Peter blundered away into the streets, an outcast. He walked furiously
about, getting in the way of people who looked for pleasure.
He lived again the late encounter. Remotely he saw himself quietly at
the feet of Lady Mary, before he had lost his happy peace. Then the
storm was loose, and he saw her merely as one to be desired and held.
Finally, his imagination inexorably came full circle in the cold shame
with which he had left her. He repeated continually the moment when his
kisses had gone out, and he knew them for the vulgar gust of his
jealousy. Their passion had not been true. Lady Mary had cried in bitter
verity. They dishonoured her.
Was all the story equally a falsehood? Peter dipped for assurance back
into the quiet past. He floated again with Lady Mary under a dying sky,
and saw her unattainably fair, with a hand that quietly rested under
his. Surely this had been wonderful. Not even the stain of his brutal
hunger for her dedicated beauty could destroy it.
Why, then, did he so certainly know that his passion to-night was evil?
His conscience, bringing him to a reckoning, told him that he did not
love her. There was a rift, not to be closed, between his adoration of
Lady Mary and the passion with which he had thought to claim her. He
put Wenderby aside, and asked himself whether he could ever have taken
her by right of a vital need. His imagination would not allow him to do
so. He could only see himself for ever kneeling, or delicately touching
her as an exquisite privilege. He could not again repeat the physical
claim. Mere coveting had prompted it. The soul had perished on his lips.
How instantly she had read the quality of his act. Every beat of the
quick moment of his taking her was minutely divided in his memory. He
felt again her surrender, her expectation of the kiss she could not
deny--the farewell moment of her youth to be expiated in years of
sacrifice. Then suddenly she had rebelled, feeling the soul go out of
him, protesting against her dishonour.
Peter quailed to think how he had tortured her. He knew now that Lady
Mary loved him. She had been outraged where most she was virginal.
For a moment Peter caught at a hope that yet the mysterious rift might
close between the soul and body of his love. Must he always be thus
divided? Was he never to know a perfect passion where the blood ran in
obedient rapture to celebrate the meeting of two in one? He remembered
the beautiful girl he had tracked on a summer night, to shrink from
taking her because his spirit was her enemy. Now that he in spirit loved
Lady Mary--he insistently fought through to-day's murk back to his
adoration--he was still divided. His moment of hope died out. He had no
right to Lady Mary. He could not passionately claim her. His passion
would fail again, as to-night it had failed, leaving only the senses to
be fed.
He did not love her. Brutally it came to that. Lady Mary must take the
way she had herself appointed. She could not be asked to put away the
work of her life in return for a worship that fed upon the air, or for a
hunger that seized on a vanishing feast. Himself he felt entirely in her
hands. He hoped to be forgiven, and accepted as the witness of her
dedicated life. But he did not expect it, or make a claim.
He reached Curzon Street at ten o'clock, and found his mother returned
from dining out. Mrs. Paragon now had her own friends. She quietly came
and went, usually not asking how Peter fared. All his time was taken up
with Lady Mary, and with Lady Mary she left the issue in perfect trust.
But to-night she was startled from her assurance. Peter, unaware that he
betrayed himself, had the face of a soul newly admitted to damnation.
"What has happened to you, Peter?" she asked.
"Nothing, mother."
She came to him where he had flung himself into a chair beside the fire.
"Has Lady Mary sent you away?"
Peter stared at her in amazement. He had never talked of Lady Mary. But
he always accepted his mother's mysterious knowledge.
"She is soon to be married, mother."
"Lord Wenderby?"
This was more than Peter could accept.
"You know that also?" he exclaimed.
"I saw Lord Wenderby one day in these rooms," said his mother quietly.
"I knew he was in love with Lady Mary."
Peter looked keenly at his mother.
"You are sure he loves her?" he asked.
"Quite."
"I should be happy to believe that. It gives him a better claim."
"Better than your own?" said his mother. She was at last surprised.
"I have no claim at all. I do not love Lady Mary."
He was quaintly wretched. His mother almost smiled. She saw a light in
the cloud, but it puzzled her. Would he then have preferred to love Lady
Mary and to lose her?
"Tell me what has happened," she said. "I don't understand. You do not
love Lady Mary--is that your trouble?"
"She told me of Lord Wenderby," Peter obediently answered, "and I was
mad at the idea of losing her. I grasped at her. I was like a wild
beast."
"But you do not love her," Mrs. Paragon persisted.
"It was not love made me behave like that. It was brutal. I had no true
passion at all. I disgusted her."
Mrs. Paragon suddenly rose.
"What has Lady Mary said? How did she part from you?"
Peter looked at her in wonder. What was his mother going to do now?
"She said she would write," he answered. "Her eyes were closed."
Mrs. Paragon saw that this was not Peter's tragedy. She could leave him
to his remorse.
"Give me my cloak, Peter."
"Where are you going?"
Mrs. Paragon ignored his question.
"What is Lady Mary doing now?" she asked.
"She promised to wait for Antony. The division to-night is at eleven
o'clock."
Mrs. Paragon looked at the clock.
"It is now half-past ten. Call me a cab, Peter."
"You are going to her?"
"Of course."
On the way to Arlington Street Mrs. Paragon saw the radiant figure of
the woman, to whom she had trusted Peter, in dreadful eclipse. She
passed without a word Lady Mary's protesting servant, and went directly
to her room. Lady Mary still lay with closed eyes where she had been
struck down. Mrs. Paragon moved quietly towards her, and gathered her
like a child. She opened her eyes, accepting Peter's mother with a clasp
of the hand.
"You have seen Peter?" she quietly asked.
"He has just come home. He says he has for ever offended you."
Lady Mary smiled.
"I will send him a word to-night," she said. "I have just been trying to
understand. I think I shall soon be happy. I know now that Peter does
not love me. That makes it so much easier."
"He worships you," Mrs. Paragon insisted.
"Can that be restored?"
"More than ever now. I am sure he would want me to tell you that."
Lady Mary raised herself from Mrs. Paragon's shoulder and looked at her.
"I cannot yet measure this breach in Peter. He has loved me from the
moment we came together at Highbury. But to-night I was humbled. There
was no love at all. I cannot now believe that Peter will ever truly
love. There is a rift."
"You are wrong," said Peter's mother.
Mrs. Paragon told Lady Mary how lately she had watched beside him as he
wandered in an empty house. Lady Mary heard the story of Miranda.
"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.