by Hugh Walpole
“When I was eighteen my eyes were opened — I tried to leave him — But I loved him and I verily believe that I was the only human being in the world that he cared for. Anyway, he died of fever and general dissipation when I had just come of age, and I came home to England with a little money and great hopes of putting myself right with the world.”
As he had talked to her he had gathered confidence; her silence was, in some way to him, reassuring and comforting. Some people have the gift of listening without words so warmly, with such eloquence that they reassure and console as no speech could ever do. This was Lizzie’s gift, and Breton, depending, more than most human beings, upon the protection of his fellows, gathered courage.
“My father had always taught me to hate my grandmother. He painted her to me as I have since found her — remorseless, eaten up with pride, cruel. I came home to England, meaning to lead a new life, to be decent — as I’d always wanted to be.
“Well, they wouldn’t have me, not one of them. They pretended to at first; and my Uncle John at least was sincere, I think, and was kind for a time, but was afraid of my grandmother as they all were. Christopher — you know him of course — was a real friend to me. He’d stood up for my father before and he stood up for me now. But what was the use? I was wild when I saw that my grandmother was against me and was going to do her best to ruin me. I just didn’t care then — what was the good of it all? Other people encouraged me. The set in London that hated my people would have done something with me, but I wouldn’t be held by anyone.
“I’m not excusing myself,” he said quietly, looking away from the window and suddenly taking his judgment from her eyes.
“I know you’re not,” she said, smiling back to him.
“Cards finished me. I’d always loved gambling — I love it still — my father had given me a good education in it. There were plenty of fellows in town to take one on and — Oh! it’s all such an old story now, not worth digging up. But there was a house and a table and a young fool who lost all he possessed and — well, did for himself. It had all been square as far as I was concerned, but somebody had to be a scapegoat and two or three of us were named. It was hushed up for the sake of the young fellow’s people, but everyone knew. Of course they all said, as far as I was concerned, ‘Like father like son,’ and I think I minded that more than anything — —”
“Oh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lizzie said.
“I give you my word of honour that it had all been straight as far as I was concerned — gambling just as anyone might. That’s what made me so mad, to think of the rest of them — all so virtuous and good — and then going off to Monte Carlo and losing or winning their little bit — just as I’d done.
“I tried to brazen it out for a bit, but it was no good. Christopher still stuck by me — otherwise it was — well, the Under Ten, you know — —”
“The Under Ten?”
“Yes — all the men and women who’ve done something — once — done one of the things that you mustn’t do. It mayn’t have been very bad, not half so bad as the things — the cruel, mean things — that most people do every day of their lives, but, once it’s there, you’re down, you’re under. There’s a regular colony of them here in London; their life’s amusing. There they are, hanging on here, keeping up some pretence of gaiety, some kind of decency, waiting, hoping that the day will come when they’ll be taken back again, when everything will be forgotten. They pretend, bravely enough, not to mind their snubs, not to notice the kind people, once their friends, who cut them now. Every now and again they make a spring like fish to the top of the water, see the sun, hope that the light and air are to be theirs again, after all — and then back they are pushed, down into the dark, their element now, they are told. Oh! there’s comedy there, Miss Rand, if you care to look for it.”
She said nothing; the fierce bitterness in his voice had made him seem older suddenly, as though, in this portion of his journey, be had spent many, many years.
“I must cut it short — you’ll have had enough of this. I couldn’t stand it. I left London and went abroad. After that, what didn’t I do? I was everywhere, I did everything. Sometimes I was straight, sometimes I wasn’t. I was always bitter, wild with fury when I thought of that old woman — of her complacency, sitting there and striking down all the poor devils that had been less fortunate than she. All those years abroad I nourished that anger and, at last, when I thought that I’d been abroad long enough, that people would have forgotten, perhaps, and forgiven, I came back. I came back to be revenged on my grandmother and to re-establish myself. I’d got some money, enough for a little annuity, and I was careful now — I wasn’t going to make any mistakes this time.” He laughed bitterly. “One doesn’t learn much with age. What a fool I was! I’ve got the reputation I had before, whether I’m good or bad. It would all be hopeless — utterly hopeless — if it weren’t for one thing — —”
She looked up, and as she glanced at him, could feel the furious beating of her heart.
“I’d go back at once — I’ve almost gone back already — not abroad, that never again for long — but back to my friends, the unfortunates—” He laughed. “They’re anxious to have me. They’ll welcome me. I can have my cards and the rest then, with no one to object or to lecture — and I’ll be done for quite nicely, completely done for.”
Then he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders. “But one thing keeps me,” he said. “Something’s happened in the last few weeks — I’ve met somebody — —”
“Yes,” she said almost in a whisper.
“Somebody who’s made it worth while for me to fight on a bit.” She could feel his agitation: his voice, although he tried very hard to control it, was shaking. Then he laughed, raised his voice and caught and held her eyes with his.
“But there, Miss Rand. I’ve talked a fearful lot, only I wanted to tell you — I had to tell you. And now — if you feel — that you’d rather not know me, you’ve only got to say so.”
She laughed a little unsteadily.
“Thank you for taking me into your confidence. You shall never regret it. I’m glad you’re going to hold on, and, after all, we’re all doing that more or less.”
“It’s done me a world of good talking like this. It’s what I’ve been wanting for months.”
She quieted her emotion. Looking out into the stars she knew that she believed every word that he had said. She thought that she valued Truth above every other quality; the directness that there was in Truth; its honesty and clarity. He might not always be honest with her, but she would never forget that he had, on this night, at least, spoken no falsehood.
Life — her work, her surroundings, Portland Place, her home — this was full of falsehood and deceit and muddle.
Here, this evening, at last, was honesty.
They said no more, but sat there silently and listened to the echo of dance music from some house.
Mrs. Rand, whom their conversation had lured into oblivion of them, was roused now by their silence.
She looked up. “It’s quite splendid,” she said, “you must read it, Lizzie. The part about the Riviera is lovely.” Then, slowly remembering, “Really, Mr. Breton, I’m afraid you must consider me very rude.”
He came towards her, assuring her that his evening had been delightful.
Lizzie was happy, happier than she could ever remember to have been before. She felt her cheeks burn. She leant out of the window to cool them. She flung back, over her shoulder:
“By the way, Mr. Breton — a piece of gossip. Your cousin is to marry Sir Roderick Seddon!”
She could not see him. He said nothing. Mrs. Rand said:
“Really, Lizzie! How interesting! How long’s that been announced?”
“Oh! it isn’t announced. I don’t believe that he’s even asked her, but all the house knows it. It’s settled. I believe she likes him immensely and, of course, the Duchess is devoted to him.”
Anything would do t
o talk about. What did it matter? Only that she should keep on talking so that they should not see how happy she was — how happy!
He said good night, rather sharply; his voice was constrained as though he too were keeping in his emotion.
After he had gone Mrs. Rand said, “I don’t like him, my dear. I can’t help it — you may laugh at me — but my impressions are always right. He hardly spoke to me all the evening.”
“Why, mother, you were reading. How could he?”
“That’s all very well, but I don’t like him. And I believe he’s in love with his cousin. He went quite white when you spoke about the engagement.”
“Mother — how absurd you are. He’s only seen her once — —”
“Well, my dear, that’s a book you ought to read; really, I haven’t enjoyed anything so much for weeks. I simply — —”
Up in her bedroom Lizzie flung wide her window and laughed at the golden moon. Then she lay, for hours, staring at the pale light that it flung upon her ceiling.
Oh! what a fool she was! But she was happy, happy, happy. And he needed someone to look after him — he did, indeed!
CHAPTER XI
HER GRACE’S DAY
I
The Duchess had suffered, during the last five or six years, from sleeplessness, and throughout these hot days and nights of June and July sleep almost deserted her. Grimly she gave it no quarter, allowing to no one that she was sleeping badly, pretending even to Christopher that all was well.
Nevertheless those long dark hours began to tell upon her. She had known many nights sleepless through pain, certain nights sleepless through anxiety, but they, terrible though they had been, had not worn so stern a look as these long black spaces of time when all rest and comfort seemed to be drawn from her by some mysterious hand.
To herself now she admitted that she dreaded that moment when Dorchester left her; she began to do what she had never in her life done before, to fall asleep during the daytime. Small mercy to anyone who might attract any attention to those little naps.
She fell asleep often towards six or seven and, therefore, without any comment, Dorchester, seeing her fatigue, left her to sleep until late in the morning. She had not for many years left her room before midday, but she had been awake with her correspondence and the papers by half-past seven at the latest. Now it was often eleven before she awoke.
She found that she did not awake with the energy and freshness that she had always known before. About her there always hovered a great cloud of fatigue — something not quite present, but threatening at any moment to descend.
On a certain morning late in July she awoke after two or three hours’ restless sleep. As she woke she was conscious that those hours had not removed from her that threatening cloud: she heard a clock strike eleven. Dorchester was drawing back the curtains and from behind the blinds there leapt upon her a blazing, torrid day.
Her bedroom carried on the touch of fantasy that her other room had shown; she was lying in a red lacquer Japanese bed that mounted up behind her like a throne. Her wall-paper was an embossed dull gold and the chairs were carved Indian, of black ebony.
Lying in bed she appeared very old and ugly; the sharp nose was exceedingly prominent and her white hair scattered about the pillow gave her face the colour of dried parchment.
Dorchester brought her her chocolate and her letters and The Times and the Morning Post.
“Another terribly hot day, your Grace.”
“Yes — I suppose so.” As she took her letters she felt, for the first time in her life, that it would perhaps be better to lie in bed for the rest of her life and conduct the world from there.
She put the letters down and stared at the day —
“Draw the curtains again, Dorchester, and kindly ask Lady Adela if she will be so good as to come and see me in a quarter of an hour’s time.”
When Dorchester had gone she lay back and closed her eyes and dozed again, whilst the chocolate grew cold and the births and deaths and marriages grew aged and stale. She did not care, she did not want to see her daughter ... she did not want to see anyone, nor was there anything now in the world worth her energy or trouble. Her body, being now at ease, was called back to days, brighter days, days filled with thrilling events and thrilling people, days when the world was a world and not a dried-up cinder. Those were men ... those were women ... and then, suddenly, she was conscious first that her daughter was speaking and then that her daughter was a tiresome fool.
She sat up a little and her nightdress fell back showing a neck bony, crinkled and yellow.
“I said a quarter of an hour,” she snapped.
“It is a quarter of an hour, mother,” said Lady Adela.
Lady Adela hated and dreaded these morning interviews. In the first place she disliked the decorations of her mother’s bedroom, thought them almost indecent, and could never be comfortable in such surroundings. She was also aware, by long experience, that her mother was always at her worst at this hour in the morning and many were the storms of temper that that absurd bed and those unpleasant black chairs had witnessed. Thirdly she knew that she herself looked her worst and was her weakest amongst these eccentricities and shadowed by this dim light.
She waited now whilst her mother fumbled her letters.
“There’s your chocolate, mother,” she said at last. “It’ll be cold.”
The Duchess was looking at her letters, but was absorbing only a little of their contents. She was summoning all her will to her aid; she wanted to order the blind to be pulled down, to command her daughter to avoid her presence for at least a week, to scatter her correspondence to the four corners of the earth, and to see none of it again; at the same time she was driving into her brain the fact that before Adela, of all people in the world, she must be alert and wise and wonderful; Adela, the ugliest and most foolish of living women, must see no weakness.
“Shall I read your letters to you, mother?”
She did not answer; slowly, steadily at last, her will was flooding her brain. She could feel the warmth and the colour and the strength of it pervading again her body. The day did not now appear of so appalling a heat and the weight of the things to be done was less heavy upon her.
Lady Adela, meanwhile, watching her mother was struck once again by that chill dismay that had alarmed her first on that May evening, after the visit to the picture gallery. In that half-light her mother did seem very, very old and very, very feeble. Lady Adela had a dreadful temptation to say in a brusque sharp voice, “What do you let your chocolate get cold like that for? Why don’t you get someone to read your letters sensibly to you instead of groping through them like that?” and at the mere horror of such a thought a shudder shook her and her heart began wildly to beat. Let once such words as those cross her lips and an edifice, a wonderful, towering temple raised by submissions and subduals and self-denials, would tumble to the ground.
For some moments the struggle in Lady Adela’s breast was sharp, then by a tense dominion of her will she produced once again for herself the Ceremonial, the Terror, the agitated, humble Submission.
“Julia Massiter,” the Duchess said, “has asked Rachel for the last week-end in July — She’ll go of course — —”
“Yes,” said Lady Adela.
“Roddy Seddon is going — —”
“Yes.”
“Roddy is going to marry Rachel. He’s coming to see me this afternoon.”
Lady Adela was silent.
“A very suitable business. I’d intended it for a long time.” Then, after a pause —
“You may tell Dorchester I will dress now.”
Lady Adela, conscious, as she left the room, of the relief of her dismissal, joyfully yielded that relief as witness —
The Terror was still there, and she was glad.
II
Very different, however, at three in the afternoon. Now she sat in her high black chair waiting for Roddy Seddon. Very difficult now to imagine that early
discourage of the morning. Magnificent now with her black dress and flashing eyes and white hair, waiting for Roddy Seddon.
This that she had long planned was at length to come to pass. Roddy Seddon was to be united to the Beaminster family, never again to be separated from it.
Of Rachel she thought not at all. She had never liked Rachel; indeed it was a more positive feeling than that. Alone of all the family was Rachel still in rebellion; even the Duke, although he was so often abroad or in the country (he hated London), was submissive enough when he was with them. But Rachel the old woman knew that she had not touched.
Frightened — yes. The girl hated that evening half-hour and would give a great deal to avoid it, but the terror that she showed did not bring her any closer to her grandmother’s power; she stood outside and away.
The Duchess had attempted to influence the girl’s brain, to catch some trait, some preference, some dislike, that she could hold and use.
Still Rachel’s soul was beyond her grasp, beyond even her guessing at. But she knew Roddy Seddon — she knew Roddy Seddon as no one knew him. And Roddy Seddon knew her.
Even when he was a boy he had known her as no one else knew her. He had seen through all her embroideries and disguises, had known where she was theatrical and why she was so, had discovered her plots and prides, her defeats and victories — and together they two, Pagan to the very bone of them, had laughed at a credulous, superstitious world.
The London that knew Roddy Seddon thought him a country bumpkin with dissipated tastes and an amiable heart. But she knew him better than that. He was not clever — no. He was amazingly innocent of books, he had no intellectual attainments whatever — yet had he received any kind of education, she knew that he might have had one of the finest brains in the country.