by Hugh Walpole
Would not Dorchester also fight when her time came?
She looked across the firelight at her mistress. When would arrive the inevitable moment of surrender? How imminent that moment when in the eyes of all those about her the old woman would see that all that was now hers was a quiet abandonment to death!
Well, there would be some fine, savage struggling when that crisis struck into their midst. Dorchester smiled grimly, and then, in spite of herself, sighed a little.
They were all growing old together.
II
At five o’clock came Dr. Christopher, and Dorchester moved into the other room and left the two together. With his large limbs and cheerful smile he made the Duchess seem slighter and more fragile than ever, and she herself felt always with his coming some addition of warmth and strength; each visit, so she might have expressed it, gave her life for at least another tiny span.
That he, knowing so much of the follies and catastrophes of life, should yet be an optimist, would have proved him in her opinion a fool had she not known, by constant proof, that he was anything but that. “Well, one day he will discover his mistake,” she would say, and yet, perversely, would cling to him for the sake of this very illusion. He helped her courage, he helped her battle with her pain, he gave her, sometimes, some shadowy sense of shame for her passions and rebellions, but, more than all this, he yielded her a reassurance that life, precious, adorable, wonderful life, was yet for a little time to be hers.
He knew well enough the influence that he possessed, and when, as on this afternoon, he felt it his duty to avail himself of it, he could not pretend that he faced his task with any exultation.
That he should rouse her fury, as he had one or twice already roused it, meant humiliation for him as well as for herself, and afterwards embarrassment for them both as they saw those scenes in retrospect.
She glanced up at him carefully as he came in and knew him well enough to realize that there was something that he must say to her. There had been other such occasions, she remembered them all. Sometimes she herself had been the subject of them, something that was injuring her health, some indulgence that he could not allow her. Sometimes the battle had been about others; she had fought him and on occasions it had seemed that their relationship was broken once and for all, that nothing could cover the words that had been spoken — but always through everything she had admired his courage.
The way had always been to stand up to her.
For a little time they talked about her health, and then there fell a pause. She, leaning back in her chair with her thin, sharp hands on her lap, watched him grimly as he sat on the other side of the fireplace, leaning forward a little, looking into the fire.
“Well,” she said at last. “What is it?” Her voice was deep, but every word was clear-cut, resonant.
“There is something — two things,” he answered her slowly. “You can dismiss me for an interfering old fool, you know. You often have been tempted to do it before, I dare say.”
“I have,” she said. “Go on.”
But as she spoke she drew her hands a little more closely together. She was not quite so ready for these battles as she had once been. She was afraid a little now. A new sensation for her; she hated that restricting awkwardness that would remain between them for days afterwards.
She looked at his red, cheerful face and wondered impatiently why he must always be meddling in other people’s affairs. She hated Quixotes.
“Your Grace,” he began again, “has only got to stop me and I’ll say no more.”
“Oh yes, you will,” she said impatiently. “I know you. Say what you please.”
“I want to speak about Francis Breton — —” He paused, but she said nothing, only for an instant her whole face flashed into stone. The firelight seemed for an instant to hold it there, then, as the flame fell, she was once again indifferent.
Christopher had grasped his courage now. He went on gravely:
“I must speak about him. I know how unpleasant the whole subject is to you. We’ve had our discussions before and I’ve fought his battles with all the world more times than I can count. You must remember that I’ve known Frank all his life — I knew his unhappy father. I’ve known them both long enough to realize that the boy’s been heavily handicapped from the beginning — —”
“Must you,” she said, looking him now full in the face, “must it be this? Have we not thrashed it out thoroughly enough already? I don’t change, you know.”
He understood that she was appealing to his regard for their own especial relationship. But there was a note of control in her voice; he knew that now she would listen:
“I’ve cared for Frank during a number of years. I know he’s weak, impulsive, incredibly foolish. He’s always been his own worst enemy. I know that the other day he wrote a most foolish letter — —”
“It was a letter beyond forgiveness,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Yes, I would give anything to have prevented it. I know that when he was in England before I pleaded for him, as I am doing now, and that by a thousand foolhardy actions he negatived anything that I could say for him.
“I’m urging no defence for the things that he did, the shady, disreputable things. But he has come back now, I do verily believe, ready, even eager, to turn over a new leaf. I — —”
She interrupted him, smiling.
“Yes. That letter — —”
“Oh, I know. But isn’t it a very proof of what I say — would anyone but a foolhardy boy have done such a thing? Sheer bravado, hoping behind it all to be taken back to the fold — eager, at any rate, not to show a poor spirit, cowardice.”
“Over thirty now — old for a boy — —”
“In years, yes. But younger, oh! ages younger than that in spirit, in knowledge of the world, in everything that matters — I know,” he went on more slowly, smiling a little, “that you’ve called me sentimentalist times without number — but really here I’m not urging you to anything from sentimental reasons. I’m not asking you to take him back and kill the fatted calf for him.
“I’m asking nothing absurd — only that you, his relations, all that he has of kith and kin, should not be his enemies, should not drive him to desperation — and worse.”
“If you imagine,” she said steadily, “that his fate is of the smallest concern to me you know me very little. I care nothing of what becomes of him. He and I have been enemies for many years now and a few words from you cannot change that.”
“I’m only asking you,” he replied, “to give him a chance. See what you can make of him, instead of sending him into the other camp — use him even if you cannot care for him. There’s fine stuff there in spite of his follies. The day might come, even now, when you will own yourself proud of him — —”
But she had caught him up, leaning forward a little, her voice now of a sharper turn. “The other camp? What other camp?”
He caught the note of danger. “I only mean,” he said, choosing now his words with the greatest care, “that if you turn Frank definitely, once and for all, from your doors, there may be others ready to receive him — —”
“His men and his women,” she broke in scornfully; “don’t I know them? I’ve not lived these years without knowing the raffish tenth-rate lot that failures like Frank Breton affect — —”
“No — there are others,” Christopher said firmly, “Mrs. Bronson, for instance — —”
At that name she broke in.
“Yes — exactly. Mrs. Bronson. Oh! I know the kind of crowd that Mrs. Bronson and her like can gather. They are welcome to Francis and he to them.” — She paused. He saw that she was controlling herself with a great effort. For a little while there was silence and then she went on, more quietly:
“There, now you have it. That is why there can never be any truce between Francis and myself. It is more than Francis — it is all the things that he stands for, all the things that will soon make England a rubbish
heap for every dirty foreigner to dump his filth on to. Hate him? Why, I’ll fight him and all that he stands for so long as there’s breath in my body — —”
“But Frank is with you,” Christopher urged eagerly, “if you’ll let him be. He’s only in need of your hand and back he’ll come. He’s waiting there now — longing, in spite of his defiance, for a word. Give him it and in the end I know as surely as I sit here that he’ll be worth your while — —”
“What can he do for me?”
“Ah! He’ll show you. After all, he is one of the family; he’s miserable there in his exile. He’s got your own spirit — he’d die rather than own to defeat — but he’ll repay you if you have him.”
He saw then, as she turned towards him, that he had done no good.
“Listen,” she said, “I’ve heard you fairly. Let us leave this now, once and for all. I tell you finally no word that God Almighty could speak on this business could change me one atom. Francis Breton and I are foes for all time. I hate not only himself and the miserable mess that he’s made of his life, I hate all this new generation that he stands for.
“I hate these new opinions, I hate this indulgence now towards everything that any fool in the country may choose to think or say. In my day we knew how to use the fools. Took advantage of their muddle, ran the world on it. I loathe this tendency to make everyone as intelligent as they can be! Why! in God’s name! Give me two intelligent men and a dozen fools and you’ll get something done. Take a wastrel like Frank and turn him out. Take muddlers like my family and keep ’em muddled. Richard ran the country well enough for a time or two, and he’s been a muddler from his childhood.
“All this cry to educate the people, to be kind to thieves and murderers! to help the fools — my God! If I still had my say — Whilst there’s breath in me I’ll fight the lot of them.”
She leant back in her chair, waited for breath, and then went on more mildly:
“You may like all this noise and clamour, Doctor. You may like your Mrs. Bronson and the rest — common, vulgar, brainless — ruling the world. Every decent law that held society together is being broken and nobody cares.
“Frank Breton may find his place in this new world. He has no place in mine.”
Then she added: “So much for that — what’s the other thing?”
But he hesitated. Her voice was tired, even tremulous, and he was aware as he looked across at her that her emotions now treated her more severely than they had once done. At the same time he was aware that giving free play to her temper always did her good.
“Well — perhaps — another day — —”
“No — now. I may as well take my scoldings together — it saves time!”
He stood up and, leaning on the mantelpiece with one arm, looked down upon her.
“Here,” he said, “I’m afraid I may seem doubly impertinent, but it’s a matter that is closer to me than anything in the world. You know that I’m a lonely old bachelor and that all those sentiments that you accuse me of must find some vent somewhere. I’m fonder of Rachel, I think, than I am of anyone in the world, and it’s only that affection and the feeling that, in some ways, I know her better than any of you do that give me courage to speak.”
He could see that now she was reaching the limits of her patience.
“Well — what of Rachel?”
“I understand — I know — that you — that all of you intend that she shall marry young Seddon — —”
“Well?”
“I know that it is impertinent of me, but, as I have said, I think I know Rachel differently from anyone else in the world. She is strange — curiously ignorant of life in many ways, curiously wise in others. Her simplicity — the things that she takes on trust — there is no end to it. The things, too, that she cannot forgive — she doesn’t know how often, later on, she will have to forgive them —
“But the first man who breaks her trust — —”
“Thank you for this interesting light on Rachel’s character. What does it mean?”
“It means,” he said abruptly, “that she mustn’t be hurt. Your Grace may turn me out of the house here and now if you will, but Seddon is the wrong man for her to marry — —”
“What are his crimes?” Her voice was rising, and her hand tapped impatiently on her dress.
“I know him only slightly, but common repute — anyone who is in the London world at all will tell you — his reputation is bad. I’ve nothing against him myself, but his affairs with women have been many. He is no worse, I dare say, than a thousand others. At least he’s young — and I myself, God knows, am no moralist. But to marry him to Rachel will be a crime.”
He knew as he heard his own voice drop that the scene that he dreaded was upon him. The air was charged with it. In the strangest way everything in the room seemed to be changed because of it. The furniture, the dragons, the tables, the very trifles of gold and silver, seemed to withdraw, leaving the air weighted with passion.
She was trembling from head to foot. Her voice was very low.
“You’ve gone too far. What business is this of yours? How dare you come to me with these tales? How dare you? You’ve taken too much on your shoulders. See to your own house, Doctor — —”
He stepped back from the fireplace.
“Please — to-morrow — —”
“No. Here and now.” Her words flashed at him. “You’ve begun to think yourself indispensable. Because I’ve shown you that I rely upon you — Because, at times, I’ve seemed to need your aid — therefore you’ve interfered in matters that are no concern of yours.”
“They are concerns of mine,” he answered firmly, “in so far as this affair is connected with my friend.”
“Your friend and my granddaughter,” she retorted. “But it is not only that. I will return you your own words. You say that your friend is in danger — what of mine? You have dared to attack someone who is more to me than you and all the rest of the world put together. Someone whom I care for as I have never cared for my own sons. It was bold of you, Dr. Christopher, and I shall not forget it.”
He took it without flinching. “Very well,” he said. “But my word to the end is the same. If you marry Seddon to your granddaughter you do your own sense of justice wrong.”
At that the last vestige of restraint left her. Leaning forward in her chair she poured her words upon him in a torrent of anger. Her voice was not raised, but her words cut the air, and now and again she raised her hands in a movement of furious protest.
She spared him nothing, dragged forward old incidents, old passages between them that he had thought long ago forgotten, reminded him of occasions when he had been mistaken or over-certain, accused him of crimes that would have caused him to leave the country had there been a vestige of truth in her words; at last, beaten for breath, gasped out: “Sir Roderick Seddon shall know of what you accuse him. He shall deal with you — —”
“I have nothing,” Christopher answered gravely, “against Seddon — nothing except that he should not marry Rachel!”
“You have attacked him!” she gasped out. “He — shall — answer.”
But her rage had exhausted her. She lay back against her chair, heaving, clutching at the arms for support.
He summoned Dorchester, but when he approached the Duchess feebly motioned him away.
“I’ve — done — with you — never again,” she murmured.
She seemed then most desperately old. Her dress was in disorder, her face wizened with deep lines beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks.
Christopher waited while Dorchester helped her mistress into the farther room. For some time there was silence. The room was stifling, and, impatiently, he pulled back the heavy red curtains.
He sat, waiting, eyeing the stupid dragons, every now and again glancing at his watch.
Even now the room seemed to vibrate with her voice, and he could imagine that the French novel, fallen from her lap on to the carpet, winked at him
as much as to say:
“Oh, we’re up to her tempers, aren’t we? We know what they’re worth. We don’t care!”
At last Dorchester appeared.
“Her Grace is in bed and will see you, sir,” she said.
Her face was grave and without expression.
After another glance at his watch he passed into the bedroom.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TIGER
“For every Manne there lurketh hys Wilde Beast.” Sardus Aquinas (1512).
I
Brun, meeting Christopher one day, had asked him to tea in his flat, and then, remembering his interest in the Beaminster history, invited him to bring Breton with him.
“I haven’t seen him for years. I’d like to see him again.”
Christopher had accepted this invitation, and now on a sultry afternoon in June found himself sitting in Brun’s rooms. Brun’s sitting-room had a glazed and mathematical appearance as though, from cushions to ceiling, it had been purchased at a handsome price from a handsome warehouse. It was not comfortable, it was very hot.... The narrow street squeezed between Portland Square and Great Portland Street lay on its back, the little windows of its mean houses gasping like mouths for air, the hard sun pouring pitilessly down.
No weather nor atmosphere ever affected Brun. His clothes as well as his body had that definite appearance of something outside change or disorder. He might have been, one would allow, something else at earlier stages before this final result had been achieved (as a painting is presented to the observer before its completion), but surely now nothing would ever be done to him again. Surveying him, he appeared less a man with a history, origins, destinies about him than an opinion or a criticism. He was designed exactly by Nature for cynical observation, and was intended to play no other part in life.