Part 15

"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."