Part 11 (1/2)
Do you know what you're accusing me of? You and your precious taste!
Leslie and your other fool patrons seem to have given you a fair opinion of yourself. Because you, in your omniscience, think a thing bad, which I ... which I obviously consider good, and have stated so in print ... you don't so much as deign to argue the question, but get upon your pedestal and ask me why I tell lies. You think one thing and I think another; of course, you must know best, but I presume I may be allowed to hold my misguided and ill-informed opinion without being accused blankly of fraud. Upon my word, Peter ... it's time you took to some other line of life, I think.”
His high, unsteady voice trailed away into silence. Peter, out of all the dim beauty of the night, saw only the pale, disturbed, frowning face, the quivering hand that held the lean cigar. All the strangeness and the mystery of the mysterious world were here concentrated. Numbly and dully he heard the soft, rhythmic splas.h.i.+ng of the dipping oar, the turning cry of ”Premie!” Then, sharper, ”Sciar, Signori, sciar!” as they nearly jostled another gondola, swinging round sharply into a moonless lane of ancient palaces.
Peter presently said, ”But ...” and there stopped. What could he say, beyond ”but?”
Hilary answered him sharply, ”Well?” and then, after another pause, Peter pulled himself together, gave up trying to thread the maze of his perplexity, and said soberly, ”I beg your pardon, Hilary. I'm an a.s.s.”
Hilary let out his breath sharply, and resumed his cigar.
”It's possible, of course,” he said, more quietly, ”that you may be right and I wrong about the things. That's another question altogether. I may be a fool: I only resent being called a knave. _Really_, you know!”
”I never meant that,” Peter hopelessly began to explain. And, indeed, now that Hilary disclaimed it, it did seem a far too abominable thing that he had implied. He had hurt Hilary; he deserved to be kicked. His anger with himself rose. To hurt anyone was atrocious; to hurt Hilary unforgivable.
He would have done a great deal now to make amends.
He stammered over it. ”I did think, I'm afraid, that you and Cheriton were doing it to make him happy or something. I'm awfully sorry; I was an a.s.s; I ought to have known. But it never occurred to me that you didn't kn--that you had a different opinion of the things. I say, Hilary--Cheriton knows! I saw him know. He knew, and he was wondering what I was going to say.”
”Knew, knew, knew!” Hilary nervously exploded. ”There you go again.
You're intolerable, Peter, really. All the spoiling you've had has gone to your head.”
”I beg your pardon,” said Peter again. ”I meant, Cheriton agreed with me, I'm sure.... But, Hilary--those statuettes--you can't really.... They're mid-Victorian, and positively offensive!” His voice rose shrilly. They had been so horrible, Diana and Actaeon. He couldn't forget them, in their podgy sentimentality. ”And--and that chalice ...” he shuddered over it--”and--”
”That'll do, thanks,” Hilary broke in. ”You can say at once that you disagree with me about everything I admire, and leave it there. But, if I may ask you, don't say so to Lord Evelyn, if you can resist the temptation to show me up before him. It will only bother and disturb him, whichever of us he ends by agreeing with. He's shown that he trusts my taste more or less, by giving me his paper to edit, and I should think we might leave it at that.”
”Yes, the paper”--Peter was reminded of it, and it became a distracting puzzle. Hilary thought Diana and Actaeon and the Siena chalice good things--and Hilary edited an art paper. What in the name of all that was horrible did he put in it? A light was shed on Signor Leroni, who was, said the Gem, a good dealer in plaques, and who was, Peter had thought, a bare-faced purveyor of shams. Peter began to question the quality of the _osele_, that Leslie had purchased from Signor Sardi.
How curious it was; and rather tragic, too. For Hilary, like Lord Evelyn, had known once. Had Hilary too, in ruining much else of himself, ruined his critical faculties? And could one really do that and remain ignorant of the fact? Or would one rather have a lurking suspicion, and therefore be all the more defiantly corroborative of one's own judgment? In either case one was horribly to be pitied; but--but one shouldn't try to edit art papers. And yet this couldn't be conveyed without a lacerating of feelings that was unthinkable. There was always this about Hilary--one simply couldn't bear to hurt him. He was so easily hurt and so often; life used him so hardly and he felt it so keenly, that it behoved Peter, at least, to insert as many cus.h.i.+ons as possible between him and the sharp edges of circ.u.mstance. Peter was remorseful. He had taken what he should have seen before was an unforgivable line; he had failed abominably in comprehension and decent feeling. Poor Hilary. Peter was moved by the old impulse to be extraordinarily nice to him.
They turned out of the Rio della Madonnetta into the narrow rio that was the back approach to the Palazzo Amadeo. It is a dark little ca.n.a.l, a rio of the poor. The doors that stood open in the peeling brick walls above the water let out straggling shafts of lamplight and quarrelling voices and singing and the smell of wine. The steep house walls leant to meet one another from either side; from upper windows the people who hadn't gone to bed talked across a s.p.a.ce of barely six feet.
The gondola crept cautiously under two low bridges, then stopped outside the water-washed back steps of the Palazzo Amadeo.
One pleasant thing about Lord Evelyn's exquisitely mannered _poppe_ was that one didn't feel that he was thinking ”I am not accustomed to taking my master's visitors to such low haunts.” In the first place, he probably was. In the second, he was not an English flunkey, and not a sn.o.b. He was no more a sn.o.b than the Margerisons were, or Lord Evelyn himself. He deposited them at the Palace back door, politely saluted, and slipped away down the shadowy water-street.
Hilary and Peter stepped up two water-washed steps to the green door, and Peggy opened it from within. Peggy (Peter occasionally wondered when, if ever, she went to bed) was in the hall, nursing Illuminato, who couldn't sleep--a small bundle of scarlet night-s.h.i.+rt and round bullet head, burrowing under his mother's left arm and staring out from that place of comfort with very bright and wakeful eyes. When, indeed, it might have been asked, did any of the Margerison family take their rest? No one of them ever felt or expressed any surprise at finding any other awake and active at any hour of the night.
Peggy looked at her three male infants with her maternal serenity touched with mirth. There were nearly always those two elements in Peggy's look--a motherly sympathy and desire to cheer and soothe, and a glint from some rich and golden store of amus.e.m.e.nt.
She patted Peter on the arm, softly.
”Was it a nice evening, then? No, not very, I think. Dear, dear! You both look so unutterably tired. I wonder had you better go to bed, quite straight?”
It seemed to be suggested as a last resource of the desperate, though the hour was close on midnight.
”And the children have been pillow-fighting, till Mr. Vyvian--the creature--came down with nothing in particular on, to complain to me that he couldn't sleep. Sleep, you know! It wasn't after ten--but it seems he had a headache, as usual, because Mrs. Johnson had insisted on going to look at pictures with him and Rhoda, and her remarks were such--Nervous prostration, poor Mr. Vyvian. So I've had Illuminato down here with me since then. He wants to go to you, Peter, as usual.”
Peter took the scarlet bundle, and it burrowed against his s.h.i.+rt-front with a contented sigh. Peggy watched the two for a moment, then said to the uncle, ”You poor little boy, you're tireder than Hilary even. You must surely go to bed. But isn't Lord Evelyn rather a dear?”
”Quite a dear,” Peter answered her, his face bent over the round cropped head. ”Altogether charming and delightful. Do you know, though, I'm not really fond of bridge. Jig-saw is my game--and we didn't have it. That's why I'm tired I expect. And because there was a Mr. Cheriton, who stared, and seemed somehow to have taken against us--didn't he, Hilary? Or perhaps it was only his queer manners, dear Jim. Anyhow, he made me feel shy. It takes it out of one, not being liked. Nervous prostration, like poor Mr. Vyvian. So let's go to bed, Hilary, and leave these two to watch together.”