IV
It would need a very acute perception indeed to pursue precisely the train of cause and effect in Mrs. Rossiter's mind after young Stephen's death. Her black garments added, in the most astonishing fashion, to her placid flatness. If she had gloried before in an armour that was so negative that it became instantly exceedingly dangerous, her appearance now was terrifying beyond all words. Her black silk had apparently no creases, no folds—it almost eliminated terms and boundaries. Mrs. Rossiter could not now be said to come into a room—she was simply there. One was sitting, gazing it might be at the fire, a looking-glass, a picture or two, when suddenly there came a black shadow, something that changed the colour of things a little, something that obscured certain objects, but scarcely anything more definite. The yellow brooch was definite, cold, stony eyes hung a little above it, over those a high white forehead—otherwise merely a black shadow putting out the fire.
She was in the Roundabout now all the time. How poor Dr. Rossiter fared it was difficult to imagine, but he cared for Clare as deeply as his wife did and was quite ready for everything to be sacrificed to her at this crisis of her history.
Mrs. Rossiter, meanwhile, was entirely convinced that Peter was responsible for his son's death. Had you suddenly challenged her and demanded her reasoned argument with regard to this matter she would probably have failed you—she did not like reasoned arguments—but she would also have been most sincerely indignant had you called her a liar and would have sworn to her convictions before a court of law.
“Those Cornishmen” had frightened the poor little thing into fits and it was only to be expected. Moreover it followed from this that a man who murdered his only child would most assuredly take to beating his wife before very long. After that, anything might happen. Peter was on a swift road to being a “Perfect Devil.”
Indeed, allow Mrs. Rossiter two consecutive hours of peace and quiet, she, sitting like the personification of the English climate, alone before her fire, and she could make any one into anything—once made so they remained.
It mattered nothing to her that poor Peter was, during these weeks, the most subdued and gently courteous of husbands—that was as it might be (a favourite phrase of hers). She knew him ... and, so knowing, waited for the inevitable end.
But the more certain she was of his villainous possibilities the more placid she became. She spread her placidity over everything. It lay, like an invisible glue, upon everything in the Roundabout—you could feel it on the door-handles, as you feel the jammy reminiscences of incautious servant-maids. Peter felt it but did not know what it was that he had to deal with.
He had determined, when the sharpest shock of Stephen's death had passed, and he was able to think of other things, that the supremely important thing for him now to do was to get back to his old relations with Clare. There was, he grimly reflected, “Mortimer Stant” to be finished within a month or two and he knew, perfectly well, with the assurance of past experience that whilst Clare held the stage, Mortimer had the poorest of chances—nevertheless Clare was, at this moment, the thing to struggle for.
He must get her back—he must get her back.
Behind his brain, all this time, was the horror of being left alone in the world and of what he might do—then.
To get Clare back he must have the assistance of two people—Mrs. Rossiter and Cards.
It was at this point that he perceived Mrs. Rossiter's placidity.
He could not get at her at all—he could not get near her. He tried in every way, during these weeks, to please her. She apparently noticed nothing. He could force no direct opinion about anything from her and yet he was conscious of opposition. He was conscious of opposition, increasingly, every day.
“I believe she wants Clare to hate me,” he suddenly revealed to himself, and, with that, all hope of her as an ally vanished.
Then he hated her—he hated her more bitterly every day.
He wanted to tell her not to call him “Peter dear”—she loved to put him in positions that showed him in the worst light to Clare.
At luncheon for instance: “Peter dear, it would be a nice thing for you and Clare to go to that Private View at the Carfax this afternoon. You've nothing to do, Clare, have you?”
Peter knew that Mrs. Rossiter had already ascertained that he was engaged. He knew also that Clare had had no thought of Peter's company before but that now she would very speedily feel herself injured.
“I'm afraid—” Peter would begin.
“Peter's too engaged to take you, Clare dear.”
“I dare say Jerry will come—” this from Clare.
“Ah! yes, Mr. Cardillac is always ready to take any trouble, Peter.”
“If you'd let me know earlier, Clare, that you wanted me.”
Mrs. Rossiter. “Oh! don't put yourself out, Peter. It would never do to break an engagement. Only it seems such a long time since you and Clare—”
Peter. “We'll go to-morrow afternoon, Clare.”
Clare. “You're so gloomy when you do come, Peter. It's like going out with a ghost.”
Mrs. Rossiter. “Ah! Peter has his work, dear—so much hangs on the next book, doesn't it, Peter? Naturally the last one didn't quite—”
Peter. “Look here, Clare, I'll chuck this engagement.”
Clare. “No, thank you, Peter—Jerry and I will be all right. You can join us if you like—”
The fact was that Peter wasn't tactful. He showed Mrs. Rossiter much too plainly that he disliked her intensely. He had no idea that he showed it her. He thought, indeed, that he was very skilful in his disguise of his feelings but Mrs. Rossiter knew and soon Clare knew also.
Peter had no conception of subtlety in the matter. It was clear to him that he had once been devoted to Clare and she to him, it was clear also that that relationship had recently been dimmed. Now that Stephen was gone that early intimacy must be restored and the fact that he was willing on his side to do anything to bring it back seemed to him reason enough for its restoration. That the whole matter was composed of the most delicate and intricate threads never occurred to him for an instant. Clare had loved him once. Clare would love him again—and the sooner it happened the better for him.
Meanwhile Mrs. Rossiter being enemy rather than ally there remained Cards.
But Cards was strange. Peter could never claim to have been intimate with him—their relationship had been founded on an inequality, on a recognition from Peter of Cards' superiority. Cards had always laughed at Peter, always patronised him. But now, although Cards had been in the place so much of late, the distance seemed farther than ever before.
Cards was as kind as he could be—always in good spirits, always ready to do anything, but Peter noticed that it was only when Clare was present that Cards changed from jest to earnest. “He thinks Clare worth talking to seriously.... I suppose it's because he was at Dawson's ... but after all I'm not an imbecile.”
This attitude of Cards was in fact as vague and nebulous as all the other things that seemed now to stand between Peter and Clare.
Peter tried to talk to Cards—he was always prevented—held off with a laughing hand.
“What's the matter with me?” thought Peter. “What have I done? It's like being out in a fog.”
At last one evening, after dinner, when Clare and Mrs. Rossiter had gone upstairs he demanded an answer.
“Look here, Cards, what have I done? You profess to be a friend of mine. Tell me what crime I've committed?”
Cards' eyes had been laughing. Suddenly he was serious. His dark, clean-cut face was stern, almost accusing.
“Profess, Peter? I hope you don't doubt it?”
“No, of course not. You know you're the best friend I've got. Tell me—what have I done?”
“Done?”
“Yes—you and Clare and her mother—all of you keep me at arms' length—why?”
“Do you really want a straight talking?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I can only speak for myself—but—to tell the truth, old boy—I think you've been rather hard on poor little Clare.”
For the first time since his marriage Peter resented Cards' words. “Poor little Clare”—wasn't that a little too intimate?
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a little harder.
“Well—I don't think you understand her, Peter.”
“Explain.”
“She's a happy, merry person if ever there was one in this world. She wants all the happiness you can give her—”
“Well?”
“Well, you don't seem to see that. Of course young Stephen's death—”
“Let's leave that—” Peter's voice was harder again.
“Oh, all right—just as you please. But most men would have seen what a shock it must be to a girl, so young, who knew so little about the cruelty of life. You didn't—you don't mind, Peter, do you?—you didn't seem to think of that. Never tried to cheer her up, take her about, take her out of herself. You just wrapped yourself up—”
“You don't understand,” muttered Peter, his eyes lowered. “If I'd thought that she'd really minded Stephen's death—”
“Oh! come Peter—that's grossly unfair. Why, she felt it all most horribly. That shows how little you've understood her, how little you've appreciated her. You've always been a gloomy, morbid devil and—”
“All right, Cards—that'll do.”
Cards stood back from the table, his mouth smiling, his eyes hard and cold.
“Oh! no, it won't. You asked for it and now you're going to get it. You've not only been gloomy and morbid all your life, you've been selfish as well—always thinking of yourself and the books you were going to write, and then when they did come they weren't such great shakes. You oughtn't to have married at all—you've never considered Clare at all—your treatment of her—”
Peter stood up, his face white, so that his eyes and the lines of his mouth showed black in the shadow.
“Clear out—I've heard enough.”
“Oh! that's just like you—ask me for my opinion and then lose your temper over it. Really, Peter, you're like a boy of ten—you don't deserve to be treated as a grown-up person.”
Peter's voice shook. “Clear out—clear out or I'll do for you—get out of my house—”
“Certainly.”
Cards opened the door and was gone. Peter heard him hesitate for a moment in the hall, get his hat and coat and then close the hall-door after him.
The house was suddenly silent. Peter stood, his hands clenched. Then he went out into the hall.
He heard Mrs. Rossiter's voice from above—“Aren't you two men ever coming up?”
“Jerry's gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes—we've had a row.”
Mrs. Rossiter made no reply. He heard the drawing-room door close. Then he, too, took his coat and hat and went out.