Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  It was pleasant and fitting that the end of Portland Place should be guarded by the Round Church and the Queen’s Hall. “Leave that calm and chaste society behind you,” those places said, “but before you plunge into the wicked careless world (that is Oxford Circus) choose from us. Here you have religion or music, both if you will, but here at any rate we are, the very best of our kind.”

  The Queen’s Hall looked shabby in the evening light, but Miss Rand liked that; it heightened her sense of the splendour within — Beethoven and Wagner and Brahms needed no illumination — it was your musical comedy demanded that.

  Miss Rand liked good music.

  Then there was the Polytechnic with wonderful offers in the windows enticing you to see Rome for eleven guineas, and Paris for three, and there was a hat shop with three glorious hats wickedly dangling on poles, and there was a pastry-cook’s, a tobacconist’s, and a theatre agency: all this variety paving the way between music and religion and the whirling, tossing, heaving melodrama of Oxford Circus.

  Miss Rand loved Oxford Circus. It was like the sea in that it was never from one moment to another the same. Miss Rand knew the way that it had of piling the melodrama up and up, faster and faster, wilder and wilder, bursting into a frantio climax and then sinking back, for hours perhaps, into comparative silence. She knew all its moods, from its broom and milkman mood in the early morning, to its soiled and slinking mood somewhere between midnight and one o’clock.

  Just now it was getting ready for the evening. Up Regent Street the cabs and buses were straining, the flower women with their baskets were bunched in splashes of colour against the distant outline of the Round Church. Out of every door people were pouring, and in the middle of the Circus three of the four lines of traffic were turned suddenly into something sleepy and indifferent by the hand of a policeman. For an instant the restless movement seemed to be crystallized — the hansoms, the bicycles, the omnibuses, the carts were all held, then at a sign the flow and interflow had begun once more; life was hurled in and hurled out again, stirred and tossed and turned, as though some giant cook were up in the heavens busy over a giant pudding.

  And the light faded and the lamps came out, and Miss Rand, walking through two streets that were as dark and secret as though they were spying on the Circus and were going to give all its secrets away very shortly, passed into Saxton Square.

  To-night Miss Rand had more to think about than Oxford Circus. She was tired after all the work that there had been during the last few days, and she always noticed that it was when she was tired that she was ready to imagine things. She had been imagining things all day and had found it really difficult to keep steadily to her proper work, but out and beyond her imaginations there was, before her, this definite, tremendous fact — namely, that she would find, this evening, on entering her little drawing-room, that Mr. Francis Breton was being entertained at tea by her sister and mother.

  It was a quarter to seven now, so perhaps he had gone, but at any rate there would be a great deal that her mother and sister would wish to tell her about him. A week ago Mr. Francis Breton had come to live on the second floor in 24 Saxton Square, had put there his own furniture, had brought with him his own man-servant (a most sinister-looking man). These matters might have remained (although, of course, Miss Lizzie Rand’s connection with the Beaminster family made his arrival of the most dramatic interest) had not Miss Daisy Rand (Miss Lizzie Rand’s prettier and younger sister) happened, one evening, to run into Mr. Breton in the dark hall; she screamed aloud because she thought him a burglar, became very shaky about the knees, and needed Mr. Breton’s assistance as far as the Rand drawing-room. Here, of course, there followed conversation; finally Mr. Breton was asked to tea and accepted the invitation.

  On this very afternoon must this tea-party have taken place. Lizzie Rand knew her mother and sister very well, and she had, long ago, learnt that their motto was, “Let everything go for the sake of adventure.” That was well enough, but when your income was very small indeed, and you wished to do no work at all and yet to have your home pleasant and your life adventurous, certainly someone must suffer. Everything had always fallen upon Lizzie.

  Mrs. Rand’s husband had been a colonel and they had lived at Eastbourne; on his death it was discovered that he had debts and obligations to a lady in the chorus of a light opera then popular in London. The debts and the lady Mrs. Rand had covered with romance, because she considered that they were due to the Colonel’s insatiable appetite for Adventure — but, romance or no, there was now very little to live upon.

  They moved to London. Daisy was obviously so pretty that it would be absurd to expect her to work, and “she would be married in a minute,” so Lizzie had, during the last five years, kept the family. It would be impossible to give any clear idea of the effect on Mrs. Rand that Lizzie’s connection with the Beaminster family had. Mrs. Rand loved anything that was great and solemn and ceremonious; she loved Royalties, bands and soldiers gave her a choke in her throat, the “Society News” in the Daily Mail was like a fine picture or a splendid play. She was no snob; it was simply that she saw life as a background to slow stately figures gorgeously attired.

  In all England there was no one like the Duchess of Wrexe; in all England there was no family like the Beaminster family.

  Even Royalty had not quite their glow and glitter; Royalty you might see any day, driving, bowing, smiling. The Queen had a smile for everyone and was at home in the merest cottage; but the Duchess, the Duchess — no one, not even Lizzie, on whose shoulders the whole fortunes of the Beaministers rested, ever saw.

  There was nothing about the Beaminsters that Mrs. Rand did not know, and so of course she knew all about the unhappy past history of Francis Breton. That any Beaminster should have behaved rather as her own dead colonel had once behaved gave one a link at once.

  Mrs. Rand’s mind was, at the best of times, a confused one, and, in the dead of night, she could imagine a scene in which the wonderful Duchess would send for her, give her tea, press her hands and say, “Ah! Dear Mrs. Rand, our men-folk — your husband and my grandson — what trouble they give us, but we love them nevertheless.”

  So romantic was Mrs. Rand’s mind that she saw nothing extraordinary in the coincidence of Mr. Breton’s arrival at their very doors. Of course he would arrive there! Where else could he arrive? And of course he would fall in love with Daisy, would reform for her sake; there would be a splendid marriage; the Duchess would thank Mrs. Rand for having saved her grandson.

  Yes, Mrs. Rand had an incurably romantic mind.

  Lizzie knew all about her mother’s mind, and Daisy’s mind. She dealt with them very much as she dealt with Lady Adela’s mind or Lord John’s mind. They were all muddled people together, and the clear-headed people had the advantage over them.

  So with regard to her mother and sister Lizzie had developed a protective feeling; she wished to save them from the inroads of the clear-headed people who might so rob and devour them.

  She saw also that her connection with the Beaminster family was a very bad thing for her mother and sister because it encouraged them to be romantic and muddled and idle. But, at present, at any rate, there was nothing to be done.

  As she turned into the grey silence of little Saxton Square she did hope that her mother and sister would not behave too outrageously about Mr. Breton. She was interested, she would like to see him; his whole possible relation to the Duchess, to Lady Adela, to Miss Beaminster set her own imagination working. She did hope that her mother and sister would not behave so disgracefully that they would frighten Mr. Breton away so that he would never come near them again.

  And then, as she reached the door of No. 24, she thought for a moment of Rachel Beaminster.

  “I like her,” she thought, “I’d like to know her. She’s never spoken to me like that before.”

  III

  No. 24 had three floors: the ground floor was occupied by the Rands, the first floor by Breton and the secon
d floor by an old decrepit invalid called Cæsar and his son, who was a bank clerk.

  Down in the basement lived Mr. and Mrs. Tweed, owners of the whole house; he had been a butler and she a housekeeper, and exceedingly respectable they were. Every floor had its own kitchen and every lodger found his own servants, but the hall was common for all the three floors, and if young Mr. Cæsar came in at two in the morning and banged the front door everybody knew about it.

  It must have been a fine old house in its day, No. 24, and there were still fine carvings, good fireplaces and ceilings, high broad windows and thick solid walls. Mrs. Rand liked to think that her drawing-room had once seen fine eighteenth-century ladies reflected in its mirrors, heard the tapping of high-heeled shoes on its polished floors. The thought of those glorious days gave her own rather faded furniture a colour and a touch of poetry. Sometimes, Lizzie thought with a sigh, if her mother had inhabited a plain nineteenth-century house living within a small income would have been easier for her.

  Lizzie, entering the drawing-room, knew at once that Mr. Breton was still there. She saw that he was tall and spare, that he had no left arm, that he had a rather small pointed brown beard and eyes that struck her as fierce and protesting. She did not know whether it were the beard or the eyes or the absence of the arm, but at her first vision of him she said to herself: “He’s too dramatic; it’s not quite real,” and her second thought was: “He’s just what mother will like him to be!”

  He was standing against the window, and he wore a black suit, a little faded. The blinds had not been drawn, and the square beyond the window was elephant grey, with the lamps at each corner a dim yellow; there was a thin rather ragged garden in the middle of the square, and in the garden was a statue of a nymph, old and deserted, and some trees now faintly green. Over it all was a sky so pale that it was more nearly white than blue.

  Although the curtains had not been drawn a lamp in the middle of the room was lit and the fire burnt merrily. The furniture had once been good and was now respectable. There were several photographs, a copy of “The Fighting Téméraire,” and a water-colour sketch of “Lodore Falls.” There was a book-case with the works of Tennyson, Longfellow, and Miss Braddon, and on one of the tables two French novels, one by Gyp and one by Zola.

  Mrs. Rand would have been handsome had her grey hair been less untidy and her clothes more uniform in design and colour. Her blouse was cut too low and she wore too many rings; her eyes always wore a lying-in-wait expression, as though she might be called on to be excited at any moment and didn’t wish to miss the opportunity.

  Daisy Rand was pretty and pink with light fluffy hair. All her clothes looked as though their chief purpose were to reveal other clothes. The impression that she left on a casual observer was that she must be cold in such thin things.

  Lizzie, looking at Frank Breton, could not tell what impression her sister and mother had made upon him. “At any rate,” she thought, “he’s stayed a long time. That looks as though he had been entertained.” She was introduced to him and liked the cool, firm grasp of his hand. She saw that her mother and Daisy were quiet and subdued — that was a good thing. She caught, before she sat down, his instinctive look of surprise. She knew that he had not expected her to be like that.

  “We’ve been telling Mr. Breton, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Rand, “all about the theatres. He’s been away so long that he’s quite out of touch with things.”

  Lizzie always knew when her mother was finding conversation difficult by the amount of enthusiasm and surprise that she put into her sentences.

  “So terrible it must be to have missed so many splendid things.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Rand,” said Breton, “that I’ve been seeing other splendid things in other countries. Now I’m ready for this one again.”

  Mrs. Rand was silent and at a loss. Lizzie knew the explanation of this. Her mother had been trying to venture on to the subject of Breton’s family and had found unexpected difficulty. Perhaps there had been something in Breton’s attitude that had warned her.

  They talked for a little while, but disjointedly. Then suddenly there was a knock at the door, and young Mr. Cæsar, a bony youth with a high collar and an unsuccessful moustache, came in. He had not very much to say, but the result of his coming was that Lizzie found herself standing at the window with Breton; they looked at the square now sinking into dusk.

  He spoke; his voice was lowered: “I understand that you are secretary to my aunt, Miss Rand?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “They haven’t heard of my return with any great delight, I’m afraid?”

  She noticed that he was trying to steady his voice, but that it shook a little in spite of his efforts.

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking up and smiling. “I’m far too busy to think of things that are not my concern.”

  “They are giving a ball to-morrow night for my cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see much of her?”

  “No — nothing at all. She’s been abroad, you know.”

  “Yes, so I heard. But I saw her driving yesterday. She looks different from the rest of them.”

  All this time, as he spoke to her, she was conscious of his eyes; if only she could have been sure that the protest in them was genuine she would have been moved by them.

  She did not help him in any way, and perhaps her silence made him feel that he had done wrong to speak to her about his affairs. They looked at the square for a little time in silence. At last, speaking without any implied fierceness, he said:

  “You know, Miss Rand, I’m a wanderer by nature, and sometimes I find cities very hard to bear. Do you know what I do?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Turn them into other things. Now here in London, do you never think of streets as waterways? Portland Place, for instance, is like ever so many rivers I’ve seen, broad and shining. And some of those high thin streets beside it are like canals; Oxford Circus is a whirlpool, and so on — —”

  He laughed. “I get no end of relief from thinking of things like that.”

  “You hate cities?” she asked him.

  “No — not really. But it depends how they receive you. If they’re hostile — —” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “And this square?” she said. “What’s this square?”

  “A pool. All the houses hang over it as though they were hiding it. It’s restful like a pool. There’s no noise — —”

  The statue of the nymph had disappeared. The trees were a black splash against the lamp-lit walls. Lights were in the windows.

  He seemed suddenly conscious that it was late. When he had gone Lizzie stood, for some time, looking into the square and thinking how right he had been.

  All that evening Daisy was out of temper.

  CHAPTER V

  SHE COMES OUT

  I

  Downstairs the dinner-party was at its height. Mrs. Newton, the housekeeper, went softly down the passages to give one last glimpse at the ballroom. There it lay, like a great golden shell, empty, expectant. The walls were white, the ceilings gold; on the white walls hung the Lelys, the Van Dycks, and at the farther end of the room Sargent’s portrait of Her Grace, brought up, for this especial occasion, from the Long Drawing-room. There was the gleaming, shining floor, there the golden chairs with their backs against the wall, and there before each picture a little globe of golden flame ministering to its beauties, throwing the proud pale faces of the old Beaminsters into scornful relief, and none of them so scornful as that Duchess in the far distance, frowning from her golden frame.

  Mrs. Newton was plump and important. She worshipped the Beaminster family, and it yielded her now intense satisfaction to see these rooms, that were used so seldom, given to their proper glory and ceremony. For a moment as she stood there and felt the fine reflection of all that light upon the shining floor, absorbed the silence and the space and the colour, she was uplifted with pride, and thanked her God that she
was not as other women were, but had been permitted by Him to assist in no small measure in the glories and splendours of this great family.

  Then, with a little sigh of satisfied approval, she softly walked away again.

  II

  Two hours later Rachel Beaminster, standing a little behind her aunt, saw the people pressing up the stairs. To those who watched her, she seemed perfectly composed, her flushed cheeks, her white dress, her dark hair and eyes gave her distinction against the colour and movement of the room.

  Her eyes were a little stern, and her body was held proudly, but her hands moved with sharp spasmodic movements against her dress.

  As she stood there men were brought up to her in constant succession and introduced. They wrote their names on her programme, bowed and went away. She smiled at each one of them. Before dinner she had been introduced to the Prince — German, fat and cheerful — and the second dance of the evening was to be with him. Some of the men who had been dining in the house she already knew — Lord Crewner, Roddy Seddon, Lord Massiter, and others — and once or twice now the faces that were led up to her were familiar to her.

  The great ballroom seemed to be already filled with people, and still they came pressing up the stairs.

  Rachel was miserably unhappy. For one moment before she had left her room, where her maid had stood admiringly beside her, when she herself had seen the reflection of the white dress and the dark hair and the flushed cheeks in the long mirror, for one great moment she had been filled with exaltation. This ball, this agitation, this excitement was all for her. The world was at her feet. The locked doors were at last rolling open before her and all life was to be revealed.

  Pearls that Uncle John had given her were her only ornament. They laughed at her from the mirror, laughed and promised her success, conquest, glory. Life at that instant was very precious.