an apology: + +"He usually works me up like that. Let's have some dinner." + +They went down, and Peter was made acquainted with many people whose +names he tried to remember. His mind was whirling with impressions, +unable to settle upon anything definite till, at dinner, he had had +time to recover from a sensation of being too much honoured. This +sensation had invaded him at being introduced by Marbury to an exquisite +young woman. + +"Peter," he said, "this is my sister. Look after him, Mary, and tell him +who everybody is." + +Then Marbury had disappeared, leaving Peter shyly rising to her light +chatter. + +"The house is packed, and there are beds at the home-farm," she said as +they sat to the table. "Everybody is rushing to help Antony." + +"Antony?" Peter echoed in a puzzled way. + +"Don't you know his name?" she asked, looking towards Marbury. + +"I'm afraid not," Peter confessed. + +"But he called you Peter." + +"Everybody calls me Peter." + +"Why does everybody do that?" + +"I don't know. Everybody does." + +Peter was beginning to enjoy himself. Lady Mary smiled into his frank +eyes, liking the direct way in which they looked at her. + +They paused as Haversham came in to dinner. His empty chair always stood +at the head of the table. Sometimes he was unable at the last moment to +come down, but he never allowed anyone to wait or to inquire. + +Peter looked at him with interest. He was yet at the prime, but grey and +frail. His features were proud and delicate, his voice gravely +penetrating. He was too far from Peter for his conversation to be +heard, but he talked with lit face and a frequent smile. Sometimes, +however, he fell silent, and Peter thought he detected the strained +inward look of one struggling with physical pain. + +"You don't know Uncle Eustace?" said Lady Mary, following Peter's look. + +"Not yet." + +"He will do you good." + +"Antony was telling me about him on the way down." + +They talked through dinner of indifferent things. The accent of +conscious culture which Peter now cordially hated was missing. Yet the +talk was alive--happily vivid and agreeable. No one seemed anxious to +make an effort or to press home a conviction. Nor was Peter aware of +words anxiously picked. He was unable yet to name his impression. He +only knew that he talked more frankly of small things than he had talked +before. + +He noticed in a series of pleasant discoveries how beautiful was the +setting of their talk. Lord Haversham had at Highbury brought the art of +fine living to perfection. He had filled the place with costly things, +without anywhere suggesting unreasonable luxury. Highbury Towers grew +upon the visitor. Even as a guest began to wonder why he never seemed to +have dined so well and been less brutally aware of it, he perceived that +the glass he fingered was lovely and rare, that it consonantly set off +the china bowl which neighboured it, and the ancient candlesticks to +left and right. Haversham had always held that true luxury was not +insistent, and he was never so disappointed as when his guest broke into +a compliment of a particular object. Had it perfectly agreed, fitting +its environment, the mood of the conversation, the temperament of the +party for which it was designed, it would, he urged, have passed +unnoticed. It would have made its effect without directly speaking. + +Peter was filled with an adventurous sense of novelty. He had not met +people quite like these before. What was it which so clearly +distinguished this company from any he had yet frequented? Clearly it +was not their manners. Opposite Peter was a peer who took most of his +soup indirectly by way of a long moustache, who wisely sat with his +napkin well tucked in at the neck. His face reminded Peter of the farmer +with whom he had lately laboured in the field; his talk was mostly of +dogs, his vocabulary limited and racy. Yet he quite obviously went with +the silver, whereas Peter could think of a dozen men he knew--men who +had not only learned to feed with discretion, but had read all the most +refined literature in three or four languages, and could talk like +people in a stage drawing-room--who quite obviously would have jarred. + +Peter comfortably surrendered to the charm of an atmosphere quietly +genial and free. The machinery alone of this new life pleased and +fascinated. He felt that a beautifully ordered system had taken charge +of him, that henceforth he had only to suffer himself to be moved +comfortably through the day, that life was now a series of artfully +arranged opportunities for free expression in suitable surroundings. +This feeling had first invaded him as at York he had seen his baggage +mysteriously vanishing, by no act of his own, into a strange car which +started off even as he himself was being wrapped in warm rugs for the +race to Highbury. It was confirmed later, when, reaching his room with +Marbury, he had found the things which had so swiftly vanished at York +faultlessly spread for his evening wear. Peter was rapidly putting forth +roots in this new soil. Every moment some unexpected thing appeared, to +be at once included in his total impression of a new life, to become +part of the common round. + +There was nothing snobbish in Peter's delight. He already desired to +know these people better. But he was not in the least aware of anything +which could be described as a social aspiration. He liked his new +friends because they were new; and because they behaved differently from +any he had as yet encountered. They were continually surprising him in +small ways. More particularly he was startled by the intimacy and +freedom of their talk. Their conversation was innocent of periphrasis +and free from uncomfortable reserve. Peter had heard nothing like it +since he had talked with the old farmer under the hedge of his seven +acre field. + +When the men were alone, Marbury called Peter to the head of the table +and introduced him to his uncle. Peter looked with an ardent respect at +one who already had touched his imagination. + +"I've heard of you," said Lord Haversham as Peter felt for a chair. +"You're the man who forcibly removed the Lord Chamberlain's trousers." + +"It wasn't the Lord Chamberlain," said Peter nervously. + +Lord Haversham turned to Marbury: "I'm sure you told me it was a protest +against the censorship of stage plays." + +"That, Uncle, was another small affair." + +"Then whose were the trousers?" persisted Haversham. + +"They belonged to a Junior Prior," said miserable Peter. + +"What was the protest this time?" + +"Equality of treatment under the law," suggested Marbury. "But you're +making Peter uncomfortable. He doesn't like to remember that he was once +a man of ideas." + +Haversham looked meditatively at Peter: "It must be splendid to believe +so thoroughly in an idea that you are ready to remove the trousers of a +Junior Prior." + +"I was drunk," said Peter bluntly. + +"Does that also explain the Lord Chamberlain?" asked Haversham, +beginning to be interested. + +"No," said Peter. "Then I was only a fool." + +"I don't believe a word of it." Lord Haversham turned to Marbury: "Why +does he say these things?" + +"Peter is a bad case, Uncle. He runs all his ideas to death, and sickens +at sight of the corpse. I read Peter two years ago. He was born young." + +"I'm afraid he'll very soon exhaust Highbury," said Lord Haversham, +smiling. + +"No," blurted Peter. + +"We haven't any ideas," said Haversham quaintly. "We grow on the soil +here, labourers and landlords. Tony," he went on, putting his hand +affectionately on Marbury's arm, "is almost perfectly the Radical's +notion of a stupid squire. You never think, do you, Tony? You're just +choked full of prejudices you can't explain. I'm ashamed of you, Tony. +You remind me so perfectly of the sort of fool I was myself thirty years +ago." + +Lord Haversham looked at his nephew. There was a beautiful tenderness in +his address. Almost as he spoke, an expression of great pain came into +his eyes. + +"I must leave you now," he said. "We will talk again." + +He quietly slipped from the room, and the conversation was broken up. + +Peter, in the later solitude of his room, sat meditating at length upon +his evening. He could not yet define what he liked in Marbury's friends, +but he felt his personal need of it. He lacked the frank nature and +ease, the lightness and dexterity of these people. He trod too heavily, +delivering his sentiments with a weight which was out of keeping. He +felt he must get out of the habit--a habit which did not express or +become him--of taking too seriously the frequent appeal for his views on +this or that. What, after all, were these views that had always mattered +so much? He saw his late companions at dinner as merry figures seated +about a pool, idly throwing in pebbles to keep the water agreeably +astir. Conversation, it seemed, was not something to be captured and +led. It was an agreeable adventure in which the universe was sociably +explored. The final word, which Peter so frequently was tempted to +deliver, should never be spoken, for, after the final word, what more +could decently be said? + + + + +XXVII + + +The next morning Peter was early in the breakfast room. Only Lady Mary +was there. She was looking for weather at the window. + +"Let me get you some breakfast," said Peter, after they had greeted. + +"Not for the world," she answered, lifting lids at a side table. "I love +breakfast. It's the only time when food seems to matter. I wouldn't +think of letting anybody choose my breakfast." + +"There, at any rate, we agree," said Peter. + +"Do you like breakfast, too?" + +"It's an Oxford habit." + +"Then you haven't given up Oxford altogether?" said Lady Mary, speaking +as one who had heard something. + +"Do you know all about me, like everybody else?" + +Peter groaned. + +"Of course. You don't know how famous you are. Everybody knows you were +sent down from Gamaliel for being a Socialist." + +"I am not a Socialist," Peter hotly protested. + +Lady Mary's eyes were full of mischief: "You must have been sent down +for being something." + +"I'm nothing at all," said Peter. + +"Are you quite sure?" + +"The silliest person alive is more than a label." + +Peter cursed himself. He had again delivered an apothegm. Why must he +always be so heavily serious? Lady Mary was openly smiling. + +"I'm afraid we're all going to be very silly at Highbury during the next +few days. We've simply got to label ourselves for Antony's sake." + +"Tories," said Peter, trying to be nice, "are exceptions." + +"You mean that Tories don't count?" + +"I really don't mean that," said Peter, genuinely grieved. + +"Then I'm afraid you don't mean anything at all." + +Lady Mary was clearly amused. Peter miserably looked at her, looked at +his plate, and then heard himself say: + +"Why am I such a solemn ass?" + +"Who says that?" + +"I say it myself," said Peter. + +Lady Mary looked swiftly at his ingenuous face, in which exaggerated +abasement struggled with a hope that she would reassure him. Her +amusement was curiously shot with affection. + +"You oughtn't to have told me this so soon," she said, smiling at him in +the friendliest way. "You see I don't yet know you well enough to +contradict you. It would be rude." + +"Let me get you another sausage," said Peter, feeling a little better. + +As he brought her the food he saw her more familiarly. Last night in +her amazing dress she had seemed fragile and elaborate--all woman and +social creature. But this morning he saw just a friendly girl, plainly +suited in brown tweed, accessible and soothing. Now he really saw what +she was like. He discreetly admired her hair and expressive eyes, her +slender features and delicate complexion. She spoke on a clear note, +level and quiet, suggesting that her ideas and feelings were regular and +securely in leash. The music of her voice was vibrant but very sure. It +declared a perfect balance, the voice of a woman who would not suffer to +appear in any of her personal tones or gestures anything which could not +beautifully be expressed. + +At this point Marbury came into the room. Peter was bringing Lady Mary +her sausage with the grave intentness of someone specially elected. + +"Hullo, Mary. Hullo, Peter. You seem to be eating well." + +"Yes," said Lady Mary. "This is my third sausage." + +"What does Peter say?" + +"I've at last met someone who takes breakfast seriously." + +"I take everything seriously," said Peter, returning into gloom. + +"You needn't be so unhappy about it," said Marbury. "One good thing +about an election is that it makes one realise the importance of being +earnest. Even the local paper becomes an immensely serious thing." + +Marbury settled to his breakfast, shook out the _Highbury Gazette_, and +was absorbed. Soon he was smiling. + +"What is it, Tony?" asked Lady Mary, eating an apple. + +"Listen to this," said Marbury. "It's one of Jordan's speeches." + +"Who's Jordan?" Peter interrupted. + +"My opponent," said Marbury. "He seems to be dangerous. He knows how to +appeal to the people. He has just bought a house and some acres in the +constituency, and he tells the Yorkshiremen that he's a farmer, with a +stake in the county. + +"'Gentlemen,' he says, according to this report, 'you may perhaps be +inclined to ask what this Mr. Jordan, a town-bred man and a stranger, +knows about the land and the people on the land. Well, gentlemen, I'm a +farmer myself--in a small way. (Cheers.) I have a hundred or so acres of +good Yorkshire soil. (Cheers.) I have twenty head of cattle, some sheep +and poultry, and only this morning I was admiring three fine stacks of +hay built by the honest labour of your fellow townsmen. (Loud Cheers.) +Gentlemen, I have come to live among you. (A great outburst of cheering, +many of the audience rising and waving their hats.)'" + +"Is this what you call politics from within?" Peter scornfully +interrupted. + +"Now, Peter, don't despise the amusements of the people. They like to be +governed in this way. I shall have to see the bailiff." + +"I'm passing the home-farm," said Lady Mary. "I'll send him to you." + +When she had gone, Marbury looked with amusement at Peter, chafing up +and down the hearth-rug. + +"Peter," he said, "compose yourself. The others will be coming down to +breakfast." + +"Why do you want the bailiff?" Peter curtly inquired. + +"I'm thinking out a little light banter for Jordan. I want to know +whether we can do better than twenty head of cattle and three fine +stacks of hay." + +"I suggest," said Peter, massively sarcastic, "that you make out a list +of your hens and pigs and send it round the constituency." + +Marbury considered this. "That, Peter, is an idea. I'll talk it over +with the agent." + +Peter flung up his hands in the gesture Marbury loved in him and always +knew how to provoke. + +"It's all damn nonsense," said Peter shortly. + +"Jordan calls it democracy." + +"Politics!" Peter exclaimed, with his nose in the air. + +"I've told you before, Peter, not to despise politics. It's ignorant. +We'll go into the garden." + +They walked on the terrace and found Haversham in the portable hut +where he usually spent the day. He had been ordered by the doctors to +live out of doors. Here he wrote letters, interviewed his tenants, and +ordered the affairs of his estate and fortune. He was seldom alone, +unless he wished it, for his friends treasured every moment they were +able to spend with him. + +Peter and Marbury paused at the open side of the hut, turned, as always, +towards the sun. Marbury, before they reached Lord Haversham, had time +to tell Peter that his uncle did not like his health to be talked about. + +"What is the programme?" Haversham asked as they came up. + +"Eight meetings to-day, Uncle." + +Haversham tapped the paper he was holding: + +"You've seen Jordan's latest?" + +"We were talking about it," said Marbury. + +"What are you going to do?" asked Haversham. + +"Peter suggests we should post the constituency with a schedule of your +stock on the home-farm." + +Peter glowered at Marbury, but a moment after felt amiably foolish under +Haversham's kind inspection. + +"You don't expect me to believe that, Tony," said Haversham. "But, +seriously, don't let your agent do anything of the kind. He'll probably +suggest it." + +"I wonder." + +"It wouldn't do. If you were a Radical like Jordan you could tell them +you owned the whole constituency. In a Radical it would show good faith +and a likeliness to look after local interests. But in a Tory it is +bribery and coercion. Your leaflet would be published in the London +Radical papers--Another Instance of Tory Intimidation." + +"You see, Peter," said Marbury, "we shall have to be tactful." + +"Why notice the speech at all?" asked Peter. + +"Because we are electioneering," said Marbury. "We're not here for fun. +My enemy has sent out a leaflet: 'Vote for Jordan, the farmer, and the +farmer's friend'--the implication, of course, being that I am neither a +farmer nor a farmer's friend. It's much more important in an +agricultural constituency to destroy this delicate suggestion than to +prove that there is an absolute need for a Navy Bill next session of +over sixty millions." + +"Yes," objected Peter, "but the whole thing is so ridiculous." + +Haversham sighed: "That's what makes public life so hard. It is +especially hard for our people. There's nothing we dread more than +losing touch with our sense of humour. But these sacrifices are +necessary. These sixty millions have to be raised, and only Antony will +raise them." + +"You see, Peter," Marbury interposed, "the sense of duty is not yet +extinct. Please look less incredulous. Then we'll go and talk to the +farmers." + +"Why do you take me?" Peter grunted. "Why not take someone who really +understands?" + +"I have set my mind on taking you," said Marbury finally. "But you must +be less critical. You will hear me say some obvious things. Please +understand that I am quite honestly accepting a public duty, and don't +look as if you were infinitely wiser and better, because you are not." + +Peter felt the sincerity of this appeal. He turned impulsively to +Haversham. + +"Antony"--Peter used the name with shy pleasure--"has a way of putting +me in the wrong." + +Haversham smiled: "I'm sure you are excellent for one another," he said. +"It does Antony good to realise that he is elderly for his years." + +A servant came from the house and announced that the bailiff was waiting +for Marbury. Peter was left for a time with his host, who drew him to +talk easily of the days at Gamaliel and in town. Peter tried to explain +how in suburban London he had failed to realise his hopes. + +"Perhaps," Haversham suggested, "you put the intellectual average too +high?" + +"It wasn't that," said Peter eagerly. "I hope I haven't seemed too +clever or anything of that kind. But somehow I was never comfortable. +The more intelligence I found, the less I liked it." + +"You felt, in fact, rather like a modern statesman measuring the +results of popular education. He realises that he has educated the crowd +just enough to be taken in by a smart electioneer. Happily there is +wisdom still in Sandhaven. Our people will vote for Antony because they +like him. They know he feels rightly about things. Jordan's cleverness +doesn't appeal to them. He doesn't know the difference between a swede +and a turnip." + +"Then the seat is safe?" concluded Peter. + +Haversham smiled. + +"Not altogether," he said. "I got in last election by five hundred. +There are some miners in the west corner, and there is a harbour at +Sandhaven. The Government Whip has obscurely implied that votes for +Jordan will be votes for the harbour. The harbour badly wants doing up." + +"But that is corruption." + +"I'm afraid not," corrected Haversham. "It is politics." + +Marbury joined them from the house, telling Peter to be ready for a rush +over the moors. In half an hour they started alone, provided for the +day. The meetings were appointed in small villages near Sandhaven, where +they would spend the night. + +The ordered luxury of Highbury gave to their plunge into the wilderness +a keener pleasure. Peter was free to enjoy the spacious loveliness of +the moors--to enjoy it at ease in the best possible way. The contours +of the country here were gradual and vast, but the speed at which they +ran defeated monotony. The line of the greater banks shifted perpetually +as they flew. Their colour came and went, changing at every mile the +palette of the spread gorse and heather. Peter's joy was complete when +from a high point of the moors he discovered the sea alive with the sun. + +The meetings began at noon with an informal handshaking of farmers in a +tiny market-town not far from Sandhaven. They continued through the day +in schoolhouses, lamplit as darkness fell, and they ended at Sandhaven +in an orthodox demonstration, with a chairman and a Union Jack and the +local committee importantly throned on a large platform. Except at this +final meeting Marbury talked quite simply to the electors. Already he +knew the majority of them personally. He was aware of their +circumstances, family history, the troubles of their farming, their +prejudices and characters. He knew the local jokes--who had made rather +a better bargain with his horse than the purchaser, who, under feminine +pressure, had lately turned from chapel to church. Peter marvelled +through the day at the prodigious industry implied in Marbury's +knowledge, confessed to be yet imperfect, of the estate to which he was +succeeding. Peter admired, too, the perfection of Marbury's manner. He +never condescended. Nor was he familiar in the way of a candidate +seeking to be popular. He talked with his own people, in whom he was +interested, for whom he had a right to care. Neither in himself nor in +his tenants to be was there any of that uneasy pride of place which +spoils a community whose members are busily asserting their rank. +Marbury behaved, without self-consciousness, as part of a traditional +system. He was met in the same way by men as yet untouched with the +snobbery of labour. + +Only at Sandhaven, where there was a strong opposition, did Marbury +adopt the political or platform manner. Here he was called upon to +explain to his audience why he considered that a personal landlord was +better for agriculture than the local council. To Peter this seemed +ludicrously unnecessary after what he had seen that day in the villages. + +Towards the close of the meeting in Sandhaven, when questions were being +asked, Peter, from the platform, saw Marbury's agent speak to a member +of the audience. Marbury saw it too. + +"He realises I've shirked Jordan, the farmer's friend," he whispered to +Peter. + +The man whom the agent had prompted now rose and addressed Marbury: + +"Will Lord Marbury tell us what title Mr. Jordan has to call himself the +farmer's friend?" + +Marbury rose, and picked a cutting of Jordan's speech from the table. + +He read aloud the passages Peter had heard at breakfast, and deftly +played with them. Peter admired the ease with which Mr. Jordan's +pretensions as a farmer were justly measured without any assumption in +Marbury of superiority or rural _snobbisme_. His speech was pointed +throughout with hearty laughter and cheers. It effectually countered the +speech of his opponent, but it gave no handle anywhere for a charge that +Marbury desired to use his position as an argument for his return. + +"Peter," said Marbury, as they were leaving the platform, "you will hear +that speech of mine forty times, in forty moods and tenses, during the +next ten days. Please don't imagine that I enjoy it. But you saw the +agent. He would not let me escape, even for twenty-four hours. He knows +how important it is." + +Over a late supper at the hotel, Peter shared with Marbury his +impressions of the day. + +"Frankly," he said, "I admired you most of the time." + +"Beginning to think better of politics?" + +"Politics don't seem to count much in this election." + +"Platform politics don't. The people here are only just discovering +them. I hear, by the way, that the Government Whips have arranged a +debauch for next week. They're sending down Wenderby. My agent, who +despises me, is frightened." + +"Your agent ought to be jolly well pleased with you," said Peter +indignantly. + +"He is not," Marbury asserted. "He thinks I'm too refined. He wants me +to tell the people I'm going to inherit seventy thousand acres. He tells +me not to cut marble with a razor. He wants it coarse." + +They slept at Sandhaven, working back to Highbury on the following day. +It was comparatively an easy journey, and they were back at Highbury in +time for dinner. + +Peter drifted shyly towards Lady Mary, and again was next to her. + +"This is lucky," she said as they sat down. "You can tell me about +Antony's meetings." + +"I'm afraid I don't know the difference between a bad meeting and a good +one," said Peter. "But Antony was pleased." + +"Have you been speaking?" she asked. + +"No." + +"Why not?" + +"What could I say?" objected Peter. + +"Antony tells me you are quite an orator." + +"But this is different," Peter pleaded. + +"Why is it different?" + +"Well, you see, I can talk when I really believe in things and have a +lot to say." + +"Don't you believe in Antony?" asked Lady Mary. She was determined not +to let him off. + +"Yes," Peter admitted. + +"Then why not talk about him?" + +"But what about politics?" Peter objected. + +"Haven't you any politics?" + +"They all seem to be going," said Peter dismally. "Things aren't so +simple as I thought." + +"One thing is simple enough," said Lady Mary, looking serenely at Peter. +"Antony is a better man for Sandhaven than Mr. Jordan." + +"I'm sure he is," Peter gladly agreed. + +"Very well then. You must speak for Antony." + +"Why do you insist?" asked Peter, hoping for a compliment. + +"Because," said Lady Mary, resolved to disappoint him, "it will be good +for Antony. It doesn't matter what you say. Our farmers will look at +your honest face. Then they will measure your strong back. Then they +will believe you are as good a man as themselves, especially if you halt +a little in your speech. Antony is too fluent; and he is not +sufficiently robust." + + + + +XXVIII + + +During the next few weeks Peter drifted rapidly into being a Tory. He +soon talked himself into a conviction that Marbury must win for national +as well as personal reasons. Moreover, in his encounter with the miners +of the western end of the constituency, he had an opportunity of +measuring the evil effect upon clouded minds of the simple demagogy +practised on the other side. Peter provoked more than one riot by the +contempt with which he challenged the cheap phrases whereby Mr. Jordan's +electioneers were campaigning against squires and men of property. Fresh +from a contemplation of Haversham's quiet heroism and devoted industry, +he was amazed at the success with which English landlords were presented +as conspirators against humanity. He was even more amazed at the +impudent assurance with which their opponents, relying almost entirely +upon popular text-books, raised a whirlwind of prejudice in favour of +replacing men like Haversham by a committee of tradesmen. Arrived from +these hot meetings in the West, Peter would stand beside his window and +look upon a stream of visitors waiting upon Haversham. Already Haversham +was told by the doctors to be ready for the end, and he was now deep in +a last review of the estate. + +Only half a dozen people knew that this was a grand inquest and +farewell, but many of the men with whom Haversham spoke realised they +would not see him again. Their affection appeared in a solicitude +clumsily expressed, but Haversham encouraged no sentiment, and with easy +simplicity checked in his visitors any dwelling upon their personal +loss. + +Peter especially remembered the last time he sat in the small hut. +Instinctively he avoided the thing that filled his mind. Not a word was +spoken to suggest that Haversham was an invalid. When Peter came to +recall their conversation, he realised that he had talked exclusively of +himself under Haversham's quiet prompting. He still saw the interested +smile, lighting the face of his host--now brilliant with fever and +eloquent with the gesture of his spirit. Long afterwards, Peter +shamefully realised how this man, already in the shadow of death, had, +in perfect sincerity, bent as from the clouds to encourage his young +egoism and to listen. + +A few days later, Peter attended a mass meeting of Marbury's opponents. +It was Wenderby's meeting, held in the western corner of the +constituency, in contempt of landowners. Peter knew nothing of Wenderby +beyond his public reputation. He saw in Wenderby only the brass and +swagger which, for political purposes, he chose to affect. Peter was +deceived. Wenderby was a politician of exquisite finesse, playing the +political bruiser partly out of genuine love for his country, partly +from a deeply calculated personal ambition. His speech in this +by-election well illustrated the intricacy of modern politics under +their superficial simplicity. Ostensibly it denounced all Tories and +pleaded for economy in naval expenditure. Actually it was Wenderby's +cover for a set campaign for extorting as much money out of his own +party for the Service as he dared. + +Wenderby's position in Marbury's constituency was every way a snare for +the politically innocent. He was a friend of Haversham, and usually a +guest at Highbury. But, as he wrote to Haversham, to stay at Highbury in +the present crisis would perhaps be regarded as a breach of political +decency. Peter, seeing in Wenderby the public enemy of a nobleman whose +hospitality the speaker had himself enjoyed, could not contain his rage. +Wenderby's rhetorical periods were launched with deadly effect at a +simmering audience. + +At the close of the meeting, Peter, red with anger, rose to ask whether +certain remarks concerning the landlords of England were intended to +have a personal and local application. Wenderby, seeing he had only to +do with a youngster who had lost his temper, smoothly evaded him. Peter +sprang to his feet: + +"Sir--" he began. + +Immediately there were shouts of "Order!" and "Turn him out!" Peter +obstinately stood. + +"I insist," he shouted, "that my question be answered. An infamous +insinuation----" + +At this point Peter was choked by half a dozen dirty hands grabbing from +all quarters at his neck. He was thrust gasping and struggling from the +hall--his coat in ribbons. His battered hat and collar were derisively +thrown after him, as he bitterly explained to the police that he was not +drunk and disorderly. + +Peter showed himself that night to Marbury and stormily told his tale. +Marbury, to his mortification, only laughed. + +"What is amusing you?" asked Peter, very short and stony. + +"Everything." + +"For example?" + +"I don't know where to begin. First, you were shouting at the wrong man. +Wenderby is the favourite godson of Uncle Eustace. He's the only man we +can trust." + +"But he's on the other side." + +"In a way he is." + +"He will lose you the seat." + +"Perhaps. This by-election is only an incident. Wenderby's speech +to-night was one of a series. Unfortunately it happens to lie in our +constituency. Wenderby has to manage his own people." + +Peter flung up his hands. "I don't understand these politics." + +Marbury looked affectionately at Peter. Peter had met Marbury going to +his room. He was without a collar, and he looked forlorn. Marbury put a +hand on his arm: + +"Wenderby shall apologise," he said gravely. "He's a charming fellow, +and he is very fond of young people." + +Lady Mary, fresh from canvassing, shared a late supper with Marbury and +Peter. She joined with her brother to wring from Peter a full account of +his adventure. Peter began sorely, but at last detected in Lady Mary an +unconfessed approval. Clearly she liked him for his protest. He even +dared to think that she admired. Peter was gradually more happy, and +soon was enjoying his escapade. He even displayed, in mock heroism, the +large blue marks upon his neck. + +Later, in his room, Peter found in the events of the day a consecration +of his devotion to Eustace Haversham. Unessential incidents fell away, +and he was glad of his protest--mistaken though it seemed, and +ridiculous. + +Next day was Sunday, and meetings were suspended. The house was very +quiet, and Haversham was not in his usual place. Marbury told Peter he +might not again come down. + +After dinner, Peter slipped on to the terrace and faced the shadowy +moor, lifting his head to a faint breeze from the sea. He stood beside +the bronze figure he had so often admired. Before him was the +wilderness, but civilisation was behind in the murmured voices from the +drawing-room and those harsher cries Peter had lately heard from men +made selfish and bitter. + +Surely it was well that this triumphant figure should brave the desert, +and that in its shadow a beautiful life should be passing. It flung out +the challenge of art and wisdom. It was a consummation for which +millions worked, and now it confidently stood, as though aware of what +it had cost, resolved that it was well worth the price. Peter wondered +whether it were justified. + +His dreaming was broken. Lady Mary rustled beside him. + +"You have found this place?" she said after a silence. They watched the +superb silhouette of the statue fading as the light emptied rapidly from +the sky. + +"I am wondering whether he is worth while?" said Peter, waving his hand +at the figure between them. + +"What is your riddle?" + +"He has cost a thousand lives." + +"You are talking like a Socialist," said Lady Mary curtly. + +Peter felt in her a coldness that passed. She was looking over the moors +as though she followed the blind eyes of the naked boy. Her attitude +suggested that she, too, was part of this challenge. Her dress, +conveying to Peter an impression of complicated and finished art, fell +away from her shoulders as, with head flung back, she filled her eyes +with the beauty of earth and sky. She interpreted in radiant life the +cold metal of the statue. Civilisation was justified in her, or it could +not be justified. + +"Have you never any doubt?" said Peter, wistfully impulsive. + +Lady Mary turned slowly from the moor. Her calm eyes swept over him. + +"Doubt?" she echoed. + +"Do you never wonder whether all this"--Peter made one of the large +gestures of his mother--"is worth the noise and the dirt over there? +Have you no doubt at all?" + +"How is it possible to doubt?" she calmly responded. She stood proudly +facing him. But she read perplexity in his face and, as it seemed to +Peter, she stooped to him. + +"Don't you see," she almost pleaded, "that either we must believe in +ourselves or make way; and we do believe. I believe in all this"--she +faintly parodied Peter's large gesture--"and I believe in myself." + +There was a pause, and it was Lady Mary who spoke again. Almost it +seemed that she wanted to make her point. + +"You, at any rate," she urged him, "have learned to believe a little." +She looked towards the hut on the terrace, and Peter followed her +thoughts. + +The trees stirred a moment, and laughter came from the open room. But +these two heard only the voice of Eustace Haversham, and saw his +lighted features vivid in memory. The last colour of the sunset was full +upon her as she faced her uncle's empty place. Its emptiness to-night +was an omen of the eternal emptiness to come. Her mouth quivered, and +tears shone suddenly under her lids as she turned again to Peter. + +"I believe he is worth the whole world," she said, and her voice broke. + +Her tears seemed to remove every barrier. Peter saw in her eyes an +appeal for an equal faith. She felt the drops on her cheek, and turned +away into the shadow. + +"I, too, believe," Peter deeply whispered. + +Then he noticed how her hand lay unprotected upon the pedestal of the +statue, vaguely delicate upon the hard metal. + +He impulsively bent and touched it with his lips. She did not start or +cry out, but turned again slowly towards him. She read in his eyes faith +merely and dedication. + +"I am glad you did that," she said in a level voice. + +Then they went, as by consent, towards the lighted windows of the +drawing-room. + +Next morning, ten days before polling day at Sandhaven, Peter was +summoned away by telegram to Hamingburgh. His uncle had suddenly been +stricken seriously ill. Peter bade his friends a quick farewell and +caught the first train from York. + + + + +XXIX + + +When Peter found his uncle stretched helplessly in bed with all the +ceremony about him of an urgent case, he reproached himself for having +thought of him so little during his years of health. He had taken his +uncle for granted as the sanguine and gracious benefactor. It had not +occurred to him to probe the motives of his uncle's affection, or to ask +whether he was making him an adequate return. + +Now it was too late. When Peter arrived in Hamingburgh his uncle was +already unconscious, and he did not recover sufficiently to recognise +his nephew. A sudden seizure ended with a rush of blood to the brain; +and Peter was left heir to a personal estate of over £90,000. Peter had +to be content with his mother's assurance that his uncle died with +entire faith in his nephew's ability to spend a fortune. + +The next weeks passed in ending all connection with Hamingburgh, which +Peter now found intolerable, and in preparing for life in London +commensurate with his new ideas. He took rooms for himself and his +mother in Curzon Street, to be made ready for the autumn season. + +"We will have everything very beautiful, and we will have only what is +necessary," he told his mother as they talked things over in their flat +at Golder's Green. "Of course we must sell all this stuff." + +He waved his hands in an inclusive gesture toward the chairs and tables. +Mrs. Paragon mildly looked about her. + +"But, Peter, I thought you liked all this pretty furniture." + +"It's modern," said Peter briefly. "There is no such thing as modern +furniture. Ask Marbury." + +He came and sat on the arm of his mother's chair. + +"I must get Marbury to help. I want to see you talking to Lady Mary over +a tea-table by the Brother's Adam." + +"Peter, this is the third time to-day you have mentioned Lord Marbury's +sister." + +"Naturally, mother. This is polling day at Highbury. I've been wondering +how things are going." + +A few days later Marbury came to town and took his seat as member for +Sandhaven. Peter secured him for the following evening, and they all +three dined together at the flat in Golder's Green. Marbury was called +upon for advice as to Curzon Street. + +"Peter," he said, "this is a new phase. Don't encourage him, Mrs. +Paragon. He wasn't intended for an exquisite. He's too robust." + +"He does not need encouraging," said Mrs. Paragon. She had calmly +accepted Peter's new enthusiasm, and now only wondered how long it would +endure. + +"Peter has already sold all our furniture," she added by way of +information. "It will disappear at the end of the week." + +"What are you going to do in the meantime?" asked Marbury, exchanging an +intelligible smile with Mrs. Paragon. + +Mrs. Paragon quietly answered him, unaware of the irony which lurked in +her undisturbed acceptance of the inevitable. + +"Peter says that no one stays in London during these next months. He +says we must go to the North of Scotland." + +"What are you going to do there?" asked Marbury. + +"Peter is going to fish," said Mrs. Paragon. + +When the time came Mrs. Paragon discovered that her part in the holiday +in North Britain was to attend Peter during long happy days in lonely +places where Peter mysteriously dangled in lakes and rivers. She dreamed +away the time beside the basket of food and shared with Peter pleasant +meals under the sky, quickened with his lively account of the morning's +work. + +News came once into their wilderness when Eustace Haversham died. In the +letters Peter exchanged with Marbury and his sister he learned that the +end had come at the close of a happy day in the sun, with people +arriving and departing upon the terrace at Highbury. Haversham had +smilingly received the congratulations of his friends upon his better +health; then, with a look in his eyes showing that he at any rate knew +better, he had died as the light fell from the bronze figure fronting +the moor. + +In long hours upon loch and river Peter sometimes thought of Lady Mary +and their last meeting. He thought of her less as a woman than a lovely +symbol of the life he was now called to lead. She stood in his eye, +radiant and proud, thrown into relief by a mutter of poverty and +ill-will. She was for Peter the supreme achievement of the time. The +cool touch of her hand on his lips raised in him no remembered rapture. +It had been not a personal caress but an act of worship, for which he +could imagine no other possible expression. She charmed him, and made +him afraid. The delicate play of her mind was intimately enjoyed by +Peter in retrospect when he was able to realise the indulgence with +which she had met his blundering. + +Peter remembered his father and his years of revolt without misgiving +for the way he now seemed to be taking. These memories enforced him +towards all for which Lady Mary now stood. He so clearly had been wrong. + +Early in September Peter and his mother returned to London. Peter, +fearing to be bantered, furnished the rooms in Curzon Street without +advice. The season was just beginning when they took possession. + +Peter soon read in the fashionable intelligence that Lord +Haversham--Marbury had shed the younger title--had come to town for the +autumn session. He also saw that Wenderby had been staying at Highbury +as the guest of Lady Mary and her brother. This displeased Peter. He +would not surrender his animosity against Wenderby, or admit that he was +mistaken. He owed this to himself in justification of his outbreak +during the election. Now that he read Wenderby's name beside the name of +Lady Mary, Peter was surprised to find how much he distrusted the man. +He threw down the paper in a small passion. + +"Why, Peter," said Mrs. Paragon, "what's the matter?" + +"Nothing, mother." + +Mrs. Paragon tried another way of approach. + +"What's the news this morning?" she lightly inquired. + +"Lord Haversham has come to town." + +"With Lady Mary?" Mrs. Paragon quickly asked. + +"Yes," said Peter. "Also with Lord Wenderby." He kicked the newspaper +and went to the window. + +"I see," said Peter's mother. + +Perhaps Mrs. Paragon was right, and Peter was really jealous. Wenderby +clearly belonged to the party which had arrived in town. He knew the +language. He did not make heroically foolish scenes at a public meeting. +Probably he had never incurred the laughter of Lady Mary. She did not +make allowances for him, or look at him with protection in her eyes, or +take an interest in him as someone from a strange world. Wenderby knew +all that Peter had yet to learn. + +Peter himself was worried to account for his ill humour, and even came +to the point of asking himself the question which his mother had already +answered. He decided that he was not personally jealous. Rather he was +jealous of the privilege and experience which made Wenderby at home and +at ease in the world which Peter desired to enjoy. Haversham had told +him that Wenderby was a charming fellow. Peter wondered whether he would +ever be a charming fellow; and, in a fit of misgiving, began to exhaust +the possibilities of self-contempt. He had had a glimpse of the +beautiful life; but suppose he were not worthy to enter. Suppose +Haversham could not be the friend of a young colt who had nothing in the +world to fit him for an agreeable part in the social comedy. Suppose he +would never again come into touch with exquisite creatures like Lady +Mary. Suppose he were doomed to follow the witty pageant of London life +(which now was a Paradise in Peter's fancy) only through the columns of +the fashionable intelligence. Suppose it were his destiny henceforth to +hear of Lady Mary only when she happened to be entertaining Wenderby. + +Peter was chewing this bitter cud at his mother's tea-table in Curzon +Street when his man-servant (Peter, to his mother's dismay, had insisted +on a man-servant) announced the figures of his meditation by name. Peter +rose in a whirl, and before he had possession of his mind Haversham and +Wenderby were taking tea with Mrs. Paragon. Mrs. Paragon received her +guests with monumental calm, answered their inquiries after her holiday +in Scotland with a quiet precision which suggested an irony of which +really she was quite incapable, and wondered meanwhile why Peter was +less talkative than a meeting with his best friend seemed to require. + +"Peter," said Haversham at last, "you seem depressed." + +"Not at all." Peter was the more laconic because he was suffering a +quiet, persistent scrutiny from Wenderby. + +"This," said Wenderby, "is surely not the sanguine young man who brought +me to judgment." + +"You remember that?" asked Peter briefly. + +"I have come to apologise," Wenderby explained. + +"I told you he should apologise," said Haversham. + +"Isn't that for me to do?" asked Peter. + +"I don't think so," Wenderby smiled. "You lost your collar and were +nearly strangled." + +"I would do it again," said Peter cheerfully. + +"I admit the provocation," agreed Wenderby. He was quite unruffled by +the vibrant conviction of Peter's voice. + +"You must make allowances, Peter," put in Haversham. "It was a +misfortune for all of us. That speech might have lost me the seat. +Wenderby always puts public interest before personal feeling." + +"The speech was a great success," said Wenderby. "It did not lose the +seat, but it won the Cabinet. I have wrung out fifty-seven millions. The +Tories could hardly have done better." + +"No politics," protested Haversham. "Peter doesn't understand." + +"How is Lady Mary?" asked Peter suddenly. + +Haversham's phrase about "personal feeling" had stuck in his mind. + +Wenderby glanced keenly at Peter, so keenly that Peter at once felt his +question had touched a nerve. + +"You must come and see for yourself," said Haversham. "We're moving into +Arlington Street and Mary is being worried with decorators. She has even +interviewed a plumber. I suggest that you look in at the Ballet to-night +and encourage her." + +"How shall I encourage her?" Peter gloomily asked. + +"You are young, Peter, and youth is infectious." + +"I wish I could catch it," said Wenderby; and Peter detected envy. + +Shortly after they had left Peter made ready for Covent Garden. His +master-thought was to get into touch with the life which at Highbury had +so urgently attracted him. An encounter with Lady Mary would be the +touchstone of his claim to be socially accepted. Also Peter knew that +Wenderby would be there. He had seen in Wenderby the faintest gesture of +annoyance when Haversham had mentioned the Ballet. Peter was sensitive +to the least indication in Wenderby of a special interest in Lady Mary. +Already there was a mutual faint dislike. Peter resented the keen +appraisement of Wenderby's searching eyes. He felt the rapid working of +a trained and subtle mind busily estimating his value. Wenderby, for his +part, detected in Peter a wilful energy which, as a politician, he +abhorred. + +Mrs. Paragon preferred not to accompany Peter. He dined alone with her, +and she found him clouded and cold. Afterwards he picked his way by cab +to the Opera House, sitting bolt upright with a vague presage of +complications to ensue. He joined the happy few carried to pleasure +through the shining streets. Summer lingered wherever a foothold was +offered to the green. It was warm, with cool air soft as the hum of the +London traffic. But Peter's senses were shut to his position of ease. He +was restive still under the penetrating eyes of Wenderby. He felt as if +he were going into an arena. More than one woman turned in the crush of +cars at Covent Garden to look at Peter's vivid, ingenuous face as he sat +erect, frowning a little, staring blindly ahead. He was not actually +thinking. Curious faint emotions came and went. His consciousness was +ruled by a shimmering figure, infinite in grace and promise; but it +rested under the threat of a cloud, which now was seen to grow dark and +then to vanish. + +A little later Peter found Lady Mary with his glasses; Wenderby stood +beside her in the box. She saw Peter almost as his glasses were +levelled, and leaned eagerly forward to greet him. Wenderby looked like +one interrupted, and Peter could see how thoughtful he suddenly became. +Then the lights were lowered. + + + + +XXX + + +When Peter, in the interval between the first and second ballet, entered +the box of Lady Mary he formally embarked upon his career as a social +figure. + +Wenderby was Lady Mary's companion of the evening, for he sat securely +beside her as Peter came. But she was radiantly pleased to welcome +Peter, and even seemed anxious to exaggerate her pleasure. + +The two men were vividly contrasted. Peter stood for youth--resilient, +athletic, and eager. Wenderby as perfectly expressed the wisdom, +tolerance, and disillusion of one who already had lived. He had just +successfully finished a hard campaign in the country, and he was tired. +The lines of his forehead were deeper to-night than he knew. + +Lady Mary's cordial reception scattered Peter's vague misgiving. It +restored to him the woman who, on the terrace at Highbury, had accepted +his worship, thanked him, and understood. + +"Your mother isn't here?" she said, as Peter found a chair. + +"I could not persuade her." + +"I must know her at once. Antony is quite positive about it." + +"Antony is right," said Peter. "She is wonderful." + +"Lord Wenderby is more fortunate than I am. He has seen her already." + +"I'm afraid of her," said Wenderby. "She has that sort of silence which +spoils my best conversation." + +"You mustn't allow Lord Wenderby to frighten you." Peter paused, and +added quite simply: "You will love my mother." + +"I must meet her at once; but I cannot go out to-morrow. Will you bring +her to me at Arlington Street?" + +Peter at this was entirely happy. How could he have doubted that his +precious intimacy with Lady Mary would be broken. Talking thus of his +mother, she invited him to come closer yet. Peter wondered if Wenderby +had ever seen her tears. She passed through her hands a string of pearls +that hung about her neck, and Peter saw in them the frozen symbol of +drops more precious. His eyes, as this conceit came into his mind, +rested upon the stones as they fell through her fingers. He did not know +he was looking at the hand he had kissed. Lady Mary drew it behind her +fan. + +"You like my pearls?" she said abruptly. + +Peter started a little. + +"They are very beautiful, but you do not need them," he said bluntly. + +The crudity of his compliment was more effective than the most artful +flattery. Wenderby looked wistfully at the two young faces, conscious +that between them youth was singing. Peter's adoration was plainly +written, and Lady Mary received it with a delicate flush of colour and a +perceptible nervousness. Wenderby had never before seen her in the least +perturbed. + +He hastily turned the conversation, commenting on the ballet they had +just seen--a ballet of lust and blood. It had stepped from the pages of +Sir Richard Burton, barbaric in colour and music--frankly sadistic. + +"This," he said, indicating the rows of brilliant and respectable people +who had watched it, "is a feast indeed for the cynical. How many of +these people realise what they have seen? How horrified they would be if +you told them in plain English what they have just heard in plain +music!" + +"You are a musician?" Peter asked politely. + +"Enough of a musician to know that even Sir Richard Burton never spoke +plainer than this Russian fellow. It seems to me quite extraordinary +that civilised people are able to sit serenely beside one another in a +public place and hear things which they would blush to read in a private +room." + +It was strange that this ballet should recall a chapter almost +forgotten. Peter, looking at Lady Mary, saw again a cherry-coloured +ribbon folded between the leaves of her brother's book. Peter knew she +had not touched that old fever. He could not think of her as kindling +him in that savage way. He saw himself forever humbly repeating the +caress of adoration. + +Peter left at the end of the interval, fearing too eagerly to force +himself. It was enough that he was to see Lady Mary again on the +following day. + + + + +XXXI + + +Peter's appearance at Covent Garden precipitated in Wenderby an action +upon whose brink he had stood for several weeks. He called upon Lady +Mary in the morning and asked for her. She came into the room bravely +affecting surprise. But too well she knew what was coming. + +"Lord Wenderby," she began, "this is wonderful." + +"That I should come to see you?" + +"I read in the _Times_ that a Cabinet was called for this morning. +Surely you should be there." + +Wenderby shrugged his shoulders. + +"The Cabinet," he said, "will be happier as they are." + +"You say that bitterly." + +"It's bitter truth," he answered. "I'm in the wrong set." + +There was a short silence, and Lady Mary found it intolerable. + +"Have you come just to grumble and go?" she inquired at last. + +Wenderby paused a moment, as if looking for a way to open his mind; then +he said abruptly: + +"I'm going to rat." + +"To leave the Cabinet?" Lady Mary exclaimed. She was now sincerely +astonished. + +"Perhaps," said Wenderby, looking at her intently. "It's in my mind. +Politics are going to be very violent during these next years. All my +friends are with the Opposition. My position will be dreary and +difficult." + +Lady Mary began to see his drift, and was dismayed at the sudden sinking +of her spirit. + +"Why do you tell me this?" she asked. + +"I want you to help me," said Wenderby, and again he looked at her. + +"How can that be?" she protested, avoiding his eyes. + +"I'm not yet sure what I ought to do. I shall be giving up a great deal +in leaving the Cabinet. I'm the youngest minister with a platform +following. In a few years I should be leading the Party." + +"What would become of your principles?" Lady Mary objected. + +"They would suffer," he curtly replied. "But I should do my best for +them. At any rate, I should do less harm than any other conceivable head +of a Liberal Cabinet." + +"You would be a fraud," she flashed. + +"Not without justification," he coolly answered. + +"Sophistry." + +"Not at all. Making the best of a bad business." + +Again there was silence. Wenderby found it difficult to come to the +point. It was again Lady Mary who spoke. + +"Have you come to me for advice?" she asked. + +"Partly that." + +"Then I advise you to follow your conscience," she said decisively. + +"That is just the difficulty," he pleaded. "My conscience is vague." + +"It tells you to come over." + +Wenderby smiled. "Naturally you say that. My desertion now would shake +the Government. Perhaps we might even pull them down. There's a chance." + +"Your duty is clear," she insisted. + +"I do not think so," he objected. "The Government may stand in spite of +me. Then my moderating influence is destroyed. Is it my duty to put this +uncertain thing to the proof?" + +There was a short silence. Lady Mary saw Wenderby's logical trap closing +about her. He bent eagerly towards her, and a pleading note came into +his voice. Lady Mary could not deny that it pleasurably moved her to +detect under the steel of his manner the suspense of entire sincerity. +He utterly depended upon her answer. + +"My conscience," he said, "does not help me. I cannot balance the right +and wrong of this business. I want a better reason. I want the best +reason in the world. I want you to be my wife." + +Lady Mary did not move. Wenderby's sincerity saved him from the protest +with which she had thought to meet it. Nearly a minute passed. + +"You understand?" said Wenderby at last. + +"I think I understand," she slowly answered, "that this is not exactly +what it seems." + +"Does it seem so terrible?" he pleaded. "Consider it from my point of +view." + +"You say that, if I marry you, you will leave the Cabinet. That is my +price." + +"Obviously, if you consented to marry me, it would be my crowning motive +for coming to your people. It is a natural consequence." + +"It is my price," she insisted. + +"You are brutal," he said in a low voice. + +Lady Mary flushed a little. "You do not like my word. Shall we say +inducement? You tell me you will leave the Cabinet, but you do not +trouble to ask me whether I care for you." + +"Is that necessary?" said Wenderby, quite simply. "I know you too well. +You like me and trust me. I think you admire me a little. I am +forty-seven. I do not urge you to passion. I have appealed to you as a +woman who can weigh the things of youth against other things, more +important perhaps, certainly more enduring. I have been candid with +you." + +Lady Mary sighed. + +"I wonder," she said, "how many English girls have been talked to in +this way?" + +"You are not just an English girl. You are Lord Haversham's sister." + +"You mean," said Lady Mary sadly, "that I have no right to be loved in +the common way?" + +Again there was a short silence. Wenderby then rose, and put his hand +upon Lady Mary's arm. He spoke now as one who loved her and understood. + +"I know," he said, "exactly what this choice means. I want you to be my +wife, and I mean to use every argument to persuade you. But I am going +to be quite frank. When you marry me you will be turning away from a +great deal. But I will hold you very precious. We shall always be +comrades. Can you do this? To me it seems a choice between marrying for +yourself and marrying for all that we hold most dear. Realise what our +marriage would mean. Already we have wealth and social leading. Soon we +should have supreme political office. There is no really able man of my +age on the Tory side. Our house would be the absolute fortress of all we +hold precious in the country. There is no one in whom I could so +confidently trust as you." + +Lady Mary looked steadily at this vision. She knew it could be realised. +She measured the full stature of Wenderby, and answered the call of her +own talent. At last she spoke, rather as though she wondered to herself +than talked with another: + +"But our marriage. What would our marriage be?" + +"Always entirely as you wished. I should wait for you still, and hope to +win you. I should never put away that hope. But I should not take you +for granted." + +"I cannot do things by half," she said, bravely meeting him. "If I +marry you, I shall accept all the consequences." + +Wenderby bent his head. + +"You do not want to answer me now?" he suggested. + +"Come for my answer in twelve months." + +"It is a long time." + +"All my life hangs upon this decision. Twelve months is nothing at all." + +"Meantime," said Wenderby, "we meet as usual." + +"Of course." + +"You will tell no one of this?" + +"I reserve the right to tell my brother." + +Wenderby rose to go. He hesitated as they stood together. + +"Mary," he said, "I have talked coolly and sensibly. It was not easy. +Try and believe that." His voice sank under the burden of his sincerity. + +"I care with my whole soul," he added abruptly. + +She met his look with understanding and compassion. + +He took the hand Peter had touched and lifted it. She drew it +impulsively away, giving him the other hand. + +"A year from now," he said, and, kissing her fingers, went quickly from +the room. + + + + +XXXII + + +Lady Mary had a sense of escape. She had put off the immediate need to +decide for twelve months. Almost she exulted in the time she had won. +She felt she had saved for herself a year of her days and nights--a year +in which to measure the issues. + +Peter that afternoon had never seen her so radiant. He looked at her +continually, and, when for a moment she left the room to answer a +message, it seemed as if a light had gone out. + +In recoil from her ordeal of the morning Lady Mary gave herself free +rein. She accepted Peter's worship, and allowed the climbing current of +her pleasure to flow. It seemed like the beginning of a holiday. + +They talked quietly of indifferent things. Lady Mary saw that Peter's +looks were openly read by his mother. Once, as Mrs. Paragon turned from +his lost face to Lady Mary, a glance of intelligence passed between +them. + +Lady Mary kissed Mrs. Paragon at parting. + +"You are not anxious about him?" she said, as Peter waited for his +mother at the door. + +"Peter finds his own way. I can trust him with you," said Mrs. Paragon. + +In the evening, after her maid had left her, Lady Mary sat in the +firelight of her room alone with her problem. For months to come she +suffered these solitary hours, looking into a future she could not read. +Her duty became less clear as the days passed. She doubted the necessity +of her sacrifice. Would it ultimately weigh in history? Was she +justified in giving herself to a doubtful cause? In an agony of regret +she saw herself turning from the virginal adoration of the boy she loved +to long years of devoted work for a country that neither wanted her nor +would understand. + +These moods inexorably came, but at first they were few and far. In +Peter's company the holiday persisted. Wenderby heard of them everywhere +together. One morning, on his way to the House, he saw them in the Park. +They were riding at a gallop, glowing with laughter. He stood on the +path, unseen, and turned sadly away with the picture of their dancing +faces firmly drawn upon his brain. He framed them in a window opposite +the Treasury Bench. + +Peter was already deeply committed to the routine of London. He was +popular. His youth was a perpetual delight to hostesses for whom a boy +of twenty-four was a precious discovery. + +His readiness to enter into things eagerly and without reserve was the +quaintest of pleasures to watch. It was all the more entertaining to +Peter's friends owing to the rapidity with which he exhausted his ideas, +emotions, hobbies, and acquaintances, and the impetuosity with which he +discarded them. It was his charm to be the most lovable of spendthrifts; +and the charm of his desire to rush at everything as it came was +enhanced for the women who welcomed him by their knowledge of his +absolute integrity. He seemed to unite the energy and frank joy of a +wilful libertine with the austere purity of a Galahad. Peter's was an +eager, questing purity, whose adventure was watched by many of his +friends with an almost passionate solicitude. + +The winter drew in, and rapidly passed. Peter began to lose the edge of +his enthusiasm for the new life. He soon realised that at Highbury he +had found the best, and that London was inferior. It was not upon the +level he had measured by Eustace Haversham. He began to be sensible of a +shabby side to the frank hedonism which had at first seemed all free +nature and ready fellowship. A quiet and gradual disappointment flung +him the more devotedly upon Lady Mary. He was entirely happy to be her +constant friend. Now that the shadow of Wenderby had passed--Wenderby +hardly saw her at this time--Peter felt only an untroubled comfort in +her presence. She was his particular angel, a shrine for his private +adoration. The perfect symbol of his emotion at meeting her was the cool +clasp of her hand. + +Lady Mary was content that this should be so. She thought of Peter as of +a sleeping boy, who one day, if she were free, would wake to her. She +watched him curiously, and with fear, for knowledge to stir in him. She +knew that at the first flutter she would have to meet her problem with +an answer. + +The winter passed, and spring began warmly to enter. The lonely hours of +her stress became more intolerable. Her holiday was passing, and her +conscience was astir. Surely she must take Peter, or send him away. She +would soon be unable to part with him. + +Curiously she felt no scruples as to Peter himself--that she was +betraying him into a love she might have to deny. She felt that for him +it was safest to continue quietly beside her. Were she to dismiss him +suddenly, it would provoke in him the storm she feared. He had come +unbidden into her life, and she knew he would not leave it without a +struggle. + +The burden became at last too heavy. She must share it, or run for ever +round in the circle of her thoughts. Upon an evening in April she heard +her brother pass along the corridor as she sat in her room. She called +to him. + +"Tony," she said, "I want you to know something." + +Haversham looked at her keenly. He had lately seen little of his sister +or of Peter. The session had been very heavy, and the estate had also to +be visited. Haversham was by more than twelve months older than he was a +year ago. + +"Is it Peter?" he asked quietly. + +She shrank from an opening so direct. + +"Not altogether," she said. + +"It is partly Peter." + +"Yes," she admitted. + +"I saw it coming, Mary. You are only a sister of the younger branch. You +can marry for yourself. You are not worrying about that?" + +His quiet accepting of Peter made it harder for Lady Mary to go on. +Instinctively she felt that her brother would be against her when he +knew the rest. She shut her eyes and rushed at her confession. + +"Lord Wenderby," she said, "asked me to marry him six months ago." + +"Wenderby?" + +The surprise in his voice uttered the quick leap of his mind. He came +towards her. "Tell me," he said, "there is more in this than a proposal +of marriage. Am I right?" + +"Yes, Tony. If I marry Lord Wenderby, he will leave the Cabinet." + +Haversham's eyes dangerously glittered. + +"You mean," he said, "that Wenderby's political services are a wedding +present?" + +"He isn't sure what he ought to do. I can help him to decide." + +"I see," said Haversham quietly. "Let me think of this." + +He rapidly looked at the facts. He saw them clearly, in a hard, +political light. Haversham had just come through a session of weary work +in the House. Temper was hardening on both sides. The Government was +shaken, but its power for mischief was still incalculable. Just at this +moment Wenderby's defection would recast the entire position. Haversham +swept into the future, thinking only of his country. He turned back to +his sister. + +"Mary, darling. Can you do this?" + +She looked at him with dismay. She wanted for Peter the help he was +giving to Wenderby. + +"You think it is my duty?" she suggested. + +"It is your duty." He uttered it like a doom. + +"But, Antony," she pleaded, "are you sure? Think what it means." + +He hesitated a moment; then, taking her by the arms, he searched her +face. + +"Can you reasonably do this?" he asked. + +"Reasonably?" she echoed. + +"I mean, you are reasonably fond of Wenderby?" + +"I trust him utterly." + +"Then it is only Peter." + +"Peter is my youth," she cried out, "and my right to be loved." + +He felt her pain, and hated the influence he used. + +"It is very difficult," he said in a low voice. "Are the things for +which we stand worth while? Surely we must think that they are." + +She again felt the trap closing about her. + +"How clearly you see things, Tony." + +"Mary, darling, I see things as Lord Haversham. But I would to God this +were not asked of you." + +The words burst from him as he saw the tears gather in his sister's +eyes. At the tenderness of his voice the barriers of her grief broke +down. She wept in his arms, but at last drew erect. + +"You are quite sure, Tony?" she asked again. + +"Yes, dear." + +"I will remember this talk when the time comes." + +Haversham did not inquire when this time would be. He left everything +now to his sister, inwardly deciding not to persuade her further. + +"Meantime," he lightly suggested, "what is happening to Peter?" + +"He holds me too precious to be loved, but I am afraid there will be +trouble when I send him away." + +"I wonder," reflected Haversham. + +"I am sure of it," she insisted. + +"He may surprise you yet," answered Haversham. "There is a blind side to +Peter. Sometimes I think he was intended for a monk. He has a dedicated +look." + +"He loves me, Tony, and he will discover it." + +"Cannot you spare him the knowledge?" + +Lady Mary shook her head. + +"Peter loved me at Highbury," she insisted. "I shall have nothing on my +conscience." + +Haversham sat that night in his room in quiet contemplation of the +advice he had instinctively given to his sister. It displeased him to +think how promptly and easily he had declared against the friend of his +own years. He realised that a season or so ago he would not so +immediately have perceived where his sister's duty lay. Was there, after +all, something in Peter's ineradicable contempt for politics? Did they +not rub the finer edges from a man? + +Peter, after all, was his friend. He saw him with a pang, eager and +impetuous; and knew how savagely his sister's marriage with Wenderby +would tear him. There was nothing tangibly ignoble--nothing that a man +of worldly years would boggle at--in Wenderby's proposal to Lady Mary. +Nevertheless Haversham realised that young Marbury twelve months ago +would have recoiled with a faint disgust from this attempt upon his +sister. Undoubtedly he had changed. A year of politics, of arrangements +and compromises, of difficult dealings with men of many tempers and +desires, had caused young Marbury to seem like a legend, remote and +debonair, to thoughtful Haversham. He had, almost without thinking, +thrown over his friend, perceived the wisdom of his sister's great +alliance, and quite overlooked the faint soil in Wenderby of a finesse +which a year ago would rudely have jarred him. + +Haversham smiled a little bitterly into the fire as he thought of these +things--and the smile deepened as he realised that, though on +reflection he could see the pity of it, and even hope that youth might +even now defeat them all, nevertheless he could himself only repeat his +first advice and conduct. He would on all occasions repeat that Wenderby +was a man of perfect honour, even though he understood the impulsive +dislike and distrust of Peter. He would continue to insist that the mere +claims of youth were not enough to defeat the splendid political vision +this marriage had offered to their eyes. + +Meantime to ease the pricking of his conscience in regard to Peter he +assured himself that Peter was far too young to be really in love with +anybody--with Mary least of all. + + + + +XXXIII + + +From that hour Lady Mary began to face the future as a creditor. Her +coming days with Peter were numbered and enjoyed as the reward of her +sacrifice. + +Yet another month slipped away. The year was now at the full of the +first green, and London roared at the height of the season. Peter began +to be much oppressed with the social rush. Much of it he now saw as mere +noise and hurry. He read steadily in the morning, for he still intended +seriously to be called to the Bar. In the afternoon he rode or went for +long solitary journeys on the river. An evening seldom passed without +meeting Lady Mary. They frankly exchanged plans, and schemed for +snatches of conversation in crowded places. + +At this time they were opportunely invited to leave the hurry of London +for a few days in Norfolk. A friend of Haversham had got together at +Wroxham a fleet of wherries. Peter and Lady Mary joined the same boat +for their last unclouded days together. Only Lady Mary knew how precious +and irrevocable they were. For Peter they were slow days of agreeable +idleness, as they glided from reach to reach of the quietest country in +the world. Always there was the same circle of sky, with an idle mill +and rows of grey-green sedges; the quiet lapping of water and plod of +the quanting. Tiny villages dropped past them, with square towers and +clusters of small buildings. Upon the third evening of the cruise, Lady +Mary picked up some London letters at Potter Heigham. One was from Lord +Wenderby. She opened it and read: + + + "LADY MARY,--I hope you will not regard this as a breach of our + contract. Things are moving quickly in the Cabinet. I must decide + at once to stay or go. I can wait for you six days. If you cannot + now help me to break with my ties and interests of the moment I + must put away our vision of the future. + + "I saw you in the Park the other day. I cannot hope you will ever + be my wife. Believe that I wish you all the happiness of your + heart. + + "WENDERBY." + + +Lady Mary answered at once. She told Wenderby to come for his answer on +her return to London. Meantime, if he needed to know her mind, let him +believe all that he wished. + +Now she had only two days. She decided to tell Peter in London when they +returned. Here she would part from him without a destroying word. + +The last evening of the cruise was warm with a breeze from the land to +the sea, enough for sailing. Peter and Lady Mary sat, after an early +dinner, together on deck. Laughter came from the drawing-room below--a +London drawing-room planted in a wilderness of marsh and water. Sunset +was burning itself out. Light was flung upon miles of water, making of +the country about them a glimmering palette. The mill on the horizon was +derelict, standing black and crude, an eyeless giant, blind to the +colour of earth and sky. + +Merriment swelled below them. A clever musician parodied the latest +phase of a modern French composer. + +"This," said Peter with a sardonic gesture at the people below, "is a +return to Nature." + +"You are more scathing than you know," answered Lady Mary with a smile. +"You are listening to a burlesque of the latest thing in music, written +in the scale of the Opopo islanders. The Opopo islanders can only count +up to five. We are determined to be primitive." + +"I should like to sail away into all that," said Peter, waving his arm +vaguely at the sunset. + +Lady Mary caught at the idea. + +"Can you sail?" she asked. + +"Pretty fair," said Peter. + +"Then why not?" + +Lady Mary pointed to the dinghy beneath them. The mast was shipped, and +the sail folded. + +"Will you come?" asked Peter. + +"It is our last evening." + +Peter did not hear the sorrow of her phrase. + +"Our last evening of the simple life," he laughed. He climbed down, and +held the ladder firm. + +"How are you for wraps?" he called. "It is going to be colder later. +This breeze will freshen." + +Lady Mary smiled at his expert way. + +"Where," she inquired, "did you learn all this?" + +"I learned it with Antony. We did this sort of thing at Oxford." + +The reference to her brother brought Lady Mary again in view of her +sacrifice. She shivered and was silent as Peter rowed softly out into +the stream, and spread the tiny sail. The breeze caught it, and the +little boat leaned over, hesitated, and swung quickly across the river. +The air freshened upon their faces. They dropped almost in a moment away +from the lighted flat, and soon were alone, speeding at ease over the +beautiful water. + +"Why didn't we think of this before?" said Peter happily. He pushed over +the tiller. The little boat turned, and the water chuckled under her +bows. + +"Let me take you into the open. The breeze is beginning to be stiff for +this tiny boat; but we can always lower sail if it gets too rough." + +"Anything to-night," said Lady Mary. + +"I love to hear you say that," Peter sang. + +They passed into a wide lake, and were soon far from the shore, which +showed now as a dark line picked out here and there with light. + +"Anything to-night," Peter echoed the phrase. "It sounds," he went on, +"as if the present mattered more than anything in the world." + +The breeze was stronger as they neared the middle of the water. The boat +heeled dangerously. + +"We've too much canvas for a tub," said Peter. He lowered the sail, and +found he could take in a tiny reef. The hurry of the little boat was +stilled. It swung idly on the water, and the wind seemed to have left +them. Peter was busy with the sail, and Lady Mary sat still as a statue +opposite him, her hand on the side of the boat. His happy face was +intolerable. How would he take the news which waited for him at home? He +was ready now to swing the reefed sail to the mast, but she impulsively +stopped him. + +"Don't do that," she said abruptly. + +"The boat will stand it," Peter protested. + +"It's not that," said Lady Mary. "Let us stay a while in this open +place." + +Her tone arrested him. It was urgent and entreating. He dropped the sail +into the boat, and they sat silent for a time. Lady Mary was blaming her +weakness. Why did she not at once signal for that brief run over the +little span of water between them and the fleet? It would take her to +the duty she had accepted. Her holiday was finished. + +Peter misread the entreaty in her voice. + +"You do not want to go back?" he said. + +"Not at once." + +"You, too, find all that less inspiring than it seems?" He waved his +hand towards the people they had left. + +"This is better, for a time," she answered evasively. + +"You still believe in all that?" He looked towards the lighted masts, +his face troubled and perplexed. + +"Of course I believe," she assured him. + +Peter eagerly bent forward. "You remember," he said softly, "a night +upon the terrace at Highbury?" + +Lady Mary looked at him, terror waiting to spring at her heart. + +"I hardly know," Peter continued, "whether I still believe all that I +believed at Highbury. It is all too insolent, and some of it is foolish +and cruel. I have seen ugly and brutal things. I am beginning to see +that there are no classes. Rank is nothing at all. There are only +people." + +Why did he talk like that to-night? It was intolerable. + +"You are wrong," she cried out. "Wealth is nothing, and there are bad +shoots in an old tree. But there are men and women who must think and +rule. It is their right." + +"That may be only your beautiful dream." + +"Peter," she called distressfully, "you don't know what you are saying." + +He looked at her in wonder at the veiled agony of her voice. The pure +white line of her face showed like stone in the shutting light. There +was a short silence. Then Lady Mary spoke again: + +"I want you to suppose something," she said urgently. "It is possible +that I may be asked to make a sacrifice for this belief of mine. It will +be painful for me and for my dearest friend." + +"Nothing in the world is worth a moment of your pain." + +Peter's sincerity redeemed from ridicule the tragic untimeliness of his +dithyrambic assurance. Lady Mary was brought nearer to tears than to +laughter. + +"Not even my faith?" she protested. + +"It would be an evil faith, or it would not make you suffer." + +"Why do you put me so high?" Again there was a note of stress. + +"I shall always do that." + +He put his hand firmly upon hers that rested on the side of the boat. +She held her breath, fighting the desperate flutter of her soul. When +she dared to look at him, she still met the shining worship of a boy. +His hand rested upon hers, temperate and cool. She was glad she had not +trembled or drawn away. Peter felt only an exquisite sense of privilege. +He sat with bright eyes, happy in her beautiful austerity. She triumphed +over her thrilled senses, and in her triumph faced him carven and tense. + +The light faded rapidly. Colour went out of the sky and the water. Lady +Mary took a long farewell of Peter's adoration. She knew that the light +in his eyes was soon to be put out. + +At last, with a deep sigh, her hand still quietly held, she said: + +"Now, Peter, we must go. We have no light in the boat." + +He reluctantly made ready the sail. The breeze caught it rudely. Their +dream was broken up with the noise of water and wind. They came within +sight and sound of the river. Peter lowered the sail to row in to the +side of their wherry. There was only a moment now. + +Lady Mary caught at Peter's wrist upon the oars. + +"You will believe in me always, Peter?" + +"Always." + +"My life may take me away from you," she desperately urged. "We read +things differently." + +A burst of laughter came from the deck of the wherry. Lady Mary withdrew +her hand from Peter's wrist. + +"Nothing in the world can shake my belief in you," said Peter, still +pausing on the oars. + +"That is easily said." + +Lady Mary cried out in pain at the light heart of the boy she loved. + +"I mean it in every fibre," Peter insisted. "I am utterly yours." + +"Row in to the boat," said Lady Mary. "This is the end." + + + + +XXXIV + + +Peter and Lady Mary travelled up to London next morning in the same +train. They separated at Arlington Street, and she asked him to come and +see her on the evening of the following day. Peter lightly promised, and +happily left her. + +Late in the day he sat with his mother in Curzon Street with open +windows, idle and reminiscent. His talk in the boat with Lady Mary had +emphasized his impressions of the life he was leading. It was not all +wise and beautiful. His absurd enthusiasm had again been mocked. He +measured what he had saved from the wreck of his expectations. The +people with whom he now was living were more frank and free than any he +had known. They were on the whole without fear. They feared neither men, +nor words, nor the satisfaction of their heart's desire. But he had not +found, and would not find, Eustace Haversham repeated. + +He considered Lady Mary. Was not the world justified in that it put her +high above fear and calculation, bidding her be queenly and untroubled? +Peter tried to see her snatched from her world of policy and grace. +Might she not show fairer yet, seen apart from the things for which she +stood? Last night she had seemed like a creature with wings caught and +held. How would they fare, those beating wings, if the common round too +obstinately claimed her? Jealousy caught at Peter--the jealousy he had +felt years ago when he saw a woman of the street pass to her +desecration. + +"How much do I love her?" he asked, prompted by the pain at his heart. + +He loved her as far as the clasping of hands and his privileged +admission to regard closely her perfection. His passion was a strong +resolve that she should purely stand to be adored, not familiar, too +delicate to catch at rudely for a possession. + +His thoughts were shattered by a screaming in the street. Something +extraordinary had happened. Peter moved to the window, and saw a newsboy +rushing down from Piccadilly. Servants hurried from the doors, and +bought the papers as he came. Peter at last heard the news, and saw the +big black letters of the boy's fluttering bill. Wenderby had resigned. +Peter turned impatiently away. These politics did not touch him. + +But London was clearly interested. Next morning the papers were heavy +with this great event. It stared at Peter from every corner of the +street. Peter did not trouble to read the excited press. Since Wenderby +had ceased to cloud the presence of his angel Peter had not regarded +him. Frequently he paused that morning in his quiet reading of the law, +but he paused to think only of an evening with Lady Mary. + +Lady Mary was with Wenderby at that moment in her drawing-room at +Arlington Street. + +"I am pledged to you, Lord Wenderby," she was saying; and he answered: + +"You talk like a creditor." + +"Are you not a creditor?" she insisted. "You have put me beyond remedy +into your debt." + +"My resignation had to come last night, or not at all," he explained. "I +was not trying to force you." + +She measured him with a look, deliberate and frank. + +"If I thought you were trying to force me," she said, "I should not be +listening to you now. Your debt will be paid in full. But you must give +me time. There are things you must allow me to forget." + +Wenderby rose to go. He held her hand at parting, and hesitated a +moment. The settled sadness of her manner showed him that she was +looking back; showed him also that she had faced the future, and would +not weakly remember things she must put away. + +"Mary," he said, "if you cannot reasonably go through with this, +remember that I resigned last night for the chance of you. It was only a +chance." + +"It was a safe chance," she answered quickly; "a chance that depended on +my honour." + +Wenderby gratefully accepted her decision. He became practical. + +"How would you have it arranged?" he asked. "I mean the formal part of +it." + +"We must meet, and be publicly seen. The engagement--shall we say three +months from now?" + +Her sobriety misgave him. He began to realise the extent of her +sacrifice. Had he pressed her unfairly? + +"You are sure you can go on with this?" he urgently asked, again opening +a way of retreat. + +"Quite sure," she firmly answered. "I cannot yet be glad of this event; +but I shouldn't undertake to be your wife if I did not think I was able +to keep faith. I shall join you gladly, and without reserve." + +Wenderby bent his head. + +"I don't think you will regret this," he said with deep emotion. +"Everything I have is now devoted to you and the things which are dear +to you. But I won't urge personal feeling on you now." + +He pressed her hand in a quick and friendly farewell. In another moment +she was alone, able to think of her coming interview with Peter. She had +begun to dread this so keenly that in a fit of shrinking she had almost +written to him. She feared to see his pain, and trembled for its effect +upon herself. + +Peter's invitation was for dinner at Arlington Street. Shortly before he +came Lady Mary talked with her brother. He had just arrived in town, +brought by Wenderby's resignation. He at once looked for his sister. + +They greeted in the drawing-room shortly before dinner. + +"This is great news," he began. "I came up from Yorkshire with the Chief +Whip. He thinks we shall turn them out." He paused, and looked closely +at his sister. + +"I am very proud of you, Mary," he went on. "You have accepted the work +of your life." + +Lady Mary had lately seen little of Haversham. His work began utterly to +absorb him. She put her hand on his arm. + +"Tony," she said, "I sometimes wonder if I'm not losing a brother." + +"Mary, dear," he protested, "you are more than ever precious to me now." + +Lady Mary sadly shook her head. + +"Your first word to me was of the Chief Whip," she reminded him. + +Haversham was touched. He put his hand gently on his sister's arm. + +"We do not belong to ourselves," he pleaded. "This act of yours is a +public thing." + +"I have a personal thing still left to do," she said. "Peter is coming +to-night. You must leave him with me." + +"That will be easy," he assured her. "They're all political people this +evening. We shall go on afterwards to the House." + +The talk at dinner was all of Wenderby's resignation. The division that +night would show the strength of his following. Peter was exasperated by +the persistence with which this event pursued him. + +"Is this resignation really important?" he asked in an early pause of +the conversation. Lady Mary had left her seat at the foot of the table. + +"Important!" his neighbour exclaimed at him. "Why, it's the most +important event in politics for fifty years. It changes everything." + +"This, Peter, is not one of those important things which happen every +day," said Haversham quietly. "I would have given almost anything to +bring this about." + +"At any rate, Haversham," said one of the politicians, "you have helped +it a little." + +"I'm afraid not." + +"Just a little, I think," the politician insisted. "Your friendship with +Wenderby must have counted. These personal things do weigh. Wenderby was +not very comfortable with his late friends." + +"Lord Wenderby's change of party, I suppose, is final?" Peter politely +suggested. + +"Quite," said Haversham curtly. + +"He'll certainly stay with us," chuckled Peter's neighbour. "We shall +make it worth while." + +"There's less competition on our side," said another. "We haven't any +brains under sixty-five." + +"Moreover," said Haversham incisively, "Wenderby is a man of honour." + +"Has that anything to do with it?" Peter must somehow persist in his +hostility. He could only think of Wenderby as an adventurer. Haversham +lifted a finger at him: + +"Peter," he said, "we shall quarrel if you cannot help being rude to one +of my best friends. You must believe in Wenderby. You don't know how +essential it is." + +They broke up, and prepared to leave for the House. Haversham told Peter +he would find Lady Mary in her drawing-room. Peter went happily to +discover her. He had seen her room only once before. He remembered with +pleasure how exquisitely it framed her. + + + + +XXXV + + +The servants were removing the coffee as he came in, and Lady Mary was +softly at the piano. She continued her music after they were alone, +Peter watching her in a light soft as the blurred harmonies of her +playing. She had never seemed so elusive. At last she abruptly turned. + +"What would you do, Peter, if this were our last evening together?" + +Peter was surprised at her sudden question. He took it seriously, and +thought a little. + +"I should sit quietly here," he said at last, "and learn you by heart." + +"But you would want to talk," she protested. + +"There has been talking enough." + +She had come from the piano, and now sat near him upon a low chair. The +silence deepened as she hunted for an opening. Then suddenly she uttered +her secret thought: + +"I wonder how much you love me, Peter?" + +Peter did not in words answer her quiet speculation. He dropped softly +beside her on the rug, putting his free hand between hers. There calmly +it lay upon her lap as he looked at the fire. The minutes passed till +Lady Mary found them intolerable. Her hands closed tightly upon his. + +"Peter, dear," she whispered. + +Peter turned slowly towards her, startled by the stress of her voice, +startled yet more when he found it in her eyes. + +"You are in trouble?" + +"I have something to tell you," she said. + +"About yourself?" + +Lady Mary bent her head. + +"You remember," she went on, "our evening on the water?" + +"I shall not forget it." + +"I said then that the time might come when I should be drawn away from +you." + +"That is impossible," he protested. "I cannot lose you. I shall always +know that you are wonderful." + +"Will you always think of me like that?" she mournfully wondered. + +"You are sacred," said Peter simply. He bent to kiss her fingers, but +she drew them sharply back. + +"No, Peter," she cried in pain; "I have given your hand away." + +Peter stared at her. + +"Do you mean," he slowly asked, "that I have no share in you at all?" + +"Tell me"--she spoke in a low voice, and her eyes were veiled--"will you +hold me sacred"--she shyly quoted his word--"as the wife of another +man?" + +Peter struggled with this new idea. It raised in him a bitter confusion. +His calm devotion was shaken and stirred. Above it triumphed a sense of +loss, an instinct to grasp at something threatened. + +"You are pledged?" he abruptly asked. + +"Yes, Peter." It came from her like a confession. + +The idea was now being driven into his brain. He looked at Lady Mary as +he had not looked before. She sat back in her chair, turning aside from +him. With opened eyes, he saw now the beauty of a woman snatched away. +He leant towards her, uttering one hungry syllable: + +"Who?" + +It was the first time Peter's voice had challenged her. The adoration +had gone out of it. It was hard. + +"Does it matter?" she protested. + +"It is a secret, then?" he coldly asked. + +"No; I have promised to marry Lord Wenderby." + +"Lord Wenderby," he echoed. + +The name tore savagely at his heart, wounding him into jealousy and +distrust. He was all blind passion now. Wenderby sprang to his eye, as +he had stood darkly beside Lady Mary at the theatre. He saw, redly, in +his galloping mind, his shining angel--now a beautiful woman he had +exquisitely touched--possessed by another. + +"Turn to me, Lady Mary." + +It was a command, and she obeyed. She bravely met his burning look, but +she did not know how unendurable it had become. It searched and +denounced her. Her eyes failed. + +"You do not love Lord Wenderby." + +Now he accused her. She collected her mind for a defence. + +"It is not so simple as that," she pleaded. + +"You do not love him," he repeated. + +She drew herself erect and faced him. + +"You must not speak like that," she said. "You are talking wildly. I +tell you again this is not a simple thing." + +"Love is a simple thing," he rudely countered. + +"You are disappointing me, Peter." + +The pain in her eyes for a moment arrested his passion. He stood away +from her, and grasped at his vanishing peace. Lady Mary perceived his +effort, and appealed once more to the boy who had so suddenly leaped out +of her knowledge. + +"You will listen to me, Peter!" she urged. + +He stood silently waiting to hear what she had to say. She spoke +quickly, running from the breaking storm in his eyes: + +"I am quite content to be the wife of Lord Wenderby. I have always liked +him and admired him. Six months ago he asked me if I would help him to +join us politically. I have used my influence to bring him over. This +pledges me to work with him." + +"Does it pledge you to be his wife?" + +"That is understood." + +"So Lord Wenderby has been bribed," Peter flashed. + +He looked at her cold and hostile. His thwarted pride of possession in +Lady Mary stirred a cruelty he had never known. + +Between love and anger she cried to him: + +"This is not worthy of you, Peter." + +But Peter's mind was busy now elsewhere. He was putting time and fact +together. + +"Lord Wenderby arranged for this six months ago," he suggested. + +"He asked me to be his wife six months ago." + +Now he stabbed at her again: + +"You have let me love the promised wife of Lord Wenderby for six +months." + +"No," she sharply corrected him; "I answered him yesterday." + +"But you had this in your mind?" Peter insisted. + +Lady Mary was too deeply grieved for dignity or anger. + +"I am on my defence, it seems," she said, suddenly weary of their +fruitless talk. + +"You have made me your judge," he bitterly retorted. "Why else do you +tell me these things?" + +"I wanted you to understand." + +"I shall never understand." + +Lady Mary looked at Peter, and saw the face of an enemy. + +"We will put an end to this," she said. "It is useless." + +She moved to dismiss him. Peter saw her passing to another. + +He took her by the arm, harshly. + +"You cannot so easily be rid of me." + +"I do not know you, Peter," she protested, drawing away from him. + +He released her as to the troubled surface of his mind there came an +impulse of his old devotion. + +"How can you do this thing?" he asked in a burst of grief. "You were the +angel of my life." + +Her pride sank at this. + +"Peter, be just to me," she said. "This is a sacrifice." + +He caught at the word, and returned to his old refrain. + +"Sacrifice! You do not love Lord Wenderby." + +"I shall be his wife. I am content to work with him." + +"Lord Wenderby is old," said Peter brutally. "He has bribed you to give +him all your beautiful years." + +She shrank from the climbing rhetoric of his passion. + +"It is infamous," he almost shouted. + +Lady Mary flung back the challenge. + +"It is my appointed work. I shall work with Lord Wenderby for all I hold +dear. I am going to live as Eustace Haversham died. Cannot you realise +that this is required of me? I cannot choose only for myself. You must +understand me, Peter. I can only endure this if you will believe that I +am doing what is right." + +Peter was obstinate. + +"I do not believe it," he said. "It is a terrible mistake." + +"Once you believed," she reminded him. + +"I believed in you." + +She faced him, queenly now, as when Peter had worshipped her. His soul +fell suddenly at her feet. + +"I still believe in you," he cried out. "I believe that you are too dear +to be flung away." + +"I cannot value myself as you do." + +"You are giving yourself up," he said contemptuously, "so that your +people for a few more years may live as we are living now." + +"So that we may for a few more years be allowed to work as we must," she +corrected him. + +Peter was silent. He had seen her justification, but his passion +prompted him to put it away. Lady Mary now touched him to the quick. + +"You begin to see that I am right," she said, searching for his +acquiescence. + +"I see nothing," he insisted. "I only see that I am losing you." + +"You make this very difficult," she said, trembling before the passion +of his voice. + +"Difficult!" He caught her by the arm. "Why should you care what I say +or believe?" + +She looked at his fingers imprinted in her flesh. She was weary and +faint. She knew that love without reserve was confessed in her eyes. + +"You know that I care, Peter. Please let me go." + +Peter leaned towards her. He wanted to see her face. She felt that in a +moment she must yield the message shut under her lids. She desperately +shook free of him and stood away. But Peter read the deep flush of her +neck and the motion she made to suppress the labour of her breath. She +superbly filled his eyes against a background that had grown dim. He +caught at her. + +"My darling," he suddenly cried out, "I cannot let you go." + +She felt the blood rushing to cover her. + +"On your honour, Peter." + +For a moment he was checked. "Tell me again to leave you," he said. + +She faced him, and her eyes were fast held. He read the whole of her +secret. In a flash his arms were about her. + +"You cannot tell me to go." + +She rested helplessly. Peter held her with a fierce pride. He would not +surrender her. She closed her eyes upon a whispered entreaty as he +touched her lips. He felt the stir of her heart, and the jealousy of +possession utterly claimed him. Something wild and cruel lit in him. He +kissed her upon the face and neck. She felt them as the kisses of mere +hunger, and she suddenly rebelled. + +"Peter, you dishonour me." Her voice smote into him a revelation. +Already the passion had gone out of him. It had died in the act of +touching her. He knew what he had done; he was utterly ashamed. His arms +fell away from her. He stood with bent head waiting for her decree. + +"I will write to you, Peter." + +He accepted his dismissal, turning without a word. Lady Mary heard that +the door had closed. She stood silently for a moment. Then, all that +evening, she lay back in her chair stone still. Her eyes were tight +shut; but at long intervals a tear was forced from under her lids, and +fell insensibly. + + + + +XXXVI + + +Peter blundered away into the streets, an outcast. He walked furiously +about, getting in the way of people who looked for pleasure. + +He lived again the late encounter. Remotely he saw himself quietly at +the feet of Lady Mary, before he had lost his happy peace. Then the +storm was loose, and he saw her merely as one to be desired and held. +Finally, his imagination inexorably came full circle in the cold shame +with which he had left her. He repeated continually the moment when his +kisses had gone out, and he knew them for the vulgar gust of his +jealousy. Their passion had not been true. Lady Mary had cried in bitter +verity. They dishonoured her. + +Was all the story equally a falsehood? Peter dipped for assurance back +into the quiet past. He floated again with Lady Mary under a dying sky, +and saw her unattainably fair, with a hand that quietly rested under +his. Surely this had been wonderful. Not even the stain of his brutal +hunger for her dedicated beauty could destroy it. + +Why, then, did he so certainly know that his passion to-night was evil? +His conscience, bringing him to a reckoning, told him that he did not +love her. There was a rift, not to be closed, between his adoration of +Lady Mary and the passion with which he had thought to claim her. He +put Wenderby aside, and asked himself whether he could ever have taken +her by right of a vital need. His imagination would not allow him to do +so. He could only see himself for ever kneeling, or delicately touching +her as an exquisite privilege. He could not again repeat the physical +claim. Mere coveting had prompted it. The soul had perished on his lips. + +How instantly she had read the quality of his act. Every beat of the +quick moment of his taking her was minutely divided in his memory. He +felt again her surrender, her expectation of the kiss she could not +deny--the farewell moment of her youth to be expiated in years of +sacrifice. Then suddenly she had rebelled, feeling the soul go out of +him, protesting against her dishonour. + +Peter quailed to think how he had tortured her. He knew now that Lady +Mary loved him. She had been outraged where most she was virginal. + +For a moment Peter caught at a hope that yet the mysterious rift might +close between the soul and body of his love. Must he always be thus +divided? Was he never to know a perfect passion where the blood ran in +obedient rapture to celebrate the meeting of two in one? He remembered +the beautiful girl he had tracked on a summer night, to shrink from +taking her because his spirit was her enemy. Now that he in spirit loved +Lady Mary--he insistently fought through to-day's murk back to his +adoration--he was still divided. His moment of hope died out. He had no +right to Lady Mary. He could not passionately claim her. His passion +would fail again, as to-night it had failed, leaving only the senses to +be fed. + +He did not love her. Brutally it came to that. Lady Mary must take the +way she had herself appointed. She could not be asked to put away the +work of her life in return for a worship that fed upon the air, or for a +hunger that seized on a vanishing feast. Himself he felt entirely in her +hands. He hoped to be forgiven, and accepted as the witness of her +dedicated life. But he did not expect it, or make a claim. + +He reached Curzon Street at ten o'clock, and found his mother returned +from dining out. Mrs. Paragon now had her own friends. She quietly came +and went, usually not asking how Peter fared. All his time was taken up +with Lady Mary, and with Lady Mary she left the issue in perfect trust. +But to-night she was startled from her assurance. Peter, unaware that he +betrayed himself, had the face of a soul newly admitted to damnation. + +"What has happened to you, Peter?" she asked. + +"Nothing, mother." + +She came to him where he had flung himself into a chair beside the fire. + +"Has Lady Mary sent you away?" + +Peter stared at her in amazement. He had never talked of Lady Mary. But +he always accepted his mother's mysterious knowledge. + +"She is soon to be married, mother." + +"Lord Wenderby?" + +This was more than Peter could accept. + +"You know that also?" he exclaimed. + +"I saw Lord Wenderby one day in these rooms," said his mother quietly. +"I knew he was in love with Lady Mary." + +Peter looked keenly at his mother. + +"You are sure he loves her?" he asked. + +"Quite." + +"I should be happy to believe that. It gives him a better claim." + +"Better than your own?" said his mother. She was at last surprised. + +"I have no claim at all. I do not love Lady Mary." + +He was quaintly wretched. His mother almost smiled. She saw a light in +the cloud, but it puzzled her. Would he then have preferred to love Lady +Mary and to lose her? + +"Tell me what has happened," she said. "I don't understand. You do not +love Lady Mary--is that your trouble?" + +"She told me of Lord Wenderby," Peter obediently answered, "and I was +mad at the idea of losing her. I grasped at her. I was like a wild +beast." + +"But you do not love her," Mrs. Paragon persisted. + +"It was not love made me behave like that. It was brutal. I had no true +passion at all. I disgusted her." + +Mrs. Paragon suddenly rose. + +"What has Lady Mary said? How did she part from you?" + +Peter looked at her in wonder. What was his mother going to do now? + +"She said she would write," he answered. "Her eyes were closed." + +Mrs. Paragon saw that this was not Peter's tragedy. She could leave him +to his remorse. + +"Give me my cloak, Peter." + +"Where are you going?" + +Mrs. Paragon ignored his question. + +"What is Lady Mary doing now?" she asked. + +"She promised to wait for Antony. The division to-night is at eleven +o'clock." + +Mrs. Paragon looked at the clock. + +"It is now half-past ten. Call me a cab, Peter." + +"You are going to her?" + +"Of course." + +On the way to Arlington Street Mrs. Paragon saw the radiant figure of +the woman, to whom she had trusted Peter, in dreadful eclipse. She +passed without a word Lady Mary's protesting servant, and went directly +to her room. Lady Mary still lay with closed eyes where she had been +struck down. Mrs. Paragon moved quietly towards her, and gathered her +like a child. She opened her eyes, accepting Peter's mother with a clasp +of the hand. + +"You have seen Peter?" she quietly asked. + +"He has just come home. He says he has for ever offended you." + +Lady Mary smiled. + +"I will send him a word to-night," she said. "I have just been trying to +understand. I think I shall soon be happy. I know now that Peter does +not love me. That makes it so much easier." + +"He worships you," Mrs. Paragon insisted. + +"Can that be restored?" + +"More than ever now. I am sure he would want me to tell you that." + +Lady Mary raised herself from Mrs. Paragon's shoulder and looked at her. + +"I cannot yet measure this breach in Peter. He has loved me from the +moment we came together at Highbury. But to-night I was humbled. There +was no love at all. I cannot now believe that Peter will ever truly +love. There is a rift." + +"You are wrong," said Peter's mother. + +Mrs. Paragon told Lady Mary how lately she had watched beside him as he +wandered in an empty house. Lady Mary heard the story of Miranda. + +"I think he is wandering still," concluded Peter's mother. + +"You should have found this girl," said Lady Mary. + +Mrs. Paragon paused a moment. + +"I have tried," she said at last. + +"Can't she be traced?" + +"You remember the great liner that went down four years ago? She was +not on the list of people saved." + +"When did you discover this?" + +"I inquired shortly after Peter's illness." + +Lady Mary thought a little. + +"Perhaps it is better so," she said after a pause. + +"Why do you say that?" + +"Peter has surely grown away from these people. He would not have found +his dream." + +A shutting door warned Lady Mary that her brother had returned. She rose +from the settee, and went to the writing table. When she had finished +her few lines, she gave them to Mrs. Paragon, who, asking Lady Mary with +a look, was invited to read them: + + + "PETER,--I beg you not to distress yourself. I am determined to + forget what happened this evening, and I rely on you not to brood + on things which are finished. You know now that I am more than ever + right to become the wife of Lord Wenderby. I want you to meet me + without awkwardness or self-reproach. There is no need for one or + the other. Nothing has changed. + + "I am sending this by your dear mother. + + "MARY." + + +Mrs. Paragon handed back the sheet. + +"You are kind," she said. + +"I have nothing to resent." + +She sealed the letter, and addressed it. "When Peter has got over his +remorse, you will bring him back," she suggested. + +"His remorse is too keen to last," Mrs. Paragon said quite simply. She +did not intend to be critical. + +Lady Mary kissed Mrs. Paragon tenderly. + +"It was beautiful of you to come," she whispered. + +Peter was waiting for his mother, and met her anxiously at the door. +Lady Mary's letter acted as she intended. It was a dash of water upon +the fires of his despair. Reading her collected sentences, he could +hardly believe he had seen love and pain unutterable in her eyes. She +was, in her letter, restored to serenity as one to be remotely +worshipped. An added majesty had crowned her. She was dedicated to a +great historic part. Already as Mrs. Paragon returned, the news was +spread from waiting presses that the Government had fallen. They +screamed it in the street below. Now that his personal passion was out +of the way, Peter began to see these issues in a large and national +perspective. He remembered Haversham's vibrant wish that he might have +had some share in this event--the event of which Lady Mary was motive +and queen. + +Peter's recovery was rapid. Alternately the week through he wavered +between the remorse of one who had erred unspeakably and the exultation +of one still privileged to witness the flight of an angel. Then, one +bright morning, he discovered that these extremes had vanished in a +quiet sense, that a chapter of his life had closed. Rapture was going +out of his late adventure, making way for a steady sense that Lady Mary +was very admirable and an excellent friend. + +After a few days spent mostly with his mother, he was enough in tune +with Lady Mary's letter to visit her in Arlington Street. Wenderby was +waiting for her, and, before she came down to them, they were a few +moments together. Peter was surprised at the cordiality of his feelings +for the man he had so long distrusted. Wenderby had an instinct for +meeting people in their own way. He at once saw the change in Peter. + +"I think you know of my engagement?" he said abruptly. + +"Has Lady Mary told you everything?" Peter asked. + +"Not everything," Wenderby answered with a faint smile. "I have inferred +the greater part." + +"You will be very proud of her," said Peter impulsively. + +"You believe that I understand my good fortune?" + +Lady Mary came in as they spoke. Peter was astonished at the ease with +which they talked together of small things. He tranquilly withdrew at +the end of a few moments. Lady Mary was frank and free. She seemed +entirely at peace. There had not been a sign of effort in her friendly +greeting. + + + + +XXXVII + + +In the following months Peter realised to what extent his late devotion +to Lady Mary had filled him. Now that she was only one of his best +friends, he was at first vacant of enthusiasm. Then he began to discover +all kinds of neglected ties with people whom before he had hardly +noticed. Ostensibly Lady Mary was still supreme, but, curiously as it +seemed to Peter, though her sacrifice and the wonder of her great career +set her higher in his admiration, it had made this admiration less +tremulously personal. The ecstasy had gone out of it. It no longer shut +out the undistinguished world. He discovered now that he had other +friends; that he was liked by some of them; that their liking was +gratifying and merited some small return. + +Since Haversham had been claimed by his public and hereditary life, +Peter had become attached to a frequent visitor at Arlington Street. + +James Atterbury was a young and successful caricaturist who had also +written and produced several plays. His activities were financially +unnecessary, so that in a sense he was an amateur. He was socially +popular, and Peter met him everywhere. Gradually he had taken +Haversham's place. Like Haversham, he was tolerant and urbane. He had +long abandoned those visions which now were driving Peter restlessly +from day to day. He was a cheerful man of pleasure, living for all that +was agreeable and could be decently enjoyed. He had watched, with +respectful irony, Peter's absorbed devotion to Lady Mary, and had keenly +speculated as to how it would end. When the end came, Haversham plainly +hinted that Atterbury would do well to help Peter recover an early +interest in people and things. + +"Certainly," Atterbury had said. "I'm rehearsing a new play at the +Vaudeville. Peter shall attend." + +"Is that adequate, do you think?" + +"Yes, Tony. Rehearsing a play is the most distracting thing in the +world." + +So Peter, plunged into a new atmosphere, sat for hours upon the small +stage at the Vaudeville watching, with growing interest and amusement, +the pulling together of a mixed company. + +"It's like a children's party," Atterbury told him. "At present we are a +little shy, but soon it will be a bear-garden. They will forget that I +am the author, to be loved and respected. By the time we are ready for +the public, I shan't be on speaking terms with anybody." + +"Except Vivette," suggested Peter, looking towards Atterbury's principal +lady. + +"You've noticed Vivette?" + +"I've noticed you always give way to her." + +"Not always." + +"Usually, then." + +"Usually she is right. She is really improving my play." + +Peter looked with greater interest at the vivacious young woman now +holding the stage. She was full of vitality, which somehow she shared +with all who acted with her. As soon as she left the stage, life went +out of the performance. + +"What is her name?" Peter asked. + +"Formally you may call her Mademoiselle Claire." + +"French?" + +"Every country in the world." + +At this point the rehearsal again became animated. Atterbury was soon +fighting to be heard. The dispute was at last arranged, and he returned +to Peter. + +"Vivette has been looking at you, Peter," he said as the play began to +go smoothly again. + +"How do you know?" + +"Because she has told me." + +"What did she say?" + +"She asked for the name of my solemn friend." + +"Anybody looks solemn beside you," Peter grumbled. + +He resentfully examined his companion. Atterbury was roseate and +sanguine; but he looked at Peter as gravely as he could. + +"I hope you are not hankering after the admiration of Vivette," he said. +"She isn't safe." + +"What do you mean?" asked Peter. + +"She looks upon everything nice in life as a sort of sugar-plum. If she +likes you, Peter, she will eat you." + +"You mean she is a wicked woman?" + +"Not at all," twinkled Atterbury. "I mean she is a small child who +happens to be greedy. She would think no more harm of making a hearty +meal of your ingenuous self than I should of swallowing an oyster." + +Vivette slipped from the imaginary door of a room that did not +exist--they were rehearsing without scenery--and came to them before +they were aware. + +"You have shocked your friend," she said to Atterbury, looking at Peter. +Peter angrily composed his protesting face, as Atterbury presented him. + +"Peter Paragon is easily shocked," Atterbury said. "I hope you did not +hear what we were talking about?" + +"No." + +"It was harmless," Atterbury assured her. + +"Do tell me," she pleaded. "I don't often hear anything harmless." + +"Impossible." + +"Wasn't it to do with oysters? Let's go to lunch. We shan't make any way +this morning." + +They lunched together. It was an agreeable triangle; but Atterbury, with +amusement, saw he would soon be unnecessary. Peter, in reaction from the +emotional strain of his last adventure, found in Vivette a pleasant +holiday. Peter consented with Vivette to relieve the dignity and stress +of life upon the heroic plane. He came to delight in the quick gleam of +her eyes. + +The eyes of Vivette were brown, easily lighting, but shallow. They +flickered into fun, and went suddenly out. They could never be +passionate or deep, but they talked with him, and drew him to admire the +play of her lips, slightly full, the life and light of her face; the +sudden tale of her blood which came and went at a word or gesture. + +She did everything with an equal enthusiasm. She had the mimic soul to +catch at every mood. She was born a player. Life was a quick succession +of happy parts. She stepped from her rôle on the stage into the rôle she +happened to be playing in the world. + +Soon she was playing the happy comrade of Peter. He soon attended +rehearsals regularly without prompting from Atterbury, and Atterbury +usually made excuses to send them away to a friendly lunch. Atterbury +was unable to resist the comedy of seeing them together. They inspired +the most famously cruel of his social caricatures. Peter looked +forlornly innocent beside her. Cytherea's Pilgrim, Atterbury named him. +His simplicity and perpetual fervour aggravated the lightness of +Vivette. In Atterbury's penetrating eye, each made a caricature of the +other. It was a sense of this which threw them more and more closely +together. Each was determined to touch the other and to make a +proselyte. Peter wanted to be taken seriously by Vivette. Vivette wanted +to see Peter come down from his golden throne. + +Peter watched the first performance of the play from a box with his +mother. Later he attended, without his mother, a supper party in the +rooms of Vivette--a rambling flat among the chimneypots of Soho. She was +bright with laughter and success, and Peter frowned to observe how +easily she caught the mood of her company. He felt he would like to say +or do something to bring depth into her eyes. + +Peter and Atterbury were the last to leave, and they sat for a while to +enjoy a friendly conversation. Vivette curled herself up. + +"This is heavenly," she purred. "I simply love peace and quietness." + +"I've noticed it," said Peter bitterly, surveying a litter of empty +champagne bottles on the table behind them. + +"Don't, Peter. You are spoiling the beautiful silence. Besides, your +views are all wrong. The only people who really understand peace and +quietness are people who also like a jolly good racket. We get it both +ways." + +"You always do," said Atterbury. "Life is the art of getting it both +ways--eh, Vivette?" + +"Not worth living," grunted Peter. + +"That's your ignorance, Peter," said Vivette. Her eyes suggested a +wicked godmother. "I don't know what's going to become of Peter," she +added confidentially to Atterbury. + +"You are really anxious?" + +"Naturally. Peter's a temptation to all of us. He is so aggressively +pure." + +"You, at any rate, are safe," Atterbury audaciously hoped. + +"For the time being," Vivette reassured him, "if Peter will only smile +now and then. But he mustn't go on wearing his beautiful character like +a medal." + +Peter had bounded to the far end of the sofa. Now he rose, offering to +go. + +"You want to discuss me," he said. + +"It doesn't matter, thank you; but if you really must--" Vivette held +out her hand politely. Peter smacked it suddenly. Then he sat down +again. + +"What a wicked child," said Vivette, turning again to Atterbury. "Did +you ever see such a temper? It's a curious thing about me," she added, +discussing an interesting problem in character, "every man I have +anything to do with sooner or later wants to hit me." + +"Men like to be taken seriously." + +"You never want to be taken seriously, do you, Jimmy?" + +"I am not a typical man," retorted Atterbury. + +"My men are never typical," said Vivette. "I hate typical men. I'm sure +Peter isn't typical." + +"He'll get there some day," Atterbury assured her. + +"Not as far as that," she quickly hoped. + +For the first time Peter detected a note of sincerity in her. He turned +and found her jealously perusing him. He faintly coloured, and this time +he really went. + +After he had left them, Vivette and Atterbury looked intelligently at +one another. + +"I really mean it," she said at last. "I shouldn't like Peter to be a +typical man." + +"It will depend on his luck." + +"You mean he must fall into the right hands?" + +"When he does fall." + +He looked at her keenly, and she coloured under his inspection. + +"He mustn't fall into the hands of a nasty woman," she said. + +"You would rather take him yourself?" Atterbury thoughtfully suggested. + +"Sometimes, Jimmy, you are too familiar." + +"I'm sorry," said Atterbury, beginning to look for his hat. "Let me +thank you again for your beautiful acting. You saved my play to-night." + + + + +XXXVIII + + +In the coming months Peter met many of the friends of Vivette. He at +once became enthusiastic, and insisted to Atterbury that they were much +maligned by superior people. Atterbury agreed. + +"They're the best-hearted people in the world," he said--"quite perfect +if you don't have to do business with them." + +"So genuine," Peter exclaimed. + +"Very genuine," Atterbury echoed. "They always mean what they say. Of +course they never mean the same thing for two days. But that only makes +them more interesting." + +He looked, as he said this, hard at Peter, and Peter flushed, knowing +how justly he himself might be classed with enthusiastic people who +change and range with the time. Why had he suddenly lost interest in the +friends of Haversham and Lady Mary? He simply did not want to go on with +them. He was caught up in this other set, and at heart he knew that his +pleasure in these strangers was a dereliction. Their charm was +superficial, their posturing was frequently half-bred. He realised that +he was declining, through weariness, to a less excellent carriage of +himself. He was unhappy and restless--tired enough to take and enjoy the +second best. + +Atterbury's play lived through the summer and the autumn season. It +outlived many great events--among them a general election which put in +the Tories, and the marriage of Lady Mary with Lord Wenderby, then First +Lord of the Admiralty. + +As Peter stood in St. Margaret's watching the ceremony he could hardly +believe that he had ever had a part in this great affair. It seemed that +lately he had gradually come down to a pleasant valley. It was +incredible that he had ever breathed high air with the radiant woman who +now was the wife of the most powerful man in England. + +Lady Mary's marriage made Peter think. Already Vivette was an obsession, +serious enough to be noticed by his friends, and to interfere with his +work. Peter began to be frightened, and secretly ashamed. His last years +seemed all to be bound up with women. Was he never to be free of his +foolish sensibility? Was he to fall helplessly from figure to figure as +opportunity called him? There was work to do, but his fancy was +perpetually caught and held in one monotonous lure. + +Lady Mary had shown him there were other ends to follow than a personal +and perfect mating. He was beginning to feel haunted. There was a murk +in his brain--into which thoughts sometimes intruded which he found, in +clear moments, to be shabby. They prompted him intimately towards +Vivette. Perhaps it would give him peace if once for all he pricked the +bubble of his expectation. Why should he not test this vision; pierce +rudely in, and pass on? Sex was not all, and if here he fell short of +perfection, it was no great matter. He could leave that dream behind, no +longer urged about it in a weary circle. + +He felt at first that this impulse towards weak submission was treason +to a secret part of himself that seemed to be waiting, seemed also to +know that perfection would come and must find him virginal. But this +feeling was less strong with the passing time. He came more and more to +cherish the idea of Vivette. Her changing eyes became his only mirror +wherein to look for an answer to his question, and when he did not find +the answer he began stormily to wonder whether their cryptic shallows +might not surrender the secret he desired if adventurously he dived deep +enough. + +This mood always found and left him deeply out of heart. It was part of +a general feeling that he was gradually breaking down. Sometimes, in +defence, it flung him to an extreme of carefully induced exaltation. +When temptation whispered that Vivette was a pleasant creature, and +would allow his love, he insisted, to justify his impulse to take her, +that surely she must perfectly be his mate. His unconquerable idealism, +weakened and gradually beaten down, required that he should thus deceive +himself. + +Through the winter--Atterbury's play still lingered--they frequently +spent Sunday evening together in her Soho flat. Vivette alternated +between fits of extreme physical energy--when she took exercise in +every discovered way--and complete inertia. Midwinter found her at the +close of her hibernating--"lying fallow for the spring," she described +it. She passed her Sundays curled up in a deep settee by the fire. Peter +spent long, drowsy afternoons and evenings reading with her, dropping +occasional words, eating light food prepared by a cook who understood +that her mistress must on no account be served with anything which +required her to sit upright. Peter, who earlier in the year had ridden, +rowed, and played tennis with Vivette, did not in the least like her +present habits. + +Upon a Sunday evening in February he discontentedly began to wait on her +at supper. + +"Dormouse," he called from the table, "what are you going to drink?" + +To his surprise Vivette suddenly sat up: + +"Champagne to-night. I'm going to be full of beans. I shall do Swedish +drill in the morning." + +"Not a day too soon," grumbled Peter. "I wonder you can stand it, eating +butter and cream all day and lying on your back. You must have the liver +of a horse." + +"You are right," she retorted. "People pretend to despise me for being +lazy. It's envy, Peter. Everybody would be lazy in the winter if their +health would stand it." + +She pushed away a plate of delicate soufflé. + +"Not to-night, Peter. I'm going to eat some meat." + +"I often wonder about you," said Peter. + +"Really?" + +"Do you do nothing with your whole heart, or everything?" + +"Everything," said Vivette, with her mouth full. + +"I don't believe anything really touches you." + +Peter was trying to be serious. + +"You are forgetting the champagne," she interrupted. + +Peter went to the cupboard, brought out a bottle and exploded it. + +"Thank you, Peter. There's nothing in the world like the pop of a +champagne cork. It makes me think." + +"Think?" said Peter, with his nose in the air. + +"Yes," she insisted. "It makes me think how nothing matters at all, or +how everything matters tremendously. I don't know which." + +"I hate champagne," said Peter viciously. + +"Of course." + +"Why 'of course'?" + +"There's something which doesn't fit in your popping a champagne cork. +It's like laughing in church." + +"Champagne is vulgar. It's only good for a bean-feast." + +"You're going to have some, I suppose?" She looked at him in a way that +spoke between the lines of her question. + +Peter hated the challenge of her light inquiry. He wanted to deepen it. +In many small ways Vivette had held herself out to Peter, but she did +not seem to care what he would do. + +He poured himself some wine and drank to her. + +"This is excellent champagne," he said brightly. Then he drooped. "It +isn't my stuff," he added. + +"I love it. Pop--and it's all over." + +"It goes flat in the glass." + +"Just for a moment it's perfect." + +"The present, I suppose, is all that matters?" said Peter, heavily +censorious. + +"Why not?" she slanted her amusement at Peter, and delicately crushed +the bubbles of her wine. + +"Have you ever taken anything seriously in your life?" asked Peter. + +"I have never inquired." + +Her eyes flickered. Their wavering light exasperated his desire to move +her deeply, to hold for a moment her nimble spirit that ran at a touch +like quicksilver. She felt his rising passion, and her mimic soul +responded under the surface of her laughter. She did not stir when Peter +came near and took her by the shoulders. Her eyes were still the +familiar changing shallows. They raised in Peter an ambition to see them +deepen and burn. + +"I would like to see you really _meaning_ something," he said, +tightening his grip upon her. "You are only a reflection. I want to see +your own light shining." + +"Is this a poem, Peter? Or are you trying to save my soul?" + +Would she never be serious? Peter was angry and miserable. His late +brooding came to a point. He wanted to touch Vivette, and he wanted an +excuse. He could not play her light game of pleasure without insisting +that it was something more. + +Vivette saw the pain in his eyes. More gravely than she had yet spoken +she said to him: + +"I might be very real, if only you believed it." + +He bent eagerly towards her: + +"I am going to kiss you, Vivette." + +Her eyes did not change. They were evasive still. Peter held her small +face between his palms--the face of a happy child, with pleasure visibly +in store. He had agreeably stirred her light senses. He turned abruptly +away. + +"There is no feeling in you," he said. + +"Do you expect me to faint away?" + +"I want you to care." + +"Perhaps I do." + +"You really care?" + +"I care in my own way." + +They sat together by the fire, and Peter held her lightly beside him. +This was no conquest, or rapture of intimacy. He could not believe that +he had really moved her. The more he grew alive to her physical presence +and the implication of her surrender, the more he desired a guarantee +that their love should be permanent and true. He wanted an assurance +that this adventure was not ignoble. He wanted again to be justified. + +He grew every instant more sensible of their intimacy. He tried to +persuade himself that this was the real and perfect thing; that the stir +of his senses, under which he weakly drooped, was the call of two +passionate hearts. He wavered absurdly. Once he suffered an impulse to +take Vivette brutally, without disguise, as an offered pastime. Then he +shrank from so immediate a declension from his vanishing idealism, and +inwardly clamoured that he loved her. There he ultimately fixed his +mind. He looked at Vivette and found in her an increasing gravity. She +was becoming aware of Peter's trouble. She was beginning to understand +it, and to be seriously concerned. But Peter mistook her dawning +compassion. He caught eagerly at the sober spirit which now possessed +her. He suddenly heard himself propose to her. + +"Will you marry me, Vivette?" + +He saw the laughter leap into her eyes; but, even as he shrank, it +passed, and they lit with affectionate pity. + +"Peter," she said very gently, "do you know what you are talking about?" + +"I have asked you to marry me." + +"Of course not." + +"You do not care enough?" he suggested. + +"I care enough to-night. But there is next year and the year after +that." + +"I want to be sure that this is serious," said Peter, with clenched +hands. + +"Of course it is. It is more serious than I thought anything could be." + +Clearly she was now in earnest. Even Peter might have found her +adequate. But he had now committed himself deeply to the proof he +required. He knew it was at bottom indefensible--that he was merely +trying to build a refuge for his self-respect. + +"If you really cared for me," he persisted, "you would not refuse to +marry me." + +"Marriage is not my way," she protested. + +"I ask you with my whole soul." + +"Your whole soul?" She smiled a little, but added gravely: + +"You make things very difficult. This shows how badly you want to be +looked after." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Don't you see how easily I might play up to you? Do you think it would +be very difficult for an actress like me to love you 'with my whole +soul' and win you altogether on my own terms?" + +"You mean," Peter flashed at her, "that you might easily pretend." + +"It would not be difficult," she said, a little sadly. + +Vivette was feeling unlike herself. She was now unselfishly solicitous +for Peter. She saw how helpless he was, restless and curious of life, +ever more firmly held by one idea. She pictured him falling to some +woman, hot and unscrupulous, who would coarsely tear the veil he +fastidiously desired to lift, and for ever destroy for him the nobility +of passion. + +But Peter cut into her thoughts. + +"Are you changing your mind?" he asked abruptly. + +"No, Peter. I am only thinking." + +"Then it is good-bye." + +He moved towards the door. Vivette saw him passing out of her keeping. +She saw him stumbling forward to disillusion and possible disgust. She +could not let him go like that. She was zealous that his adventure +should not end wholly in disaster. + +Out of sudden pity she called to him. + +"Peter!" + +He paused at the door but did not turn. + +She collected her courage. Surely it would be better for Peter, then and +there, to end. Her spirit was alive to him. It would be an episode, but +it would not be sordid. She saw a hundred ways in which Peter might fare +so immeasurably worse. For an instant she shrank from the ordeal. She +would have to sink her pride and solicit him. It was a bitter part for +Vivette. The words dropped from her low and quiet. + +"You may stay with me to-night." + +Peter turned uncertainly. She saw his face like a beaten flame. He had +yet to realise what she was saying. + +"We are alone, Peter. You may stay with me here. I ask you to stay." + +Now the flame spread in his face unchecked. She had dropped the veil, +and he was driven towards her. + +"You can do this, Vivette, and yet you will not marry me." + +"To-night." + +"For ever." + +"For ever a memory--with nothing to regret." + +Peter desperately kissed her, but with his climbing luxury his will +climbed also, and his spirit cried out again for a justification. Like a +refrain he repeated: + +"This means you will marry me." + +"No." + +He returned wearily to his point. + +"You do not care enough," he persisted. + +"You tell me that," she cried, "after what I have said to you!" + +She broke from him, and Peter knew he was far astray. But he shut +himself from this better knowledge. He gave himself up to his fixed +idea. + +"I do not understand you. Prove to me that you care." + +"I have proved it." + +"An easy proof." + +Peter hated himself for this angry stab at her. She went pale. + +"I did not mean it," he cried at once. + +"A light woman lightly offered," she said, interpreting his reproach. + +"No." + +He sank beside her in an agony of penitence. But she drew away from him, +and he accepted her decision. There could be no more love to-night. The +pallor had not left her face, and it struck into Peter a sense of +enormous guilt. Again she pitied him. + +"Come to me here to-morrow," she said. "I want to talk to you." + +She held out her hand to him. He clasped it good night and left her. + + + + +XXXIX + + +Peter, away from Vivette, knew only that he had wronged her. He did not +understand exactly how he had transgressed. He could not read her +conduct at all. Her strange lapse into sincerity simply puzzled him. She +had seemed, at the moment when she had put herself into his hands, +protective and thoughtful. + +Peter knew her impulse was rooted in honour. He exaggerated the evil of +his graceless words, treading the familiar way of abasement and remorse. +He now desired only to be pardoned. He called upon her at an early hour. + +Vivette had spent the time wondering at depths in herself unsuspected. +Hitherto her life had run a career of adventurous and impulsive +hedonism. She had loved easily, and easily taken the thing she desired. +She only asked of life that delicacy and fair play should not be +offended. She did not understand virtue. Her principle had always been +lightly to take the way of least resistance. Now, suddenly from +somewhere, sprang a devoted altruism--a passionate resolution that +another should see life beautifully open its treasure. + +Her impulse had been to save Peter from sordidly failing. She had not +acted from jealousy. She had never less been sensually led than when she +had entreated Peter. Her lips curved in contemplation of a discovered +irony in things. Peter had urged her to be serious. Very well: Peter +should that day be made to realise how serious she could be. She had +decided to talk to him frankly. She would not repeat her offer or allow +it now to be accepted. She was glad that it had the previous evening +miscarried. She had thought of a better way. Peter must be made to +understand his condition. + +She did not admit that her offer had been wrongly made. Peter's +adventure would not with her have ended perfectly; but neither would it +have ended in a fruition merely brutal. She realised how gradually he +was losing grip of himself, and saw him soon as tinder for any woman +with brains and a high temperature. She saw him slipping his +self-respect. She would last night have saved him from the worst. There +was friendliness and grace enough between them to justify their passion. +But Vivette was now differently inspired. Surely Peter could be braced +and stiffened. He was not yet attacked in his will. He was merely blind +and drifting, perhaps unaware of his trouble. + +He found her sitting, an image of graven severity, curiously out of tune +with her cheerful room. He felt like a schoolboy called to repeat a +lesson in which he had failed to satisfy. + +"I have offended you," he tragically began. + +But Vivette intended to be strictly sensible. + +"That is what I want to talk about," she said, very matter-of-fact. "I +don't think you understand what happened last night. I am going to tell +you." + +Peter was puzzled. She was not Vivette of the shallow eyes. He caught +her hands to draw her towards him, but she firmly resisted. + +"No, Peter. Sit still and listen to what I have to say." + +Peter flung himself, evilly discontented, in a far corner of the settee. + +"You always wanted me to be serious," said Vivette, looking at him with +some amusement. "But it does not seem to please you." + +Peter could not at once recover from his rejected tenderness, but he +felt he was behaving badly again. He contrived to put a little grace +into his manner. + +"I will listen," he said briefly. + +"Tell me," Vivette began, "what are you supposed to be doing with +yourself?" + +"Doing with myself?" he echoed. Already he was conscious of her drift. + +"You never talk of your work." + +"I am reading for the Bar." + +"What does that mean?" she smiled. Vivette had met these young +barristers. + +"I shall soon be called." + +"Till then, you will be waiting for work." + +"You are interested?" Peter inquired with an effort to assume an +innocent detachment. + +"Hasn't it occurred to you," Vivette persisted, "that you're in rather a +bad way?" + +He moved uncomfortably, then rushed to the point: + +"You mean I'm just loafing about?" + +"You're not really interested in your work." + +"You are indeed serious," said Peter, again trying to make light of her +catechism. "Aren't you overdoing it?" + +Vivette sharply rebuked him, and he did not again interrupt. She held to +him an unflattering mirror in which he saw an image of himself which +frightened him. He was rich. He had nothing particular to do. He drifted +about, meeting elegant and attractive people--mostly women. Everywhere +he unconsciously opened himself to one appeal. He was idle; and he was +obsessed. + +He struggled against this indictment. He even became angry. What did +this talk of Vivette really mean? It meant that he desperately loved +her. + +"This obsession you tell me of!" he cried. "It is you." + +"For the time being," she shortly answered. + +"Always," he insisted. + +"It might easily be someone else. Think, Peter. Have you once been free +during these last years?" + +Peter was silent. + +"What do you want me to say?" he asked at last. + +"I want you to realise there are other things. You must not give way to +this fixed idea." + +Where before had Peter heard this? It seemed an echo. But he shut his +ears. + +"I have only one fixed idea. It is to marry you. You are pleading +against yourself, Vivette." + +"Put me out of account," she said sharply. "I have already refused." + +They were again at the point where last night they had failed to agree. + +Peter rose and walked to the end of the room and back to Vivette. He was +beginning to measure her strength and subtlety, and they made it more +difficult to lose her. His blood rose against the idea. He caught her +roughly by the arm. + +"Suppose I cannot put all this away? Suppose it has to be really an +episode?" + +Her arm tightened under his grip. She became cold and hostile. + +"I don't understand," she said. + +Peter felt his mind twisting like a serpent: + +"Will you come back with me to last night?" + +"You are talking nonsense. Put your head into your law-books, write +plays, travel about--anything." + +"I want you, Vivette." + +She rose, and stood dismissing him. "This is worse than I thought. You +are ready to take the second best." + +"You are first and last." + +"Therefore," she lashed at him, "you want me for a mistress." + +"I have asked you to marry me." + +"Marriage would not be the truth." + +Peter clenched his hands: "On any terms I must have you." + +"That is for me to say." + +Peter looked at Vivette and found her inexorably set against him. +Clearly she was not that day to be moved. His passion died, and her +words went poignantly home. He released her arm. His increasing +dejection prompted Vivette to soften the steel of her manner: + +"Cool yourself, Peter. Put me out of your mind. You are not looking for +a mistress, and I want you to wait for the real thing." + +"To have you would be very real. You have proved already that you love +me." + +She saw again the serpent's head and crushed it. + +"I have loved before," she said deliberately. "Last night would have +meant less to me than to you. Is that what you want?" + +Peter cursed himself, and went. + +"Good-bye," Vivette called to him. "Next time we meet I expect you to be +in a better mind." + +Vivette now had leisure to be surprised at herself. + +For the first time in her life she had refused something she really +wanted. She decided that this was the limit of her generosity. She had +refused Peter for herself, but at any rate no other woman should, +without a title, pluck the fruit of her sacrifice. She would closely +examine any claim on Peter which might be made. + + + + +XL + + +It did not take Peter long to feel that Vivette was wholly right. He +blushed to recall how he had justified her indictment by the way in +which he had received it. + +That evening he made a plan. He had called the immediate future to +account, and found he had six months to spare without much prospect of +being usefully absorbed. + +"I must get away from all this," he decided. + +At the end of an evening spent restlessly at home, he startled Mrs. +Paragon with the prospect of six months on the high seas. + +"We will have a yacht," he told her. "I want to learn all about sailing. +We'll go right away." + +Mrs. Paragon calmly considered this. She was alarmed for Peter, though +she did not know the extent of his last infatuation. Peter had +instinctively kept Vivette out of his conversation. His mother and +Vivette moved in different circles, and they had not yet met. Mrs. +Paragon only knew that Peter had recently become profoundly interested +in the theatre. Nevertheless Mrs. Paragon perceived as clearly as +Vivette how things were with him. + +"Where do you think of going?" She showed no surprise at his sudden +idea. + +"Anywhere," said Peter vaguely. + +"When do you think of starting?" + +"Immediately." + +Mrs. Paragon realised that something had happened. + +"This is very sudden," she suggested. + +"I've been thinking, mother." + +"Is that all?" Mrs. Paragon inquired, quite innocent of any desire to be +satirical. She merely asked. + +"I ought to be doing something," Peter explained. "I know all this law +stuff by heart. I'm sick of London." + +"I thought you were so interested in everything." + +"No, mother." + +"Not in the theatre?" + +Again Mrs. Paragon merely asked. + +"That's over now," said Peter. + +Mrs. Paragon reached at the heart of things in one sure gesture of the +mind. + +"What has she said to you?" she calmly inquired. + +Peter stared in the manner of one whose thoughts are unexpectedly read. + +"I asked her to marry me." + +"She refused?" + +"She wants me to think of something else." + +Mrs. Paragon wondered a moment why an actress had refused. She also +wondered whether the actress might not change her mind. + +"I will come with you, Peter," she said decisively. + +Peter flung himself with ardour into the work of finding a boat and +getting together a crew. His condition was well known to Atterbury, who +persuaded Haversham to help him in getting Peter equipped. They hunted +out a skipper in Havre whose quality they knew, Atterbury going to +interview and bring him over. It was decided they should sail +immediately. + +Vivette was soberly pleased at the success of her one good action. + +"I've ordered Peter into the South Seas," she told Atterbury. "I think +he'll be safe from the brown ladies." + +It was arranged that Peter should give a farewell dinner. Atterbury +insisted on the Savoy, and tactfully picked a day when the Wenderbys +were to be out of town. He frankly discussed the position over Mrs. +Paragon's dinner-table in Curzon Street. Vivette was there--accepted by +Mrs. Paragon with large reserve. + +"We want all Peter's friends," he said, "except those who cannot be +present. It will be an advantage if Lady Mary is far away. She doesn't +go at all well with Vivette." + +"Agreed," said Vivette. "She would snuff me out. This is to be my feast. +I hardly know whether I ought to allow Mrs. Paragon," she added. + +"Nonsense," said Mrs. Paragon shortly. + +"But it isn't nonsense," persisted Vivette. "I shall simply disappear +beside you." + +"Then you must make up your mind to it," said Atterbury. "I'm arranging +this dinner, and I must have Mrs. Paragon. I have given up Lady Mary." + +"We ought to have Lady Mary on the mantelpiece," said Vivette. "She'd go +so well with the china." + +"Envy," Atterbury retorted. "You say that because you can't sit still, +and haven't a decent feature in your face." + +"Lady Mary is the most beautiful woman in the world," Peter solemnly +intervened. + +"Hark to the oracle," cried Vivette. + +"He's not far wrong," said Atterbury. "My heart always beats a little +faster when she comes suddenly round the corner in a crush." + +"Her mouth is all wrong." + +"Glass houses, Vivette--you've nothing but your figure and the noise you +make." + +"You agree with Peter?" + +"Not entirely. Lady Mary's good for a queen." + +"She's the most beautiful woman in the world," Peter insisted. + +"You're wrong, Peter. I saw the most beautiful woman in the world four +days ago." + +"This is interesting," said Vivette. + +"It was in the boat from Havre. I saw at once how beautiful she was and +looked after her. She is now at Claridge's and refuses to see me. I +think she's from Brittany. Maddened by her extreme loveliness, I +indiscreetly dreamed she might come to our dinner." + +"Just as we are sending Peter safely out of harm's way," exclaimed +Vivette. "You must have lost your senses." + +"I have." + +"What is her name?" Peter asked. + +"You see," said Vivette, "you have already excited the poor boy." + +"I have got her picture." + +"Is it a funny one?" asked Vivette. + +"I'm more than a caricaturist. I made a sketch of her on deck when she +wasn't looking. What do you think of her, Mrs. Paragon?" + +Mrs. Paragon took the sketch and quietly examined it. + +"I should like her to come to Peter's dinner," she said. "What is her +name?" + +"Mdlle. Le Roy," said Atterbury. + +Vivette looked at Mrs. Paragon in astonishment. + +"May I look?" she asked. Mrs. Paragon handed her the sketch. + +"Yes," said Vivette, "she is certainly beautiful." + +Atterbury turned to her: + +"She will be worse for you than Lady Mary." + +"That was my nonsense. I love a beautiful woman." She handed back the +picture. + +"Peter hasn't seen it. He may not approve," she warned Atterbury. + +"I'm arranging this dinner," said Atterbury. "Still Peter may look." + +"I'll wait for the original," Peter growled. + +"Where do you say she is staying?" said Peter's mother to Atterbury. + +Atterbury wrote out the name and address on a card and gave it to Mrs. +Paragon. + +"I see this is your affair," he said. "I rely on you." + +Mrs. Paragon now took Vivette into the drawing-room. Peter and his +friend talked yachting shop, and gave them time to become better +acquainted. + +Mrs. Paragon did not take kindly to Vivette, but she realised that, as a +mother, she owed her something, and she tried to put away her distrust. +They talked without reserve, so far as appearance went; but Vivette knew +she was not admitted far. She ruefully accepted the inevitable. She did +not understand at all why Mrs. Paragon had taken it into her head to +bring a stranger into Peter's farewell. Mrs. Paragon mildly baffled her +polite astonishment. + +"Is it quite fair to me?" asked Vivette, still talking of Mdlle. Le Roy. +"I think I deserve to be considered. I'm sending Peter away." + +"He will come back," said Mrs. Paragon briefly. + +"Safe and sound," Vivette put in. + +"Then you may change your mind." + +"I can be really serious in some ways." + +"There is a risk," Mrs. Paragon insisted. + +Her obstinacy reminded Vivette of Peter at his worst. + +"There is always a risk," she protested. "You can't tie Peter up." + +"No: I can't tie Peter up," Mrs. Paragon agreed, shutting her lips. + +Vivette tried to get in by another door. + +"Mdlle. Le Roy," she suggested, "is going to efface me." + +"Why should I wish it?" Mrs. Paragon innocently inquired. + +"Perhaps you like the look of her." + +"I do." + +Vivette sighed. + +"Peter won't have a very happy farewell," she said. + +A week later Atterbury remembered his beautiful stranger only as a guest +to be identified by a card upon the table. Peter had entirely forgotten +her, and Vivette, looking forward to an evening of light pleasure, +agreeably dashed with regret, did not take Mdlle. Le Roy into serious +account. + +The whole party was assembled in the Pinafore rooms at the Savoy, but +Mrs. Paragon had not yet arrived. Peter had come early to approve the +arrangements Atterbury had made, and had left his mother to follow by +way of Claridge's. He was talking now with Haversham. + +Vivette saw a light leap suddenly into Peter's eyes. He seemed like one +confronted with a miracle. + +"This," Vivette bitterly concluded, "is love at first sight." + +But Vivette was wrong. Peter's brain was dazzled as by lightning. A +flood of forgotten life was loosed upon him out of the past. He was +looking at Miranda. + + + + +XLI + + +Mrs. Paragon had at once recognised Atterbury's sketch. She went, the +day after she had seen it, to verify, waiting in the hotel in quiet +amazement. It seemed strange to come to this place for Miranda. She +remembered her as an awkward girl, hoydenly and tempestuous, absurdly +transfigured by Peter's worship. Then she had found her again sleeping +in Peter's brain, to lose her for ever in a brutal disaster of the sea. + +Miranda came slowly to meet her, holding in her hand the card she had +sent. + +She had grown to the loveliness Peter had divined in her. Her eyes had +softened, their passion held in reserve. The lines of her beauty were +severe, but their severity veiled the promise of her surrender. She was +radiant with a vitality serenely masked--a queen ready at the true word +to come down. + +She looked from the card she held to Mrs. Paragon. + +"You are Peter's mother," she said, in the manner of one speaking to +herself. + +"You remember him?" asked Mrs. Paragon. + +Miranda did not answer. + +"Come to my room," she said, and led the way upstairs. + +Her room was cheerful with firelight and simple comfort. Mrs. Paragon +again wondered at finding her thus alone and able to command. Miranda +drew her a chair to the fire, and, as Mrs. Paragon sat down, she put an +arm about her shoulder and looked at her. + +"I've often wondered what you were like," she said. + +"You had forgotten?" + +"I was only a girl. Memories are not to be trusted." + +"You never tried to correct them?" + +"I have heard of you often. You did not seem to want me." + +"I have been looking for you," said Mrs. Paragon. + +"Have you found what you expected?" + +Mrs. Paragon put her hand upon Miranda's arm. + +"Indeed I have," she quietly asserted. "I think you are the girl that +Peter knew." + +"Please," Miranda entreated. Mrs. Paragon had moved too quickly towards +her secret. There was a short silence. + +"Tell me," said Miranda at last. "When did you begin to look for me?" + +"As soon as I knew that Peter needed you." + +"He needs me?" said Miranda quickly. "How do you know that?" + +"He was once very ill. He talked of you continually." + +"I have heard of Peter," she objected a little hardly. "I have heard of +him as entirely happy. Lately, too, in Paris I met a friend of Vivette +Claire." + +"Peter is in need of you," Mrs. Paragon insisted. + +She spoke as one returning to the thing which really mattered. + +"I wonder." Miranda looked thoughtfully at Mrs. Paragon. + +"You are like my memory of you," she continued. "I remember you as +always quiet and wise--as one who said only what was true." + +"I know that Peter needs you." + +"Does Peter himself know?" Miranda drily asked. + +"I want you to come back. He will know when he sees you." + +"You believe, if I met him to-morrow, the years between would +disappear?" Miranda suggested, smiling at her idea. + +"I am sure," Mrs. Paragon insisted. + +"It would be interesting," said Miranda. + +Her touch of irony was lost on Peter's mother, who saw no call for +smiling. + +"Have you no feeling for Peter?" she seriously urged. + +"I do not know," Miranda answered bluntly, with a small shrug of her +shoulders. + +"Ask yourself." + +"It is for Peter to ask." + +"This is not generous, Miranda." + +Miranda rose and walked to the fire. She stood for a moment looking +away from Mrs. Paragon. + +"I will tell you the truth," she said at last. "I went out of Peter's +life five years ago, and I said I would not return unless he wanted me. +He was only a boy. I have put away all thought of him. If I come back to +him now, I come as a stranger to be won again. I do not know Peter +to-day." + +"Peter is still the same." + +Miranda was beginning to rebel against the immovable conviction of +Peter's mother. Mrs. Paragon was so calm and sure. + +"How can I know that?" she exclaimed impatiently. + +"You can meet him," answered Mrs. Paragon. She had the air of one +suggesting the obvious thing to a child. + +Miranda began to be seriously moved. Could she recapture the dead time? +She saw herself quaintly perched on the slates of a roof sobbing her +heart out, and again in a dark garden with Peter suddenly on his knees +to her, kissing the hem of her frock. Perhaps, if she met him, without +allowing him time to prepare, the truth would flash out of him. + +"Where can I meet him suddenly?" she asked. + +Mrs. Paragon quietly accepted her victory. + +"I have come to invite you," she said. "You shall see him with Vivette +Claire." + +"What have I to do?" + +"You need only be ready here in a week's time. I will take you to +dinner. It is a farewell dinner. Peter is going to sea for six months." + +"I will come." + +This was not Mrs. Paragon's last visit to Claridge's. In the days +between her discovery of Miranda and Peter's dinner she talked with +Miranda frequently and long. Miranda learned the whole story of Peter's +life; learned also to sound every deep place in his mother. + +Of Miranda there was less to tell than the change in her seemed to +require. Her father and mother had drowned fighting for life in the sea. +She had waited on deck to the last, calmly accepting her fate. The +terrible scenes about her of people huddled to a brutal end had not +shaken her spirit. At the last moment she was pulled on to a raft, and +made fast by the man who had found it. They passed through the night +together, and he said she had saved him from despair. He was a Canadian +farmer of French extraction. She passed for two years as his daughter, +and at his death inherited his fortune. He had made her love the French, +and she had lived mainly in France for the last three years. + +Thus had Miranda been kept, aloof and free; and thus wonderfully +restored. There were a hundred prosaic ways in which her rediscovery +might have been arranged; but for Peter, because Peter was young, the +incredible was achieved. Chance had waited for her most effective +moment, and was resolute that it should not be marred. Miranda's +coming, like all true miracles, could only grow more wonderful the more +it was explained. + +Upon the evening of Peter's dinner, Mrs. Paragon found Miranda serenely +ready. She admitted to no excitement. + +"You need not look at me like that," she said to Mrs. Paragon when they +met. "I am going to be introduced to a strange young man. It is not at +all disturbing." + +A few minutes later she passed into the room where Peter's friends were +waiting. Atterbury claimed her at once. Then it came to a meeting. She +caught Peter in the flash of his discovery. The sudden glory of his +lighted face blinded her to the years between them. She felt her pulses +leap eagerly at her sovereign peace, but outwardly she was still. She +calmly ignored his recognition. She bowed to him as a stranger, and +passed in to dinner with Atterbury. + + + + +XLII + + +Peter at dinner was next Vivette, and Atterbury, with Miranda, was at +the far end of a long table. He heard only snatches of their talk, +enough to show that Miranda entirely outmatched him in conversation and +address. She was complete mistress of herself. She had put away all +sense of crisis, ignoring the tumult of her late encounter. Atterbury +loved all things French, and Peter had many opportunities to notice +their enthusiastic agreement. + +Peter could not so well recover. Miranda's return had blotted out the +last five years. He saw no change in her. She was the woman he had +always divined her to be. He had never seen in her the awkward girl +whose disappearance Mrs. Paragon had noted. Her refusal to accept him at +once and take up their life from the point at which they had parted +became increasingly absurd as in numberless gestures, in the play of her +spirit made visible, he recognised ever more clearly the girl he had +lost. His wonder grew, equally, at the way in which for five years he +had ignored her existence. These years now seemed unreal. Surely he had +loved her always, and always had been full of her. + +If only he called to her in the old familiar way, surely she would no +longer play the stranger. She would recognise their bond, and all this +pageant, holding them absurdly apart, would disappear. + +Miranda knew how Peter watched her; how he was living himself back into +the past; how he was seeking for a sign that she admitted their union. +But she would not yet confess that between them a secret current ran +even as she talked and laughed and accepted Atterbury's vivacious +gallantry. She had yet to hear from Peter why for five years he had made +no sign. He deserved at any rate to be put on his defence. + +Peter's wonderful last adventure returned upon him in waves of uphappy +consciousness, to be decently put away in heroic efforts to entertain +his guests, and be the companion of Vivette. But it was always with a +start of the mind that he returned to his duties. + +Vivette was deeply offended. Peter was again on fire. She had seen him +leap into flame at the sight of a stranger. She had not expected her +warning to Peter to be so quickly justified. His behaviour to-night, to +put it no higher, was a breach of manners. She had taken Peter very +seriously, and he now was doing his best to show she had been mistaken. +Her face visibly burned when she remembered how intimately she had +abased herself. He had touched a deeper vein in her than she had known, +but now he was turning her late act to ridicule. + +She talked to him only in answers, and several times he found her +distastefully watching the absorbed trend of his attention towards +Miranda. Peter was now wholly wretched. Between himself and Miranda a +gulf was fixed, and Vivette's hostility aggravated his misery. + +At last Vivette and Peter were isolated from the conversation. Their +neighbours were each talking on the other side. Peter felt the strain +was becoming intolerable. He had turned from watching Miranda to +Vivette, and her contemptuous amusement whipped him to a defence. + +"This is not what it seems," he said in a low voice. + +"Perfection at last," Vivette contemptuously suggested. + +"I have known her for years," he pleaded, glancing towards Miranda. + +"Really I can't listen. Let us at least bury our own affair." + +"I am speaking the literal truth." + +Vivette was surprised at his vehemence. + +"I am not good at riddles," she said, looking at him closely. + +"You don't know what has happened." + +"I know," Vivette retorted in a voice that cut him, "that you have had +the discourtesy to be smitten with a strange woman within a week of +making love to me." + +"She is the first woman I ever knew." + +Vivette looked closely at Peter. + +"It is the literal truth," he said. "Five years ago." + +Vivette looked from his face, blazing with veracity, to the very +sociable stranger at the other end of the table. + +"She does not seem to remember," she objected incisively. + +Peter followed Vivette's glance towards Miranda, radiantly responding to +the talk of Atterbury. + +Conversation broke out again on either side, claiming them. Vivette had +seen the truth in Peter's face. Her hostility was checked. She felt +another kind of interest in Miranda, watching her carefully. When next +she had an opportunity of speaking in a personal way to Peter she had +discovered that Miranda was less remote from Peter's excitement than she +seemed. Her mind rapidly and generously took in the new position. + +"What is her name?" she abruptly asked when they were free to talk. + +"Her name was Miranda. Her other name was not Le Roy. I had lost sight +of her." + +"Had you also forgotten her?" + +"Till to-night." + +"And now," said Vivette, not without sarcasm, "you think you have always +remembered." + +"How do you know that?" Peter asked. + +Vivette looked at his poor face and smiled. "She remembers you, Peter," +she said. "She remembers you very well." + +"She is utterly absorbed," objected Peter. + +"It is overdone," Vivette decided. + +"Why should she do it at all?" + +"You best know if it serves you right." + +"She must think I have never cared." + +"Your mother arranged this meeting," said Vivette in meditation. + +"She must have recognised Miranda from the sketch," Peter explained. + +"How did your mother know you would remember her?" + +"She knows everything," said Peter simply. + +Mrs. Paragon sat quietly with Haversham. Haversham had noticed Peter's +strange behaviour, and Mrs. Paragon had already told him the whole tale. +The dinner proceeded to an end, its essential currents moving beneath +the surface. Miranda, with veiled eyes, admitted by no sign that they in +the least affected her. But she was gradually flooded with a tide of +happiness. She held it off, allowing it only to polish further the +glitter of her surface. + +Peter's crowning misery that night was the speeches. Atterbury, +proposing him, was unaware of any need for discretion. He tactfully and +wittily pinned the toast to his caricature, already famous, of Peter as +the Pilgrim of Love. The table roared with delight, and, finding Peter's +response lacking in conviction, was more delighted at this further proof +that Atterbury's barbs had stuck. + +At last the party broke up. Vivette had by that time carefully measured +Miranda. + +"This is good-bye, indeed," she said to Peter at parting. Peter had +taken her home to the flat in Soho. His mother had gone with Atterbury +and Miranda. + +"I'm not sure that I shall go," answered Peter obtusely, thinking of his +desolate voyage. + +"Precisely," said Vivette. "That is why I am saying good-bye." + +Vivette held out her hand. Peter dubiously held it a moment. + +"I have treated you very badly, Vivette." + +"I am well pleased." + +"I owe you so much," he insisted. + +She put her free hand on his shoulder and lightly kissed him. + +"How good you are, Vivette," Peter fervently exclaimed. + +"You're spoiling it, as usual," said Vivette, softly writhing. "Please +go at once. I am in the mood to part with you." + + + + +XLIII + + +Vivette did not without regret see Peter go. But she had seen enough to +realise that his adventures were at an end. She surrendered him to a +better claim, as always she had decided to do. Her comedy, she told +herself, had on the whole finished happily. Vivette had the fortunate +ability to be done for ever with things ended. She was too thoroughly a +player to wish the curtain raised upon a story technically finished. + +Peter, too, had rung down the veil on his pilgrimage. He wanted to take +up his life from the moment at which he had looked for Miranda in an +empty house. It all came vividly to his mind again. The short ride home +was thronged with scenes from his life of a boy. They rose from the +stirred pools of memory. He could see pale clusters of the evening +primrose, and smell the laden air of a place where he had waited for her +long ago. He saw a heap of discoloured paper dimly lit by a struck +match, lying in a far corner of a raftered room where he had lost her. + +How could this girl have become a stranger? It was impossible. Yet it +was also impossible that he for five years had neglected to look for +her. He had not remembered her for five years. He could not now believe +it. The five years confronted him, inexorably accusing. + +He reached Curzon Street, and at once looked for his mother. She could +tell him all there was to know of Miranda, and in the morning he would +go to her. His mother came from her room as Peter arrived on the stairs. + +"You are tired, mother. You want to sleep?" + +"We will talk in the morning, Peter." + +"Not to-night?" + +"It is not necessary to-night." + +Mrs. Paragon smiled mysteriously, and added: + +"You will find her in the drawing-room." + +Peter's heart bounded. + +"She is here?" he breathlessly asked. + +He looked at the door between them. Mrs. Paragon kissed him good night +without a word, and went into her room. + +When Peter went in to Miranda he saw himself explaining away the years +in a rush of eloquence. He would torrentially claim Miranda. He would +persuade and overwhelm her. + +Miranda, for her part, waited eagerly upon the event. She had decided to +be mistress of herself till for herself she had judged that Peter's +mother was right. She pretended she was not yet sure that Peter had +never ceased to care. She wanted to play delicately with her glad +conviction. + +But Peter could not speak, and Miranda could not play. He came towards +her and stood a moment. His lips foolishly quivered, and the veil upon +Miranda was torn. Her hand went out to him. She saw she had moved only +when Peter dropped beside her chair. There was nothing now to explain. +He just crept to her heart and rested. + +The meeting of their eyes was not yet to be endured. They came together +in a darkness of their own. + +Gradually the trouble went out of their passion--a stream, no longer +broken, but running deep. To Peter it seemed that the tranquil rhythm of +the bosom where he lay had never failed. + +"Why have we waited till now?" Peter softly wondered. "It cannot be +true. I have come to you from yesterday." + +They were together a little longer, shyly approaching the wonder of +their meeting, with broken words--fragments of speech pieced out with +looks and touches. + +When Miranda had left him, Peter pondered in her chair the things he had +intended to say. He could not now believe they had so wonderfully taken +everything for granted. Surely when morning came his peace and joy would +vanish. Nothing would remain but his plans of yesterday for a holiday. + +In the morning Miranda met him as a sensible woman with commonplaces to +discuss. She had decided that Peter should carry out his plan for a +voyage. She would stay in London, and be ready for his return. Peter +demurred: + +"Why should I go now?" he asked. "I have given all that up." + +"I want you to go," she insisted. + +"But you will come with me, Miranda?" pleaded Peter. + +"I will come to the edge of your journey." + +Peter felt that Miranda was right. He would come to her with a mind +blown fresh by the sea. No wraith of an experience unshared would +survive into the perfect day of their marriage. The scattered rays of +his passion were to be focussed anew in a dedication absolute and +untroubled. The present was haunted by the shadows he had pursued. They +flitted between them, to be immediately recognised for shadows and to be +put away; but, even so, their joy was faintly marred by the accusing +years. Let them be utterly forgotten. + +Miranda that evening went on board Peter's yacht. They lay till sunset +off the Isle of Wight, till a red glow lit the western cliffs. Then +Miranda went over the side, and from a small boat watched the beautiful +ship vanish into the open sea. Peter stood to the last, erect and still, +and as the distance widened between them Miranda wanted for a moment to +call him back. Her sensitive idealism seemed out of reason now that her +lover was disappearing into the haze. + +Then she overcame her moment of regret. She had given him up to the +burning sea, into whose spaces he sailed. He would come back to her +inspired with the light and freedom of blue water. He would find her +each day in the triumphing sun, in the gleam of breaking surf, in +perfume carried from an Indian shore, in the shining of far mountains. +He would fling out his love to catch at all the loveliness into which he +was passing. The coloured earth should paint and refashion her; the sea +should consecrate her; permanent hills, seen far off, should invest her +in queenliness. Her hand should be upon him in the velvet wind. Her +mystery should fall upon him out of the deep sky. + +Could she regret days which were thus to glorify her? Filled with +happiness, exultant and sure, she strained no longer after the lost +ship. Peter had disappeared into a yellow mist that girdled all the +visible sea. But already she saw him returning to claim in her all the +beauty into which he sailed. + + + + +XLIV + + +Peter and Miranda were looking out over the selfsame burning water into +which she had lately dismissed him. Six to seven months had passed, and +on the morning of that day they had quietly been married in London. Now +they stood high upon the cliffs overhanging a small western bay. + +It was early September, and the night was warm. The water was lightly +wrinkled. It shimmered from the extreme height at which they viewed it, +like beaten metal. The light rapidly died down, and already the lit +rooms of a house were brighter than the sky. The house was beneath them, +alone upon the side of a steep hill, its windows wide to the sea. + +Peter was alone with Miranda for the first time that day. Hardly a week +ago he had been eagerly looking each morning towards England. From the +time he had landed, and Miranda had seen in him a soul swept clean, a +will straining towards her, he had lived in the clutch of preparation +and routine. All was now ready, every unessential thing put away. + +In long days upon the deck of his yacht Peter had come to distinguish +between the physical unrest of his late years--vague and impersonal, +afflicting him like hunger or the summer heat--and the perfect passion +of his need for Miranda. + +Gradually, too, in these long weeks upon the sea Peter began to see +steadily things which hitherto had wavered. He had touched reality at +last. He overleaped the categories in a burning sense that life was very +vast and very near; that the virtue of men could not easily be measured +and ranked; that the wonder of existence began when it ceased +consciously to confront itself, to probe its deep heart, and absurdly to +appoint itself a law. He went through his adventures of the last few +years with a smile for his ready infatuation with small aspects of men +and things. He had attempted to inspect the discipline of the world, +calling mankind to attention as though it were a regiment. He had been a +Socialist, and then very nearly a Tory. Now, between sky and water, he +vainly tried to constrain things to a formula. He found that he no +longer desired to do so. He began to understand his mother's deep, +instinctive acceptance of time and fate. All now seemed unreal, except +the quiet, happy, and assured act of life itself. Craning at the +Southern stars, he no longer desired to measure or to track their +passage. He felt them rather as kindred points of energy. The pedantry +and pride of knowledge, the ambition to assess, the need to round off +heaven, to group mankind in a definite posture and take for himself a +firmly intelligible attitude in his own time and way--these things had +suddenly left him. Life was now emotionally simple, and it therefore +had ceased to be intellectually difficult. He had found humour and +peace--an absolute content to receive the passing day. Life itself +mattered so much to him--so brimmed him with the passion of +_being_--that all he had thought or read was now rebuked as an insolent +effort to contain the illimitable. + +Interminably, of course, he thought of his personal quest. It all seemed +very simple now. He had had some unhappy and trivial adventures. Their +sole importance was to make him measure truly the high place of love. In +the beginning was blind desire. Then the soul, with eyes for beauty and +the power to elect, turned an instinct of the herd to a passion of the +individual will--a passion whose fruit was loyalty and sacrifice, the +treasures of art and the face of nature wrought into a countenance +friendly and beautiful. So mighty had this passion grown that now it +could command, as an instrument, the need out of which it came. + +Love was now the measure of a man. Either it put him among creatures, +groping uneasily till driven by appetite or fear, or it lifted him among +the inheritors of passion, a gift rare as genius, a sanctuary from the +driven flesh. + +To-night, as Peter sat with Miranda looking towards the sea, the +substance of these thoughts lay under the surface of his joy. He +wondered if for ever he could beat his wings so high. Surely to die soon +would be the perfect mating. They were now upon a peak whence it was +only possible to come down. + +They sat quietly as the moments drifted. Words between them suddenly +broke upon notes trembling on the edge of silence. To the passion of his +adolescence--the passion of five years ago, recovered in Indian seas and +among lonely islands of the Pacific--was added now something so intimate +and personal that Peter saw in the fall of Miranda's dress and the poise +of a comb in her hair syllables to make him wise. Her beauty had seemed, +moments ago, to fill him, but still it poured from her. + +He feared to think that this was only a beginning. How could he suffer +more happiness and live? He could dwell for ever upon the line of her +throat; and when he took her hands it seemed as if she gave to him all +he could endure to possess. He feared to be stunned and blinded with her +light, and he felt in himself an equal energy to dazzle and consume. It +must surely be death to touch her to the heart, to pierce rashly to the +secret of her power. + +Into his happiness there intruded, when it gave him leave, a profound +gratitude. He felt the need of a visible Power to thank. Almost it +seemed he had supernaturally been led to this perfect moment, to +encounter it perfectly. All his youth was gathered up. He would plunge +at once to the heart of love, his soul unblunted, no step of his +adventure known. Many times, during his days at sea, he had trembled to +think how near he had come to losing the unspoiled mystery of the gift +Miranda kept. He had marvelled at the delicate justice and complete +right of her wish that he should clear his soul of all memories they did +not share before they intimately met. + +Now in the falling dark they sat looking sometimes to sea, sometimes to +the light that beckoned them home, sometimes to the secret which ever +more insistently urged and troubled them. They felt the call of their +marriage, bidding them closer yet. It shone upon them out of Miranda's +window in the house below. To this window he had sailed alone in his +ship for long nights. Now that it shone so near, imperiously beckoning, +it hardly seemed an earthly lamp, but one that, when he stepped towards +it, must suddenly go out or move away. + +But the lure was true, for he found it also in Miranda--the look he had +seen in her eyes years ago when first he had kissed her. She seemed to +be giving herself to him--to give and give again, with treasures +uncounted to follow. Yet it was not mere giving, but a passing of virtue +from one to the other. + +"I am glad we waited until now," Peter said in a note so low that it +hardly reached her. "Why were you so wise to send me away? Each day has +added to you. I cannot believe I shall ever hold you. It seems like +wanting the whole world." He waved his hand at the sea. + +"I could not endure to be less than the whole world," she quickly +answered. + +"I could die with you now. Life can never again be so wonderful." + +Then, suddenly, words were foolish, and he abruptly ceased. + +The last light of a day, which to-night had lain very late upon the +water, had gone quite out. Hardly could they see each other; and missing +the lost message of their eyes they pressed closely together. The +beckoning window shone more brightly in the dark. Soon it put out land +and sky. It could not be avoided. Together they read and answered the +steady call. It put between them a growing distress. + +"Kiss me, my husband, and let me go." + +Her heart, as Peter took her in his arms, was beating like a creature +caught and held. + +She almost disappeared into the dark as she went down; but he followed +her with his eyes, alert for every step of her passage. At last she had +reached the house, and soon Peter could see the light of her room waver +with her moving to and fro. + +Only Miranda's window was shining now. + +Then, with a swiftness that struck mortally at his heart, Miranda's +window also was dark, or so it seemed, for the light went down. + +Peter spread his arms and stood full breathing for a moment, fighting +desperately with an unknown power. He had a swift vision of her +waiting. Then he went down the hill, and felt the earth like a carpet +spread for his marriage. He turned once only at the door to take, as he +felt, a last look at the stars. They seemed like a handful of dust he +had flung at the sky. + + + + +XLV + + +Peter did not know that happiness could be so tranquil till in the +morning he floated with Miranda upon the quiet sea. It seemed that only +now did he have peace and time to realise that the miracle of their love +was complete. It flooded him slowly in the silence of the dawn, as, +waking to the chatter of birds, he lay without stirring, fearing to +shake the comfort of a perfect memory. Miranda, waking soon, had +answered his thought with only a pressure of the hand. The slow opening +of her eyes, deep with fulfilment, sealed their marriage in the sun, +assuring him it was not a passing ecstasy of moonlight and dark hours. + +Then they had planned for the day to sail before a light wind, rounding +the western rocks of the island. This would meet their need to be +happily alone. + +Peter had hired a tiny lugger in the bay, and they were passing now +under the cliffs, making to weather the Needles and enjoy the painted +glory of Alum. + +The peace of a track almost unvisited, and the unnatural calm of the +water, emphasized the cruelty of this iron shore. The sea lapped softly +into worn caves at the base of the cliff. Sometimes it idly flung a wave +of the tide so that it slapped at a hollow rock as at a muted drum, +making a sound faintly terrible, like an understatement of something too +evil to be uttered aloud. + +Peter shuddered at the sound and at the sleeping white horror of the +shore. He thought with regret of the sheltered and homely bay they had +left. He had seen and enjoyed places more wild and lonely than this; but +to-day he seemed no longer to desire their inhuman beauty. + +Last night, upon the cliff, he had been ready to jump at death. It had +seemed the only possible consummation of a passion that reached beyond +him. But to-day he walked upon the earth. Something was added to his +love--a comfortable sanity, a touch of dear humour, an immense +friendliness. + +He began to find in Miranda a homeliness more thrilling than the +virginal beauty he had hardly dared to see. The wind and sun of their +ride yesterday through Hampshire had rudely touched her face. To-day it +was visibly peeling. She was no longer, in his eyes, remote and queenly, +but she was infinitely more precious. He saw that her arm was freckled +at the wrist. + +Passion would take them again, and lift them above the world, coming and +going as the spirit moved. But now there was something new, something he +had not before encountered, a steady will to suffer with his beloved, to +live between four walls, and encounter each small adventure in a loyal +league against time. + +The stress of his late years was now forgotten. He was eager for +work--to fill up his life and make firm his foothold among men. His mind +was swept and purified, his brain made clear and sweet. Life had +perspective now. Miranda's humour and clear vision had touched him, +conveyed in the miracle of their intimate life. He could smile now at +the blind energy, the enthusiasms, sudden and absurd, of his late +career. They became unreal as he talked with Miranda. + +Every little thing was pleasant--their unsuccessful shots at a mooring; +a picnic in the boat, swinging under the Alum cliffs; Miranda's lesson +in ropes and knots; their landing on the beach in a gentle surf; the +elfin look of Miranda's dripping hair as they came from bathing--it +seemed that no detail could be commonplace. + +In the evening they sailed west of the Needles, the sea divinely ruffled +and lit with wind and sun. The beauty of the flecked sky and a hint of +night in the east caught at them. Passion renewed shone in their eyes, +passion unthwarted by the small kindness and laughter of the day. Their +love could live with fun for company. It had familiarly walked and +scrambled with them through the day, only the more surely to put forth +wings at a touch. + +Then the mood of their excursion changed. The wind rapidly freshened, +and soon they rushed in a heeling boat, brightly dashed with spray, +exhilarated and shouting to be heard. Miranda had to strain far back +upon the gunwale, hauling hard at the sheet. + +Peter wondered whence the breeze so suddenly had come. He looked to the +south, and called to Miranda to look. A rain-cloud was advancing towards +them, a line of pattering drops clearly cut upon the water. + +It struck them suddenly; and Peter at once realised that, though the +event was beautiful, he had no time to lose in admiration. They must +run. They would have to tack into the Bay; and the wind was continually +stronger. Miranda was aware in his orders to her of a strain of +impatience and anxiety. She could herself see that the boat was in +distress. They raced out to sea, keeping as far as possible from the +cruel shore under which they had sailed in the morning. + +The strain grew. In the midst of their peril Miranda exulted to feel +that Peter knew what to do, and demanded of her an immediate answer to +his directions. The knowledge he had playfully given her in the morning +steadied them well. She had a glad sense that they were working +competently together. Peter felt it too. + +He looked grimly to port at the high cliff. Last night he had played +with the idea of jumping down. He smiled, seeing that life could be +ironical. He set his teeth. He had now no intention of dying. He shouted +at Miranda, and rejoiced to see how quickly she took the word: + +"Lee Ho!" + +They weathered the point, and could now see the light of their house +upon the cliff. Almost they were safe. For a time they rushed forward, +blinded and drenched with rain and spray; then suddenly the wind was cut +off, and it was calm. They were steadily moving towards their moorings +in the Bay, and the shower was now pouring straightly out of the sky. +The whole world had seemed a welter of water rushing at them from every +point. Now it was merely raining, and they were uncomfortable. + +Peter looked at Miranda. Her eyes and cheeks shone with excitement out +of the bedraggled wreck of her hair. Her clothes clung absurdly about +her. He felt the water trickling down his back and chest, and Miranda +moved uneasily. She, too, was ridiculously teased. + +But Peter's heart was glad. Their quick race under the cruel cliffs had +shown him in a vision their life to come. It had given him a comrade at +need, a companion for every day, brave and keen, rising above disaster, +redeeming life from the peril, discomfort, and ridicule of mischance. + +He ran the boat to her moorings, and watched Miranda as she hung over +the side to ship the buoy. Her skirt, folded about her, dripped +copiously into her shoes. He remembered how, as a boy, he had kissed the +hem of her frock. He softly laughed, but wished he had not been so busy +with the ropes. + +When the boat was still, they looked at one another and burst into +laughter. They were so miserably wet and foolish. Then Peter remembered +how the spray had dashed upon the cruel white cliffs as they raced into +the Bay; and it made their companionable safety very sweet. He flung his +clammy arms about her, kissing her wet face and hair. + +Already the lit windows of their house twinkled to the sea, and the moon +was beginning to swing her lamp. At midnight she once more lit them +preciously together. Then the sun put her out, and another day, kind and +beautiful, called them happily to the common round. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Peter Paragon, by John Palmer + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 56932 *** |