III
And the result of that conversation was that, on that very night Peter made his appeal. They had had a silent evening (Mrs. Rossiter was staying in the house at this time), and at last they all had gone up to bed. Peter stayed for a moment in his dressing-room, seeing his white face in the looking-glass, hearing the beating of his heart and then with a hand that strangely trembled, knocked on Clare's door.
Her voice sounded frightened, he thought, as she called to him to come in. Indeed, as he entered she folded a letter that she had been reading, and put it in a drawer in the dressing-table at which she was sitting.
It was only seldom now that he disturbed her in that room. She had turned on the electric light over her dressing-table; the rest of the room was in darkness. She seemed to Peter very fragile and tiny as she sat there in her black evening frock, her breast rising and falling as though something had suddenly frightened her, her eyes wide and startled. He felt a gross, coarse brute as he stumbled, coming across the dark floor to her.
“My God,” he cried in his heart, “put everything right now—let this make everything right.”
His big square body flung huge fantastic shadows upon the wall, but he looked, as he faced her, like a boy who had come to his master to confess some crime.
Apparently she was reassured now, for she took off her necklace and moved about the things on her table as though to show him that she was on the point of undressing.
“Well, Peter, what is it?” she said.
“I've come—Clare—just a moment—I want a talk.”
“But it's late, I'm tired—won't some other time do?”
“No, I want it now.”
“What is it?”
She was looking into the glass as she spoke to him.
He pulled a little chair over to her and sat forward so that his knees nearly touched her thin black dress. He put out his big hand and caught one of her little ones; he thought for a moment that she was going to resist—then it lay there cold as ice.
“Clare—darling—look here, everything's been wrong with both of us—for ages. And I've come—I've come—because I know it's been very largely my fault. And I've come to say that everything will be different now and I want you to let things—be—as they were before—”
For a moment he fancied that he saw a light leap into her eyes; he felt her hand tremble for a moment in his. Then the expression was gone.
“How do you mean?” she said, still looking into the glass. “What do you mean, Peter? I haven't noticed anything different.”
“Oh yes, you have. You know that—ever since Stephen died and before that really—you've avoided me. You'd rather be without me than with me. You've all thought me selfish and glum and so I suppose I was. But I missed—the kid—a lot.” Again Peter felt her hand tremble. He pressed it. Then he went on, leaning more toward her now and putting an arm out to touch her dress.
“Clare—it's been like a fog all these weeks—we've never had it out, we've never talked about it, but you've been disappointed in me. You thought I was going to write great books and I haven't—and then your mother—and I—don't get on. And then I suppose I'm stupid in society—I can't talk a lot to any one who comes along as all you people can. I've been brought up differently and—and—I know you don't like to think about that either, and so I'll never bring my old friends into the house and I'll see that I'm not such a gawk at your parties—”
He paused for a moment; she was looking down now and he couldn't see her eyes. He bent forward more closely—his arm caught her waist—his hand crushed hers—
She tried desperately to pull herself together to say something—
“No—there's nothing. Well, if there is—Of course I suppose it happens to all married people—”
“What happens?”
“Why, they find one another out a little. Things aren't quite as they thought they'd be. That must happen always.”
“But tell me—tell me the things in me that have disappointed you and then I can alter—”
“Well—it's a little as you say. You have been rather rude to Mother. And then—your quarrel—”
“What! You mean with Cards!”
“With—Jerry—yes. And then,” her voice was high and sharp now—her eyes avoided his—“I've always—been happy, until I married. Things frighten me. You don't understand me, Peter, how easily I'm frightened—you never seemed to see that. Other people—know.”
“I've been selfish—I—”
“Yes,” she went on still in that high voice, “and you never consider me in little things. And you laugh at me as though I were stupid. I don't suppose it's all your fault. You were brought up—roughly. But you are rough. You hurt me often. I can't bear,” her lip was trembling and she was nearly crying—“I can't bear being unhappy—”
“My God!” cried Peter, “what a beast I am! What a brute I've been!”
“Yes—and you never seemed to think that I minded poor little Stephen's death—the dear little thing—of course it hurt me dreadfully—and you never thought of me—”
“It's all going to be different now. Love me, Clare—love me and it will all come back. And then if you'll only love me I'll be able to write the most wonderful books. I'll be famous all the world over—if you'll only love me, Clare darling—”
He dropt on to his knees before her and looking up at her whispered—“Clare—darling, darling—you're all that I've got now—everything in the world. And in return I'll try to be everything to you. I'll spend my life in making you happy. I'll care for only one thing and that is to be your servant. Clare—Clare—”
She gave a little protesting cry—“Peter, Peter—don't—I—I—can't—” and then in a shuddering whisper—“Peter—I'm not good enough—I don't love you now—I—can't—”
But he had caught her, was holding her to him now, with both his arms round her, pressing her against his shirt, hurting her—at last covering her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks with kisses.
He had not heard those words now, in the triumph of having her back again, his as she had been on the first day of their marriage, did not feel her body unresponsive, her hands cold, nor did he see the appeal, wild and desperate, in her eyes....
At last he left her, closing, softly her door between them.