AND FINDS SOME ONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF
Millie stood in Peter's room looking about her with uneasy discomfort.
She was alone there: Peter, after greeting her, had gone into the
bedroom. She felt that he was in there protesting and arguing with some
one who refused a meeting. She hated him for putting her in so false
a position. She was tired with her day's work. Victoria, now that she
was engaged, allowing, nay encouraging, moods to sweep across her as
swiftly as clouds traverse the sun. She would wait only a moment longer
and then she would go. She had kept her word to Peter by coming. That
was enough.
The door opened, and a little woman, a shawl around her shoulders, came
out, moved to the sofa without looking at Millie, and lay down upon
it. Peter followed her, arranged the cushions for her, drew a little
table to her side and placed a cup and saucer upon it. Millie, in spite
of herself, was touched by the careful clumsiness of his movements.
Nevertheless she longed to do these things herself.
Peter turned to her. "Clare, dear," he said, "I want you to know a very
great friend of mine, Miss Trenchard. Millie, dear, this is my wife."
Millie came over to the sofa, and in spite of her proud self-control
her heart beat with pity. She realized at that instant that here was
a woman who had gone so far in life's experience beyond her own timid
venturings that there could be no comparison at all between them. Her
passionate love of truth was one of her finest traits; one glance at
Clare Westcott's face and her own little story faded into nothingness
before that weariness, that anger, that indignation.
She took Clare's hand and then sat down, drawing a chair closer to the
sofa. Peter had left the room.
"It's kind of you to come and see me," Clare said indifferently, her
eyes roaming about the room.
"Peter asked me," said Millie.
"Oh, I know," Clare said. "Do come and see my poor wife. She's very
ill, she hasn't long to live. She's had a very bad time. You'll cheer
her up. Wasn't that it?"
Millie laughed. "He said that you'd been ill and he'd like me to come
and see you. But I believe it was more to do me good than you. I've
been in a bit of trouble myself and have altogether been thinking too
much about myself."
Millie's laugh attracted Clare's attention. Her wandering glance
suddenly settled on Millie's face.
"You're beautiful," she said. "I like all that bright colour. Purple
suits you and you wear clothes well, too, which hardly any English
girls do. It's clever, that little bit of white there. . . . Nice shoes
you have . . . lovely hair. I wonder . . ."
She broke off, staring at Millie. "Why, of course! You're the girl
Peter's in love with."
"Me!"
"Yes, you. Of course I discovered after I'd been back an hour that
there was somebody. Peter isn't so subtle but that you can't find out
what he's thinking. Besides, I knew him twenty years ago and he hasn't
changed as much as I have. _You're_ the girl! Well, I'm not sorry. I
did him an injury twenty years ago, more or less ruined his life for
him, and I won't be sorry to do him a good turn before I go. You won't
have long to wait, my dear. I was very nearly finished last night, if
you want to know. I can tell you a few things about Peter that it will
be good for you to understand if you're going to live with him."
"Oh, but you're wrong! You're entirely wrong!" cried Millie. "I'm sure
Peter doesn't love me, and even if he did--anyway, I don't love him. I
was engaged until a few days ago. It has just been broken off--some one
I loved very much. That's the trouble I spoke about just now."
"Tell me about it," said Clare, looking at her with eyes half-closed.
"Oh, but you wouldn't--it isn't----"
"Yes, I would . . . Yes, it is. . . . Remember there's nothing about
men I don't know. You look so young: you can't know very much. Perhaps
I can help you."
"No," said Millie, shaking her head. "You can't help me. No one can
help me but myself. It's all over--quite, quite over."
"What did he do, the young man?"
"We were engaged six months ago. Meanwhile he was really engaged to
another girl in his own village. She is going to have a baby this
month--his baby. I didn't know of this. He never would have told me if
some one hadn't gone to his village and found it all out."
"Some one? Who? A woman?"
"Yes. She thought she was helping me."
"Are you sure it's true?"
"Yes. He admitted it himself."
"Hum. Were you very much in love with him?"
"Yes, terribly."
"No, not terribly, my dear, or you'd have gone off with him whatever
happened. Do you love him still?"
"I don't know. He doesn't seem to belong to me any more. It was
knowing that he wasn't going to help that poor girl about her baby
that came right down between us. That was cruel, and cruelty's worse
than anything. He could have been cruel to me--he was sometimes, and I
daresay I was to him. People generally are when they are in love with
one another. But that poor girl----"
"Never mind that poor girl. We don't know how much of it was her
doing. Perhaps she's not going to have a baby at all. Anyway, it may
not be his baby. No, if you'd been really in love with him you'd have
gone down to that village and found it all out for yourself, the
exact truth. And then, probably you'd have married him even if it had
been true. . . . Oh, yes, you would. My dear, you're too young to
know anything about love yet. Now tell me--weren't you feeling very
uncertain about it all long before this happened?"
"I had some miserable times."
"Yes, more and more miserable as time went on. But not so miserable as
they are now. I know. But what you're feeling now is loneliness. And
soon you won't be lonely with your prettiness and health and love of
life."
"Oh, you're wrong! you're wrong!" cried Millie. "You are indeed. Love
is over for me. I'm never going to think of it again. That part of my
life's done."
Clare smiled. "Good God, how young you are!" she said. "I was like that
myself once, another life, another world. But I was never like you,
never lovely as you are. I was pretty in a commonplace kind of way.
Pretty enough to turn poor Peter's head. That's about all. Now listen,
and I'll tell you a little about myself. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes," said Millie.
The memory came to her of Peter telling her this same story; for a
flashing second she saw him standing beside her, the look that he gave
her. Was she not glad now that he loved her?
Clare began: "I was the daughter of a London doctor--an only child.
My parents spoilt me terribly, and I thought I was wonderful, clever,
and beautiful and everything. Of course, I always meant to be married,
and there were several young men I was considering, and then Peter
came along. He had just published his first book and it was a great
success. Every one was talking about it. He was better-looking then
than he is now, not so fat, and he had a romantic history--starving in
the slums and some one discovered him and just saved his life. He was
wildly in love with me. I thought he was going to be great and famous,
and I liked the idea of being the wife of a famous man. And then for a
moment, perhaps, I really was in love with him, physically, you know.
And I knew nothing about life, nothing whatever. I thought it would be
always comfortable and safe, that I should have my way in everything
as I always had done. Well, we were married, and it went wrong from
the beginning. Peter knew nothing about women at all. He had strange
friends whom I couldn't bear. Then I had a child and that frightened
me. Then he got on badly with mother, who was always interfering. Then
the other books weren't as successful as the first, and I thought he
ought to give me more good times and grudged the hours he spent over
his work. Then our boy died and the last link between us seemed to be
broken. . . . Well, to cut a long story short, his best friend came
along and made love to me, and I ran off with him to Paris."
"Oh!" cried Millie, "poor Peter!"
"Yes, and poor me too, although you may not believe it. I only ran off
with him because I hated my London life so and hated Peter and wanted
some one to make a fuss of me. I hadn't been in Paris a week before
I knew my mistake. Never run off with a man you're not married to,
my dear, if you're under thirty. You're simply asking for it. He was
disappointed too, I suppose--at any rate after about six months of it
he left me on some excuse and went off to the East. I wasn't sorry; I
was thinking of Peter again and I'd have gone back to him, I believe,
if my mother hadn't prevented me. . . . Well, I lived with her in Paris
for two years and then--and then--Maurice appeared."
She stopped, closing her eyes, lying back against her cushions, her
hand on her heart. She shook her head when Millie wanted to fetch
somebody.
At last she went on: "No, let's have this time alone together. It may
be the only time we'll get . . . Maurice . . . yes. That was love,
if you like. Didn't I know the difference? You bet! He was a French
poet. Funny! two writers, Peter and Maurice, when I myself hadn't the
brain of a snail. But Maurice didn't care about my brain. I don't
know what he did care about--but I gave him the best I had. He was
married already of course, and so was I, but we went off together and
travelled. He had some money--not very much, but enough--and things I
wouldn't have endured for Peter's sake I adored for Maurice's.
"We settled down finally in Spain and had three divine years. Then
Maurice fell ill, money ran short, I fell ill, everything was wrong.
But never our love--that never changed, never faltered. We quarrelled
sometimes, of course, but even in the middle of the worst of our fights
we knew that it wasn't serious, that really nothing _could_ separate us
but death--for once that sentimental phrase was justified. Well, death
_did_. Two months before the War he died. My mother had died the year
before and as I learnt later my father two years before. But I didn't
care what happened to me. When real love has come to you, then you do
know what loneliness means. The War gave me something to do but my
heart was all wrong. I fell ill again in Paris, was all alone, tried to
die and couldn't, tried to live and couldn't. . . . We won't talk about
that time if you don't mind.
"I had often thought of Peter, of course. I felt guilty about him as
about nothing else in my life. He was so young when I married him,
such an infant, so absurdly romantic; I spoilt everything for him as
I couldn't have spoilt it for most men. He is such a child still.
That's why you ought to marry him, my dear, because you're such a child
too. And your brother--infants all three of you. I used to think of
returning to him. I myself was romantic enough to think that he might
still be in love with me, and although I was much too tired to care
for any one again, the thought of some one caring for me again was
pleasant. Twice I nearly hunted him out. Once hunger almost drove me
but I tried not to go for that reason, having, you see, still a scrap
of sentiment about me. Then a man who'd been very good to me but at
last couldn't stand my moods and tantrums any longer left me--small
blame to him!--and I gathered my last few coppers together and came
to Peter. I nearly died on his doorstep--now instead I'm going to die
inside. It's warmer and more comfortable."
"No, no, no, you're not!" cried Millie. "You're going to live. Peter
and I will see to it. We're going to make you live."
Clare frowned.
"Don't be sentimental, my dear. Face facts. It would be extremely
tiresome for you if I lived. You may not be in love with Peter but you
like him very much, and there'll be nothing more awkward for you than
having a sick woman lying round here----"
Millie broke in:
"There you're wrong! you're wrong indeed! I'd love to make you well.
It isn't sentiment. It's truth. How have I dared to tell you about my
silly little affair when you've suffered as you have! How selfish I am
and egoistic--give me a chance to help you and I'll show you what I can
do."
Clare shook her head again. "Well, then," she said, "if I can't put you
off that way I'll put you off another. You'd bore me in a week, you and
Peter. I've been with bad people so long that I find good ones very
tiresome. Mother was bad. That's a terrible thing to say about your
mother, isn't it?--but it's true. And I've got a bad strain from her.
You're a nice girl and beautiful to look at, but you're too English for
me. I should feel as though you were District Visiting when you came to
see me. Just as I feel about Peter when he drops his voice and walks
so heavily on tip-toe and looks at me with such anxious eyes. No, my
dear, I've told you all this because I want you to make it up to Peter
when I've gone. You're ideally suited to one another. When I look at
him I feel as though I'd been torturing one of those white mice we used
to keep at school. I'm not for you and you're not for me. My game's
finished. I'll give you my blessing and depart."
Millie flushed and answered slowly: "How do you know I'm so good?
How do you know I know nothing about life? Perhaps I _have_ deceived
myself over this love affair. It was my first: I gave him all I
could. Perhaps you're right. If I'd loved him more I'd have given him
everything. . . . But I don't know. Is it being a District Visitor to
respect yourself and him? Is the body more important than anything
else? I don't call myself good. . . . I don't call myself bad. It's
only the different values we put on things."
Clare looked at her curiously. "Perhaps you're right," she said.
"Physical love when that's all there is, is terribly disappointing--an
awful sell. I could have been a friend of yours if I'd been younger.
There! Get up a moment--stand over there. I want to look at you!"
Millie got up, crossed the room and stood, her arms at her side, her
eyes gravely watching.
Clare sat up, leaning on her elbow. "Yes, you're lovely. Men will be
crazy about you--you'd better marry Peter quickly. And you're fine too.
There's spirit in you. Move your arm. So! Now turn your head. . . . Ah,
that's good! That's _good_! . . ."
She suddenly turned, buried her face in the cushions and burst into
tears. Millie ran across to her and put her arms round her. Clare lay
for a moment, her body shaken with sobs. Then she pushed her away.
"No, no. I don't want petting. It's only--what it all might have been.
You're so young: it's all before you. It's over for me--over, over!"
She gave her one more long look.
"Now go," she said, "go quickly--or I'll want to poison you. Leave me
alone----"
Millie took her hat and coat and went out into the rain.