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 shutters2 that swung ajar, and did not look at Hilary's face.
It was an impossible position for Hilary, so utterly3 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 prosecute4.... 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 abruptly5 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 drearily6. 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 groan7 he ran his fingers through his hair and began to pace up and down the room in agitation8.
He said, "That brute9 Cheriton.... An execrable bounder; I always knew it. What right had he?... It's too horrible, too abominable10.... Just when we were doing our best to get the thing onto straight lines...." He wheeled about and paced back again, with quick, uneven11 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 appalling12.
"We must leave Venice," said Peggy, on a sigh. That seemed, certainly, the only thing to be done.
Hilary groaned13 again.
"Oh, Lord, what are we let in for? What will be the result, if he prosecutes14? 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 relic15 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 restitution16 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 miserable18 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 shuddered19 from head to foot, feeling horribly sick. The Margerison organism was sensitive.
Peggy, bending over him, drew caressing20 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 wink21. I have a frightful22 head, and I must go and find Vyvian and tell him."
Peggy sniffed23. "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 calf24 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 perverse25 tendency to sit up all night when the worst had happened and he had a frightful head; Peter's way with life was more amenable26; 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 immunity27 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 impudence28. 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, standing29 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 stammer30, 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 abominably31 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 amends32 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 desperately33 cared, so he must do his best; he must walk into the fire and wrest34 out of it what he could.
And at last the door opened, and Denis Urquhart came in.
He was just as usual, leisurely35 and fair and tranquil
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