# Fortitude (Walpole)/Book 3/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
THE ENCOUNTER
I
PETER was now the young man of the moment. He took this elevation with frank delight, was encouraged by it, gave it all rather more, perhaps, than its actual value, began a new novel, “The Stone House,” started weekly reviewing on The Interpreter and yielded himself up entirely to Clare Rossiter.
He had been in love with her ever since that first day at Norah Monogue's, but the way that she gradually now absorbed him was like nothing so much as the slow covering of the rocks and the sand by the incoming tide. At first, in those days at Brockett's, she had seemed to him something mysterious, intangible, holy. But after that meeting in Cheyne Walk he knew her for a prize that some fortunate man might, one day, win. He did not, for an instant, suppose that he could ever be that one, but the mere imagined picture of what some other would one day have, sent the blood rushing through him. Her holiness for him was still intact but for another there would be human, earthly wonders.
Then, curiously, as he met her more often and knew her better there came a certain easy, almost casual, intercourse. One Clare Rossiter still reigned amongst the clouds, but there was now too another easy, fascinating, humorous creature who treated him almost like Alice Galleon herself—laughed at him, teased him, provoked him . . . suddenly, like a shadow across a screen, would slip away; and he be on his knees again before something that was only to be worshipped.
These two shapes of her crossed and were confused and again were parted. His thoughts were first worshipping in heaven, then dwelling with delight on witty, charming things that she had said.
​For that man, when he came, there would be a most wonderful treasure.
Peter now lost his appetite. He could not sleep at night. He would slip out of his room, cross the silent Chelsea streets and watch her dark window. He cultivated Mrs. Rossiter and that massive and complacent lady took it entirely to herself. Indeed, nothing, at this time was more remarkable than the little stir that Peter's devotion caused. It was perhaps that Clare had always had a cloud of young men about her, perhaps that Peter was thought to be having too wonderful a time, just now, to be falling in love as well—that would be piling Life on to Life! . . . no one could live under it.
Besides Mrs. Rossiter liked him . . . he was amazing, you see . . . people said . . .
And the next stage arrived.
One May evening, at the Galleons' house, when some one was playing the piano and all the world seemed to be sitting in corners Clare's hand lay suddenly against his. The smooth outer curve of his hand lay against her palm. Their little fingers touched. Sheets of fire rose, inflamed him and fell . . . rose again and fell. His hand began to shake, her hand began to shake. He heard, a thousand miles away, some one singing about “the morn.”
Their hands parted. She rose and slowly, her white dress and red-gold hair flung against a background that seemed to him black and infinite, crossed the room.
That trembling of her hand had maddened him. It suddenly showed him that he—as well as another—might run the race for her. Everything that he had ever done or been—his sentiments, his grossnesses, his restraints and his rebellions—were now concerned in this pursuit. No other human being—Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice—now had any interest for him. His reviews were written he knew not how, the editions of “Reuben Hallard” might run into the gross for all he cared, “The Stone House” lay neglected.
And he avoided seeing her. He was afraid to spoil that moment when her hand had shaken at the touch of his, and yet he was tormented by the longing for a new meeting that might provide some new amazement. Perhaps he would ​hold her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his own! And his heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a splendid terror.
Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy.
For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the room—the black bulk of Scaw House—the trees, the windows, his father. . .
And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in the town. He could get up and dress now—a cab would soon take him there . . . in the early morning he could slink back.
Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared.
He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house. . . .
And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey, shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him—Stephen, walking the road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and the scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew.
He would write to Stephen in the morning—he lay down and went to sleep.
By this time, meanwhile, Alice and Bobby had noticed Alice, indeed, had a number of young men over whose emotions she kept guard and Peter had become, during these weeks, very valuable to her. . . .
She did not want him to marry anybody—especially she did not want him to marry Clare. At breakfast, past Peter's ears, as though he were not concerned at all, she talked to Bobby—
“Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare bevond all bounds—”
“Um?”
“He's taking her with him up to Glasgow to that Congress thing. He knows perfectly well that she ought to stay with Mrs. Rossiter—and so does she.”
​“Well, it's no business of ours—” Bobby's usual tolerant complacency.
“It is. Clare might be a fine creature if she didn't let herself be spoiled in this way. She's perpetually selfish and she ought to be told so.”
“We're all perpetually selfish,” said Bobby who began to be sorry for Peter.
“Oh! no, we're not. I'm very fond of Clare but I don't envy the man who marries her. There's no one in the world more delightful when she has her own way and things go smoothly, but they've wrapped her up in cotton wool to such an extent that she simply doesn't know how to live out of it. She's positively terrified of Life.”
This, as Alice had intended, was too much for Peter. He burst out—
“I think Miss Rossiter's the pluckiest girl I've ever met. She's afraid of nothing.”
“Except of being uncomfortable,” Alice retorted. “That frightens her into fits. Make her uncomfortable, Peter, and you'll see—”
And, red in the face, Peter answered—“I don't think you ought to talk of any one who's so fond of you behind her back in that way—”
“Oh! I say just the same to her face. I'm always telling her these things and she always agrees and then's just as selfish at ever. That absurd little father of hers has spoilt her!”
Spoilt! Clare spoilt! Peter smiled darkly. Alice Galleon—delightful woman though she was, of course couldn't endure that another woman should receive such praise—Jealousy! Ah! . . .
And the aged and weighty author of “Reuben Hallard,” to whom the world was naturally an open book, and life known to its foundations, nodded to himself. How people, intelligent enough in other ways, could be so short-sighted!
Afterwards, when they were alone, Bobby took him in hand—
“You're in love with Clare Rossiter, Peter,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” Peter answered defiantly.
“But you've known her so short a time!”
“What's that to do with it?”
​“Oh, nothing, of course. But do you think you're the sort of people likely to get on?”
“Really, Bobby, I don't—”
“I know—none of my business—quite true. But you see I've known Clare pretty well all my life and you're the best friend I've got, so you might allow me to take an interest.”
“Well, say what you like.”
“Nothing to say except that Clare isn't altogether an easy problem. You're like all the other fellows I know— think because Clare's got red hair and laughs easily she's a goddess—she isn't, not a bit! She's got magnificent qualities and one day perhaps, when she's had a thoroughly bad time, she'll show one the kind of things she's made of. But she's an only child, she's been spoilt all her life and the moment she begins to be unhappy she's impossible.”
“She shan't ever be unhappy if I can help it!” muttered Peter fiercely.
Bobby laughed. “You'll do your best of course, but are you the sort of man for her? She wants some one who'll give her every kind of comfort, moral, physical and intellectual. She wants somebody who'll accept her enthusiasms as genuine intelligence. You'll find her out intellectually in a week. Then she wants some one who'll give her his whole attention. You think now that you will but you won't—you can't—you're not made that way. By temperament and trade you're an artist. She thinks, at the moment, that an artist would suit her very well; but, in reality, my boy, he's the very last sort of person she ought to marry.”
Peter caught at Bobby's words. “Do you really think she cares about me?”
“She's interested. Clare spends her days in successive enthusiasms. She's always being enthusiastic—dreadful disillusions in between the heights. Mind you, there's another side of Clare—a splendid side, but it wants very careful management and I don't know, Peter, that you're exactly the sort of person—”
“Thanks very much,” said Peter grimly.
“No, but you're not—you don't, in the least, see her as she is, and she doesn't see you as you are—hence these ​misguided attempts on my part to show you one another.”
But Peter had not been listening.
“Do you really think,” he muttered, “that she cares about me?”
Bobby looked at him, laughed and shrugged his shoulders in despair.
“Ah! I see—it's no use,” he said, “poor dear Peter—well, I wish you luck!”
And that was the end as far as Alice and Bobby were concerned. They never alluded to it again and indeed now seemed to favour meetings between Clare and Peter.
And now, through these wonderful Spring weeks, these two were continually together. The Galleons had, at first, been inclined to consider Clare's obvious preference for Peter as the simplest desire to be part of a general rather heady enthusiasm. “Clare loves little movements. . .” And Peter, throughout this Spring was a little movement. The weeks went on, and Clare was not herself—silent, absorbed, almost morose. One day she asked Alice Galleon a number of questions about Peter, and, after that, resolutely avoided speaking of him. “Of course,” Alice said to Bobby—“Dr. Rossiter will let her marry any one she likes. She'll have plenty of money and Peter's going to have a great career. After all it may be the best thing.”
Bobby shook his head. “They're both egoists,” he said. “Peter because he's never had anything he wanted and Clare because she's always had everything . . . it won't do.”
But, after ail, when May gave place to burning June. Bobby and Alice were inevitably drawn into that romance. They yielded to an atmosphere that both, by temperament, were too sentimental to resist.
Nearer and nearer was coming that intoxicating moment of Peter's final plunge, and Clare—beautiful, these weeks, with all the excitement of the wonderful episode—saw him as a young god who had leapt upon a submissive London and conquered it.
Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon played waiting chorus. Mrs. Launce from her little house in Westminster, was, as usual, glowing with a piece of other people's happiness. Bobby and Alice had surrendered to the atmosphere. All ​were, of course, silent—until the word is spoken no movement must be made—the little god is so easily alarmed.
At last towards the close of this hot June, Mrs. Launce proposed to Clare a week-end at her Sussex cottage by the sea. She also told Peter that she could put him up if he chose to come down at the same time. What could be more delightful in this weather?
“Dear Clare, only the tiniest cottage as you know—no one else unless Peter Westcott happens to come down—I suggested it, and you can see the sea from your window and there's a common and a donkey, and you can roll in the sand—” Mrs. Launce, when she was very happy betrayed her French descent by the delightful way that she rolled her r's.
“Not a soul anywhere near—we can bathe all day.”
Clare would love to come—so strangely enough would Peter—“The 5.30 train then—Saturday. . . .” Dear Mrs. Launce in her bonnet and blue silk! Clare had never thought her so entirely delightful!
Peter, of course, plainly understood the things that dear Mrs. Launce intended. His confidence in her had been, in no way, misplaced—she loved a wedding and was the only person in the world who could bring to its making so fine a compound of sentiment and common sense. She frankly loved it all and though, at the moment, occupied with the work of at least a dozen women, and with a family that needed her most earnest care, she hastened to assist the Idyll.
Peter's own feelings were curiously confused. He was going to propose to Clare; and now he seemed to face, suddenly, the change that this must mean to him. Those earlier months, when it had been pursuit with no certainty of capture had only shown him one thing desirable—Clare. But now that he was face to face with it he was frightened—what did he know of women? . . .
On the morning they were to go down, he sat in his room, this terrible question confronting him. No, he knew nothing about women! He had left his heroine very much alone in “Reuben Hallard” and those occasions when he had been obliged to bring her on the stage had not been too successful. He knew nothing about women!
​There would be things—a great many—as a married man, he would have to change. Sometimes he was moody for days together and wanted to see no one. Sometimes he was so completely absorbed by his work that the real people around him were shadows and wraiths. These moods must vanish. Clare must always find him ready and cheerful and happy.
A dreadful sense of inadequacy weighed upon Peter. And then at the concrete fact of her actual presence, at the thought of her standing there, waiting for him, wanting him, his doubts left him and he was wildly, madly happy.
And yet, before he left the room, his glance fell on his writing-table. White against its shining surface lay a paper and on the top sheet, written: “The Stone House”; a Novel; Chapter II. Months ago—he had not touched it all these last weeks, and, at this moment he felt he would never write anything again. He turned away with a little movement of irritation. . . .
That morning he went formally to Dr. Rossiter. The little man received him, smiling.
“I want to marry your daughter, sir,” said Peter.
“You're very young,” said the Doctor.
“Twenty-six,” said Peter.
“Well, if she'll have you I won't stand in your way—”
Peter took the 5.30 train. . . .
II
Mrs. Launce, on Sunday afternoon, from the door of her cottage, watched them both strike across the common towards the sea—Peter, “stocky,” walking as though no force on earth could upset his self-possession and sturdy balance, Clare with her little body and easy movement meant for this air and sea and springing turf. Mrs. Launce having three magnificent children of her own believed in the science of Eugenics heart and soul. Here, before her eyes, was the right and proper Union—talk about souls and spirit and temperament—important enough for the immediate Two—but give Nature flesh and bones, with cleanliness and a good straight stock to work on, and see what She will do!
​Mrs. Launce went into the cottage again and prepared herself for an announcement at tea-time. She wiped her eyes before she settled down to her work. Loving both of them the thought of their happiness hung about her all the afternoon and made her very tender and forgiving when the little parlourmaid arrived with a piece of the blue and white china smashed to atoms. “I can't think 'ow it 'appened, Mum. I was just standing. . . .”
Peter and Clare, crossing the common, beheld the sea at their feet. It was a hot misty afternoon and only the thin white line of tiny curling waves crept out of the haze on to the gleaming yellow sand. Behind them, on every side was common and the only habitation, a small cottage nearly hidden by a black belt of trees, on their right. These black, painted trees lay like a blot of ink against the blue sky.
Sitting down on the edge of the common they looked on to the yellow sand. The air was remorselessly still as though the world were cased in iron; somewhere deep within its silence, its heart might yet be beating, but the depths hid its reverberation.
Peter lay flat on his back and instantly his world was full of clamour. All about him insects were stirring, the thin stiff blades of grass were very faintly rustling, a tiny blue butterfly flew up from the soil into the bright air—some creature sang a little song that sounded like the faint melody of a spinet.
“All praising the Lord, I suppose—“Peter listened. “Hymn and glory songs and all the rest—”
Then, clashing, out of the heart of the sky, the thought followed. “There must be a God” —the tinkling insect told him so.
He gazed into the great sheet of blue above him, so remote, so cruel . . . and yet the tiny blue butterfly flew, without fear, into its very heart.
Peter's soul was drawn up. He swung, he flew, he fled. . . . Down below, there on the hard, brown soil his body lay—dust to the dust—there, dead amongst the singing insects. . . . He looked down, from his great heights and saw his body, with its red face and its suit of blue and its up-turned boots, and here, in freedom his Soul exulted!
​“Of course there is a God!”
They are praising him down there—the ground is covered with creatures that are praising Him. Peter buried his eyes and instantly his soul came swinging down to him, found his body again, filled once more his veins with life and sound. After a vast silence he could hear, once more, the life amongst the grass, the faint rustle of the thin line of foam beneath him, and could smell the earth and the scent of the seaweed borne up to them from the sand.
“It's so still,” he said suddenly, “that it's almost like thunder. There'll be a storm later. On a day like this in Cornwall you would hear the sound of the Mining Stamps for miles—”
“Well,” she answered, “I am glad we're not in Cornwall—I hate it.”
“Hate it!”
“Yes. That sounds horrible to you, I suppose, and I'm quite ready to admit that it's my cowardice. Cornwall frightens me. When I was there as a tiny girl it was just the same. I always hated it.”
“I don't believe you're ever frightened at anything.”
“I am. I'm under such a disadvantage, you see. If I'd been white-faced and haggard every one would have thought it quite natural that I should scream if I were left in the dark or hate being left alone with those horrible black rocks that Cornwall's so full of, but just because I'm healthy and was taught to hold my back up at school I have to pretend to a bravery that simply doesn't exist—”
He rejected, for the moment the last part of her sentence. “Oh, but I understand perfectly what you mean by your fear of Cornwall, Of course I understand it although I love the place with all my soul and body. But it is terrifying—almost the only terrifying place that civilisation has left to us—Central Africa is nothing to it—”
“Are you afraid of it?” she said, looking at him intently.
“Tremendously—because I suppose it won't let me alone. It's difficult to put into words, but I think what I mean is that I want to go on now in London, writing and seeing people and being happy and it's pulling at me all the time.”
​“What way pulling at you?”
“I can't get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there. I wasn't very happy, you know. I've told you something about it. . . . I want to go back. . . . I want to go back. I mustn't, but I want to go back—and it hurts—”
He seemed to have forgotten her—he stared out to sea, his hands holding the grass in either side of him.
She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her laughing.
“Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the black trees reminded me of Scaw House a little. . . . But it's all right really. I suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and I've had such a rum life and been civilised so short a time. . . .”
She said slowly: “I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of it to be frightened of it—I don't want life to be like that. I don't suppose I've got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one to be hurt or damaged. Oh!”—her voice was suddenly like a cry—“Why can't we just go through life without any one being frightened or made miserable? I believe in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions—all those other things can only hurt.”
“They teach courage,” Peter answered gravely. “And that's about the only thing we're here to learn, I expect. My mother died because she wasn't brave enough and I want . . . I want. . . .”
He broke off—“There's only one thing I want and that's you, Clare. You must have known all these weeks that I love you. I've loved you ever since I met you that Good Friday afternoon years ago. Let me take care of you, see that no one hurts you—love you . . . love you—”
“Do you really want me, Peter?”
He didn't speak but his whole body turned towards her, answered her question.
“Because I am yours entirely. I became yours that day when your hand touched mine. I wasn't sure before—I knew then—”
He looked at her. He saw her, he thought for the first ​time. She sat with her hands pressing on the grass, her body bent back a little.
The curve from her neck to her feet was like the shadow of some colour against the brown earth because he saw her only dimly. Her hair burnt against the blue sky but her eyes—her eyes! His gaze caught hers and he surrendered himself to that tenderness, that mystery, that passion that she flung about him. In her eyes he saw what only a lover can see—the terror and the splendour of a soul surprised for the first time into love. She was caught, she was trapped, she was gorgeously delivered. In her eyes he saw that he had her in the hollow of his hand and that she was glad to be there.
But even now they had not touched—they had not moved from their places. They were urged towards one another by some fierce power but also some great suspense still restrained them.
Then Clare spoke, hurriedly, almost pleadingly.
“But Peter, listen—before I say any more—you must know me better. I think that it is just because I love you so much that I see myself clearly to-day as I have never seen myself before—although I have, I suppose really known . . . things . . . but I have denied them to myself. But now I know that all that I say is true—”
“I am ready,” he said, smiling.
But she did not smile back at him, she was intensely serious, she spoke without moving her eyes from his face.
“It is not altogether my fault. I have been an only child and everything that I have wanted I have always had. I have despised my mother and even my father because they have given in to me—that is not a pleasant thing to know. And now, comfort, happiness, an absence of all misery, these things are essential—”
“I will look after you,” said Peter. It was almost with irritation that she brushed aside his assurance.
“Yes, yes, I know, but you must understand that it's more than that. If I am unhappy I am another creature you haven't seen . . . you don't know. . . . If I am frightened—”
“But Clare, dear, we're all like that—”
​“No, it's sheer wickedness with me. Oh! Peter I love you so much that you must listen. You mustn't think afterwards, ah, if I'd only known—”
“Aren't you making too much of it all? We've all got these things and it's just because we can help each other that we marry. We give each the courage—”
“I've always been frightened,” she said slowly, “always when anything big comes along—always. And this is the biggest thing I've ever met. If only it had been some ordinary man . . . but you, Peter, that I should hurt you.”
“You won't hurt me,” he answered her, “and I'd rather be hurt by you than helped by some one else—let's leave all this. If you love me, there's nothing else to say. . . Do you love me, Clare?”
“Yes, Peter.”
Then suddenly before he could move towards her a storm that had been creeping upon them, burst over their heads. Five minutes ago there had been no sign of anything but the finest weather, but, in a moment the black clouds had rolled up and the thunder broke, clashing upon the world. The sea had vanished.
“We must run for it,” cried Peter, raising his voice against the storm. “That cottage over there—it's the only place.”
They ran. The common was black now—the rain drove hissing, against the soil, the air was hot with the faint sulphur smell.
Peter flung himself upon the cottage door and Clare followed him in. For a moment they stood, breathless. Then Peter, conscious only that Clare was beside him, wild with the excitement of the storm, caught her, held her for a moment away from him, breathed the thunder that was about them all, and then kissed her mouth, wet with the rain.
She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder.
“Why, you're not frightened?” The sense of her helplessness filled him with a delicious vigour. The way that her hand pressed in upon his shoulder exalted him. Her wet golden hair brushed his cheek. Then he remembered ​that they had invaded the cottage. For the first time it occurred to him that their first embrace might have been observed; he turned around.
The room was filthy, a huge black fire-place occupied most of it, the floor was littered with pieces of paper, of vegetables and a disagreeable smell protested against the closed and dirty windows. At first it seemed that this place was empty and then, with a start, he was aware that two eyes were watching them. The thunder pealed above them, the rain lashed the roof and ran streaming from the eaves; the cottage was dark; but he saw in a chair, a bundle of rags from which those eyes were staring.
Clare gave a little cry; an old woman with a fallen chin and a face like yellow parchment sat huddled in the chair.
Peter spoke to her. “I hope you don't mind our taking shelter here, whilst the storm passes.” She had seen them embrace; it made him uncomfortable, but the storm was passing away, already the thunder was more distant.
The old woman made no reply, only her eyes glared at them.
Peter put his hand in Clare's—“It's all right; I think the old thing's deaf and dumb and blind—look, the storm's passing—there's a bit of blue sky. Isn't it odd an old thing like that. . .”
Clare shuddered a little. “I don't like it—she's horrid—this place is so dirty. I believe the rain's stopped.”
They opened the door and the earth met them, good and sweet, after the shower. The sky was breaking, the mists were leaving the sea and as the storm vanished, the sun, dipping towards the horizon flung upon the blue a fleet of tiny golden clouds.
Peter bent down to the old woman.
“Thank you,” he said, “for giving us shelter.” He placed a shilling on her lap.
“She's quite deaf and blind,” he said. “Poor old thing!”
They closed the door behind them and passed down a little path to the seashore. Here wonders met them. The sand, wet with the recent storm catching all the colours ​of the sky shone with mother of pearl—here a pool of blue, there the fleet of golden clouds.
It stretched on every side of them, blazing with colour. Behind them the common, sinking now into the dull light of evening.
They stood, little pigmies, on that vast painted floor. Before them the breeze, blowing back the waves into the sun again turned the spray to gold.
Tiny figures, in all this glory, they embraced. In all the world they seemed the only living thing . . . .
III
They had their witness. The old woman who lived in the heart of those black trees, was deaf and dumb indeed, but her eyes were alive in her fading and wrinkled body.
When the door had closed she rose slowly from her chair, and her face was wrinkled with the passion of the hatred that her old soul was feeling.
What did they mean, those two, coming there and haunting her with their youth and strength and love. Kissing there before her as the ugh she were already dead—she to whom kisses were only bitter memories.
Her face worked with fury—she hobbled, painfully, to the door and opened it.
Below her, on a floor of gold, two black figures stood together.
Gazing at them she raised her thin and trembling hand; she flung with a passionate, furious gesture, something from her.
A small silver coin glittered in the air, whistled for a moment and fell.