THE LOSS OF A PROFESSION
Peter went back to the Palazzo Amadeo and said to Hilary, who was writing
an article for "The Gem" in the saloon, "I wouldn't go on with that,
Hilary. It's no use."
The flatness of his voice, the pallor of his face, startled Hilary and
Peggy.
Peggy said, "You're tired to death, child. Take the big chair."
Hilary said, "How do you mean, no use?"
And Peter told him. While he did so, he stood at the window, looking down
at the canal between the green shutters that swung ajar, and did not look
at Hilary's face.
It was an impossible position for Hilary, so utterly impossible that it
was no use trying to make the best of it; one could only look away, and
get through it quickly.
Peter didn't say much. He only said, "We've been found out. That man who
came to you this afternoon was a spy sent by Cheriton. He reported the
result of his interview with you, and Lord Evelyn knows all about
everything. Cheriton suspected from the first, you see.... From what Lord
Evelyn said, I gather he means to prosecute.... He is ... very angry
indeed.... They all are...."
On the last statement Peter's voice sank a little in pitch, so that they
hardly heard it. But the last statement mattered to no one but Peter.
Hilary had got up sharply at the first words, and stood very still to
listen, letting out one long breath of weary despair. Peggy came and
stood close to him, and took one slim white hand in her large kind ones,
and gently held it. The fat was indeed in the fire. Poor old Hilary! How
he would feel it! Peggy divined that what stung Hilary most deeply at the
moment was Peter's discovery of his faithlessness.
It was of that that his first shamed, incoherent words were.
"What was I to do? How could I break abruptly with the old methods, as
you suggested? It had to come gradually. You know nothing of business,
Peter--nothing." His voice ran up the scale of protesting self-defence.
"Nothing," Peter admitted drearily. Hilary's shame before him could
hardly now add to the badness of the situation, as it had once done; the
badness of situations has a limit, and this one had reached its limit
some three hours since, just before he had laughed in Lord Evelyn's
drawing-room.
"Oh," said Peter, very tired suddenly, "never mind me; what does that
matter? The point is ... well, you see the point, naturally."
Yes, Hilary saw the point. With a faint groan he ran his fingers through
his hair and began to pace up and down the room in agitation.
He said, "That brute Cheriton.... An execrable bounder; I always knew it.
What _right_ had he?... It's too horrible, too abominable.... Just when
we were doing our best to get the thing onto straight lines...." He
wheeled about and paced back again, with quick, uneven steps. Between him
and the motionless Peter, Peggy stood, looking from one to the other. Her
merry eyes were quite grave now. The situation was certainly appalling.
"We must leave Venice," said Peggy, on a sigh. That seemed, certainly,
the only thing to be done.
Hilary groaned again.
"Oh, Lord, what are we let in for? What will be the result, if he
prosecutes? It may be utter ruin.... I know nothing of these things.
Of course, in justice nothing could be done to us--for, after all, what
harm have we done? Anyone may insert advertisements for pay, and it only
amounted to that.... But justice isn't taken into much account in the
law-courts.... It is a horrible, cast-iron system--the relic of a
barbarous age.... I don't know what we mayn't be in for, or how we
shall come out of it. You don't know either, Peter; you know nothing
of law--nothing. It mustn't come into court; that is unthinkable. We will
make full apologies--any restitution within our power that Lord Evelyn
demands.... I shall go there; I shall see him about it, and appeal to his
better feelings. He has been a friend of mine. He has always been good to
you, Peter. The memory of your mother.... Appeal to that. You must go to
him and see what can be done. Yes, it had better be you; he has a kinder
feeling for you, I believe, than for me."
"He has no kind feeling for me," said Peter dully. "He is more annoyed
with me than with you."
Hilary jerked his head impatiently.
"Nonsense. You want to shirk; you want to leave me to get out of the mess
for myself. Oh, of course, you're not legally involved; I am aware of
that; you can leave the sinking ship if you choose, and save yourself."
Peggy said, "Don't be ridiculous, darling. Peter's doing his best for us,
as he always has," and came and stood at her brother-in-law's side, kind
and big and comforting, with a hand on his arm.
Hilary went on querulously, "I'm asking Peter to do a simple thing--to
use his friendship with the Urquharts to help me out of this mess. If you
don't want to see Lord Evelyn, Peter, you can go to Denis. He's a friend
of yours; he's--he's your kind of step-brother. You can easily persuade
him to get the thing hushed up. You've always pretended that he was a
friend of yours. Go and see him, then, for heaven's sake, and help us all
out of this miserable predicament."
Peter was still silent, staring down at the dark ribbon of shining water
that lapped against two old brick walls, a shut lane full of stars.
Peggy, her hand on his arm, said gently, "Oh, Peter'll do his best for
us, of course he will, won't you, Peter."
Peter sighed very faintly into the dark night.
"I will do anything I can, naturally. It won't be much, you know."
"You will go to the Urquharts to-morrow morning, and appeal to them?"
said Hilary.
"Yes," said Peter. "I will do that."
Hilary breathed a sigh of relief, and flung himself into a chair.
"Thanks, Peter. I believe that is the best we can do. You will
persuade them at least to be just, not to push the matter to unfair
extremes.... _Oh, my God, what a life!_" His beautiful, unhappy face
was hidden in his hands; he shuddered from head to foot, feeling horribly
sick. The Margerison organism was sensitive.
Peggy, bending over him, drew caressing fingers through his dark hair and
said, "Go to bed, you poor old dear, and don't worry any more to-night.
Worry won't help now, will it?"
"Bed?" said Hilary. "Bed? What's the use of that? I shouldn't sleep a
wink. I have a frightful head, and I must go and find Vyvian and tell
him."
Peggy sniffed. "Much Vyvian'll care! He's been in bad odour all his life,
I should fancy. One more row won't bother _him_ much. I wish it would; it
would be almost worth while to be upset if Guy Vyvian was going to be
upset too--the waster. Well, I wonder anyhow will this show that silly
little Rhoda what sort of a creature she's been making a golden calf
of.... Well, go and wake Vyvian, then, darling, and then come and tell me
what he said to it. Peter, you're dropping to sleep as you stand."
Peter went to bed. There didn't seem to be anything to stay up for, and
bed is a comforting friend on these occasions. Hilary had a perverse
tendency to sit up all night when the worst had happened and he had a
frightful head; Peter's way with life was more amenable; he always took
what comfort was offered him. Bed is a good place; it folds protecting,
consoling arms about you, and gives at best oblivion, at worst a blessed
immunity from action.
In the morning, about eleven o'clock, Peter went to the Ca' delle Gemme.
That had to be done, so it was no use delaying. He asked for Lord Evelyn
Urquhart, and supposed that the servant who showed him in was astonished
at his impudence. However, he was permitted to wait in the reception-room
while the servant went to acquaint Lord Evelyn with his presence. He
waited some time, standing in the middle of the big room, looking at some
splinters of glass and china which had been left on the marble floor,
forming on his tongue what he was going to say. He could form nothing
that was easy to say; honestly he didn't know whether, when the door
should open and that tall, elegant, fastidious figure should walk in, he
would find himself able to say anything at all. He feared he might only
grow hot, and stammer, and slink out. But he pulled himself together; he
must do his best; it was quite necessary. He would try to say, "Lord
Evelyn, I know it is abominably impertinent of me to come into your house
like this. Will you forgive me this once? I have come to ask you, is
there any consideration whatever, any sort of reparation my brother and
I can make, which will be of any use as amends for what we did? If so, of
course we should be grateful for the chance...."
That was what he would try to say. And what he would mean was: "Will you
let Hilary off? Will you let him just go away into obscurity, without
further disgrace? Isn't he disgraced enough already? Because you are
kind, and because you have been fond of me, and because I ask you, will
you do this much?"
And what the answer would be, Peter had not the faintest idea. To him
personally the answer was indifferent. From his point of view, the worst
had already happened, and no further disgrace could affect him much. But
Hilary desperately cared, so he must do his best; he must walk into the
fire and wrest out of it what he could.
And at last the door opened, and Denis Urquhart came in.
He was just as usual, leisurely and fair and tranquil, only usually he
smiled at Peter, and to-day he did not smile. One might have fancied
under his tranquillity a restrained nervousness. He did not shake
hands; but then Peter and he never did shake hands when they met.
He said, "Sit down, won't you. My uncle isn't available just now, so
I have come instead.... You have something to say to him, haven't you?"
He sat down himself, and waited, looking at the splinters of glass on the
floor.
Peter stood, and his breath came shortly. Yes, he had something to say to
Lord Evelyn, but nothing to Lord Evelyn's nephew. He grew hot and cold,
and stammered something, he did not know what.
"Yes?" said Denis, in his soft, casual voice, politely expectant.
Peter, who did not, after all, lack a certain desperate courage, walked
into the fire, with braced will. It was bad that Denis should be brought
into the business; but it had to be gone through, all the same.
"I only wanted to know ... to know ... what Lord Evelyn is going to do
about this matter." He jerked out the words like stones from a catapult.
Denis was silent for a moment. He disliked being dragged into this
revolting affair; but he had had to come and see Peter, since his uncle
refused and he could not let Peter go unseen away. He didn't want to see
him ever again, since he had behaved as he had behaved, but neither did
he want to violate the laws of courtesy and hospitality.
"I don't quite know," he said, after a moment.
"Is he ... does he intend to prosecute?" Peter asked, blushing.
Denis answered to that at once: "I shall certainly do my best to prevent
anything of the sort. I don't think he will. At present he is still very
angry; but I think when he cools down he will see reason. To prosecute
would be to make himself absurd; he will see that, no doubt. He values
his reputation as an art connoisseur, you see." At the faint, cool irony
in the words, Peter winced.
"Of course," went on Denis, lighting a cigarette, "your brother will
leave Venice at once, I suppose?" He passed Peter his cigarette box;
Peter refused it.
"Naturally. We mean to leave as soon as we can.... Thank you, that is all
I had to say.... Good-bye."
Denis got up, and Peter saw relief through the mask of politeness.
"Good-bye.... I needn't say how sorry I am about all this. It was hard
lines on you being brought into it."
He was making a transparent effort after friendliness; Peter almost
smiled at it. Poor Denis; what a relief it would be to him when the
disreputable Margerisons were off the scenes.
Peter paused at the door and said, in a low, embarrassed voice, "Would
you mind telling Lord Evelyn what I told him myself last night--that
I'm horribly sorry about it--sorrier than I have ever been for
anything.... It won't make any difference to him, I know--but if you will
just tell him.... And I'm sorry it happened while you were here, too.
You've been dragged in.... Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Margerison." Denis was grave, embarrassed, restrained, and not
unkind. It was obvious that he had nothing to say about it all.
Peter left the Ca' delle Gemme.
That afternoon Hilary received a note from Lord Evelyn. It was to the
effect that Lord Evelyn had decided not to bring an action, on the
understanding that Hilary and his brother and Vyvian left Venice at once
and discontinued for ever the profession of artistic advisers. If any of
the three was discovered engaging again in that business, those who
employed them should promptly be advised of their antecedents. They were,
in fact, to consider themselves warned off the turf. There was also to be
a paragraph about them in the English art papers.
"Well," was Peggy's comment, "it hasn't been such a grand trade that we
need mind much. We'll all come back to England and keep a boarding-house
there instead, and you shall paint the great pictures, darling, and have
ever so much more fun. And we'll never need to see that Vyvian again;
there's fine news for the babies, anyhow. And I will be relieved to get
them away from the canals; one of them would have been surely drowned
before long. In London they'll have only gutters."
Hilary, who was looking tired and limp after a distressing night and day,
said, "What shall you do, Peter?"
"I don't know," said Peter. "I must find something, I suppose. Some sort
of work, you know." He pronounced the word gingerly, distastefully, as
if it were a curious, unwonted one. "Perhaps I shall be able to get a
post as door-keeper somewhere; in some museum, you know, or perhaps a
theatre, or the White City. I've always thought that might be amusing."
"You wouldn't earn much that way," Hilary said hopelessly.
"Need one earn much?" Peter wondered; then remembered how exceedingly
little Hilary would be earning, and that perhaps one need, because of the
babies.
"Or perhaps I can get taken on as a clerk in some business," he amended.
"Or in a bank; only I don't believe my sums or manners are good enough
for a bank, really.... Oh, well, I must see what I can squeeze into.
Perhaps Leslie can think of something. And perhaps the Robinsons will
interest themselves in me, though they'll be even more disgusted at our
downfall than they were when I took up my profession, and they thought
that perfectly idiotic. They always do think we're perfectly idiotic, and
now they'll know we're something worse. But they may help me to a job, if
I bother them enough.... Anyhow, I'll be one of your boarders, if I may."
"You darling," said Peggy, beaming at him. "It'll give the house quite a
different feeling if you're in it. And how delighted the babies will be.
I believe we're going to have the fine time, after all, in spite of
this bothersome business. Hurrah for London and no mosquitoes! And we'll
be quite near a Catholic church, the way the children'll be able to run
in and out as they do here, and not pick up heathen customs. Why, Hilary,
I'm really pleased!"
Peggy was splendid. She was nearly always really pleased.
They started for England a week later. In the course of that week two
things happened. One was that Leslie gave Peter the Berovieri goblet for
his own.
"You've got to take it," he said. "If you don't, I shall give it back to
the prince. I've no right to it; I can't appreciate it properly. Since I
first saw you look at the thing I knew it was really yours. Take it and
keep it. You won't let me do anything else for you, but you shall let me
do that."
Peter looked at it with wistful love. His fingers lingered about its
exquisiteness.
"It will break," he said. "My things do break. Break and get lost, and go
with the dust. Or thieves will break in and steal it. I shan't be able to
keep it, I know; I'm such a bad hand at keeping things."
"Well, well, have a try," said Leslie. So Peter took it and was glad. It
was his one link with the world of exquisiteness and new-burnished joys
out of which he was being thrust; he would keep it if he could.
Leslie also said that he could get him a place in a business, if he
really wanted one.
"I shall be extremely little use," said Peter.
"Extremely little," Leslie agreed. "You'd much better not try. But if you
must you must."
"I'm afraid I must," said Peter.
So Leslie wrote letters about him, and secured him a humble post in a
warehouse. Leslie was not going to return to England at present. He was
going a tour round the world. Since Peter refused to accompany him, he
went alone.
"There's no one else I can fancy hanging round me day and night," he
said. "I wanted you, Margery"--the nickname fell from him with a clumsy
pathos--"but if you won't you won't. I shall acquire an abominable
collection of objects without you to guide me; but that can't be helped."
The other thing that happened was that Mrs. Johnson fell suddenly ill and
died. Before she died, she talked to Peter about Rhoda.
"It's leaving of her as I can't bear," she whispered. "All alone and
unprotected like. I can't leave her by herself in this heathen country.
I want to get her back to England. But she's got no relatives there as'll
do for her; none, you know, as I should care to trust her to, or as 'ud
be really good to her. And I'm afraid of what'll come to the child
without me; I'm _afraid_, Mr. Peter. That man--it gives me the creeps
of nights to think of him comin' after Rhoder when I'm gone. I'm just
frightened as he'll get her; you know what Rhoder is, like a soft wax
candle that gets droopy and gives before his bold look; he can do
anythin' with her. And if he gets her, he won't be good to her, I know
that. He'll just break her and toss her away, my little gal. Oh, what
can I do, Mr. Peter, to save that?"
She was in great pain; drops of sweat kept gathering on her forehead and
rolling on to the pillow. Peter took her hand that picked at the blanket.
"May we try to take care of her?" he gently asked. "If she will come
and stay with us, in London, it would be better than being alone among
strangers, wouldn't it? She could get work near, and live with us. Peggy
is fond of her, you know; we all are. We would try to make her as happy
as we could."
She smiled at him, between laboured breaths.
"God bless you, dear Mr. Peter. I somehow thought as how you'd be good
to my little gal.... You are so sympathetic to everyone always.... Yes,
Rhoder shall do that; I'll have her promise. And that man--you'll keep
him off of her?"
"I will try," said Peter. "I will do my very best."
"Oh, Lord, oh, dear Lord," said Mrs. Johnson, "the pain!"
But it didn't last long, for she died that night.
And four days later the boarding-house was broken up, and the Margerison
family and Rhoda Johnson left Italy together.
Rhoda was very quiet and still and white. She was terribly alone, for her
mother was gone, and the man she loved was gone, hurriedly, without a
word to her. There remained the Margerisons; Peter, with his friendly
smile and gentle companionableness; Hilary, worried and weary and hardly
noticing her unobtrusive presence; Silvio, Caterina, and Illuminato
sucking gingerbread and tumbling off the rack, and Peggy, on whose broad
shoulder Rhoda suddenly laid her head and wept, all through the Mont
Cenis tunnel.