by Hugh Walpole
But her discovery did not lead her much further. She had, in her heart of hearts, always known that Roddy was a Beaminster. Why then had she married him? She had married him because she had been untrue to herself, because she had herself encouraged the Beaminster blood in her to blind her eyes, because she had desired deceit rather than truth, because she had wanted the comfort that the man could give her rather than the man himself, because she had muffled and stifled and silenced that Power in her — the Power that made her restless and unquiet; the Power that was as hostile to the Beaminster faith as heaven is to hell —
And yet this vehemence of explanation did not altogether explain Roddy. Roddy was not simply a Beaminster like Uncle John or Uncle Richard or Aunt Adela. There was an elemental direct emotion in Roddy that was exactly opposed to Beaminster conventionality.
These two elements in him puzzled and even frightened her. His attitude during that first fortnight of their marriage she saw, again and again, in lesser degrees during their time abroad. She had seen him so primitive in his joy and excitement over places and people and moments — colour, food, storms, towns, passers-by, anything — that she had been astounded by the force of it. Emotions swept over him and were gone, but, whilst they were there, she knew that she counted to him for nothing. Strangest of ironies that when he was least a Beaminster, then was she farthest from him — strangest of ironies that her link with him should be the Beaminster in him.
She was frightened of his primitive passions. She had in her the instinct that one day they would touch his relationship to her and that that contact would rouse in her the full tide of the unhappiness of which she was now so conscious, and that then ... what might not happen?...
And yet behind it all she felt a strange, almost pathetic satisfaction because he, after all, had in him, just as she had, his two natures at war. There at least they found some common link; her eagerness to find some link was evidence enough of the affection she had for him.
After their return to England the wilder nature in him had extended and broadened. Everything to do with Seddon Court drew it out of him; his passion for the place was wonderful to witness. Every stone of the little grey building was a jewel in his eyes; the servants, the cattle, the horses, the dogs, the flowers, the villagers, even the townspeople of Lewes drew sentiment from him.
“My old place,” he would say, cuddling it to himself; he was never “sloppy” about it, but direct and simple and straightforward. It was obviously the great emotion above all other emotions.
He was most anxious that Rachel should share this with him, and during her first weeks there she thought that she would do so. Then the disquiet in her spread to the place. The house spread itself out before her now as the lure that had from the beginning tempted her.
“It was for this place and quiet that you were false to yourself — —”
Roddy felt that she did not share his enthusiasm, and their difficulty over this was exactly their difficulty over everything else; simply that Roddy was the least eloquent person in the world. He could explain nothing whatever of the vague unhappiness or dissatisfaction at his heart. Rachel could have explained a great many things, but Roddy, she felt, would only look at her in his kind puzzled way and wonder why she couldn’t take things as they were.
Perhaps during these last weeks he had himself felt that all was not well. Rachel thought that sometimes now through, all his kindness she detected a floating, wistful speculation on his part as to whether she were happy.
He wanted her to be happy — most tremendously he wanted it — and did she explain to him that she was not happy because she was, now, for ever attended by a sense of her own disloyalty to all that was best in her, he would have suggested a doctor or have made her a present.
Had she been some stranger and had the case been presented to him he would have probably dismissed it by saying that “having made her bed she must lie on it.” “After all, she married the feller — Well then, that’s her look-out.”
So, perhaps, if this had been simply her trouble she would have done her bravest best to endeavour.
But there was more behind it all — far, far more.
She saw her marriage to Roddy, her struggling for self-respect, her present morbid introspection as a stage in what was now developing into a duel between herself and her grandmother.
Her grandmother had planned this marriage. Her grandmother was determined to destroy the honesty and truth in her and had chosen a Beaminster for her agent and now waited happy for the death of Rachel’s soul.
But Rachel’s soul should not so readily die! During all these weeks the thought of her grandmother had been continually with her. How she hated her, and with what fervour did Rachel return that hatred!
There was no melodrama in this hatred. When she had been a very little girl Rachel had somehow believed that her grandmother had been very cruel to her mother and father — She had hated her for that. Then she had seen that her grandmother disliked her and wished to tease her — so she had hated her for that also.
Her older amplification of this into principles and instincts had not altered the original vehemence of the passion, it had only given it grown-up reasons for its existence.
And so, thinking of her grandmother, she thought also of Francis Breton.
Some weeks ago she had received a letter from him and that letter was now lying in the desk of her writing-table.
She had thought that her marriage would have snapped her interest in her cousin because it would have broken that hostility with her grandmother upon which her relationship with her cousin so largely depended. But now when she saw that marriage had only intensified her hostility to the Duchess, so therefore it had intensified her perception of Breton. His letter had aroused in her, just as contact with him aroused in her, everything in her that now, for her own peace of mind, she should keep at bay. His letter had amounted to this:
“You are a rebel as I am a rebel. We have said very little, but you have recognized in me the things that I have recognized in you. You have escaped through marriage, but for me there is no escape, and if you would, for the sake of those things that we have in common, keep me from going utterly under, then you must help me — as only you can.”
He did not say this nor anything at all like this. He only, very quietly, congratulated her on her marriage, hoped that she would be very happy, said that London was a little desolate and difficult, hoped that she would not think more harshly of him than she could help, and, at the very end, told her that meeting her made him feel that he was not entirely abandoned by everybody.
It was the letter of a weak man and she knew it, but it was the letter of a man who was weak exactly in the places where she also failed. And this, more than anything else, moved her.
They two alone, it seemed, were struggling to keep their feet in a world that did not need them. It had been, through these months, Rachel’s sharpest unhappiness, the consciousness that Roddy and indeed everything at Seddon Court could get on so very well without her.
Nobody in London needed her — nobody here needed her. If you accepted the Beaminster doctrine, then no wife would demand more from a husband than Roddy gave Rachel — but was this not simply another proof that Rachel had made a Beaminster marriage?
Rachel had been flung straight from the schoolroom into marriage and the sensitive agonizing cry of a child to be loved by somebody — the cry that had always been so urgent in her — was urgent still.
It was exactly this comfortable sense of being a help that Roddy had not given her. Now this letter gave it to her.
But if this letter was an appeal, just as the mongrel Jacob, now at her feet, was an appeal, on the part of someone wounded and outcast, to her pity, so also was it an invitation to rebellion.
It was also a temptation to deceit and, did she answer the letter, she encouraged Breton to write again; she opened up not only a new relationship to him, but also a new relationship to all the forces that were most hosti
le to Roddy and her married happiness. May Eversley had once said to her: “Sit down and see, without any exaggeration or false colouring, what you’ve got. Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you imagine that you’ve got but haven’t. Take away ruthlessly everything that you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident of securing — See what’s happened to you in the past — Take away ruthlessly any sentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quite resolutely from your ugly mistakes.”
Long ago she had written this down — now was the first necessity for applying it.
The doctrine of Truth — Truth to Oneself, the one thing that mattered. She knew that the pursuit of Truth was to her, and to every rebel against the Beaminsters, the restive Tiger. In marrying Roddy she had been untrue to herself. In writing to Breton she would be true to herself but untrue to Roddy. She was fond of Roddy although she did not love him, nor did he, really, love her. The anxiety on both their parts to avoid hurting one another was proof enough of that, she thought.
There then was the whole situation. As she felt Jacob’s warm head against her foot a great agitation of loneliness and dismay and helplessness swept over her.
Tears were in her throat and eyes — Then with a strong disdain she pushed it all from her. She was growing morbid, losing her sense of humour and proportion. Here in the house there was Nita Raseley staying; in the country there were people to be called upon, to be invited, to be interested in, there was Roddy, a perfect husband.
She strangled that other Rachel, there in her room. “Now you’re dead,” she felt, and seemed to fling a lifeless, crumpled figure out into the snow —
She looked at herself in the glass.
“You’re not Rachel Beaminster now — you’re Rachel Seddon. Act accordingly and don’t whine—” She washed her face and brushed her hair, and combed Jacob’s hair out of his eyes, and then, determined to be sensible and cheerful and civilized, went down to tea.
II
The room called the Library was the pleasantest room in the house; an old, long, low-ceilinged room with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, with a large stone open fireplace and book-cases running from end to end and old sporting prints above them.
Before the great fireplace the tea was waiting and there also was Nita Raseley, very charming and fresh and pink in the face and golden in the hair. It was strange that Nita Raseley should have been their first guest since their marriage, because Rachel, most certainly, did not like her; but, after that meeting at the Massiters’ the girl had flung a passionate and incoherent correspondence upon Rachel and had ended by practically inviting herself.
Roddy liked her; Rachel knew that — so perhaps after all it had been a good thing to have her there. Rachel’s dislike of her was founded on a complete distrust. “She’s all wrong and insincere and beastly. I’ll never have her here again....” And yet, really, Miss Raseley had behaved herself, had been most quiet and decorous and most affectionate.
The electric light was delicately shaded, the curtains were drawn, outside was the storm, here cosiness and shining comfort.
“Oh! darling Rachel — I am so glad you’ve come — I do so want tea — —”
“Where’s Roddy?”
“Just come in — He’ll be here in a minute — —”
Rachel came over to the fire and was busy over the tea-table.
“Well, Nita, what have you been at all the afternoon?”
“Oh! that silly old book. Rachel, how could you tell me — —”
“What book?”
“Oh! you know — you lent it me. Something like drinking — you know. By that man Westcott — such a silly name.”
“The Vines! — Didn’t you like it?”
“Like it! My dear Rachel, why, they go on for pages about each other’s feelings and nothing happens and I’m sure it’s most unwholesome. They’re all so unhappy and always hating one another. I like books to be cheerful and about people one knows — don’t you?”
“Well, Nita dear, it’s a good thing we don’t all like the same things, isn’t it? Sugar?”
“Yes, dear, you know — lots — Darling, have you got a headache? You do look rotten — you do really.”
Rachel knew that she must keep an especial guard to-day: she was irritable, out of sorts. She would have liked immensely to send Nita to have her tea in the nursery, were there one.
“No, I’m all right. But I wanted to get out and this storm stopped me.”
“You do look dicky! Oh! what do you think! Roddy’s taking us over to Hawes to-morrow to lunch if the weather’s anything like decent. He’s just fixed it up — sent a wire — —”
“To-morrow? But I can’t.... He knows. I’ve got Miss Crale coming here — —”
“Only old Miss Crale? Put her off — —”
“I can’t possibly — I’ve put her off once before. She wants to talk about her Soldiers’ Institute place—” Then Rachel added more slowly, “But Roddy knew — —”
“Oh! he said you’d got some silly old engagement, but he knew you’d put it off!”
“He knows I can’t. He was talking about it this morning. He knew how — —” Then she stopped. She was not going to show Nita Raseley that she minded anything.
But Roddy had always said that they would go over together to Hawes — one of the loveliest old places in the world — He had always promised....
She knew perfectly well what had occurred. Nita had caught Roddy and clung on to him and persuaded him — Roddy was such a boy — But she was hurt and she despised herself for it.
“Oh,” she said, laughing. “That’s all right. You two must just go over together — that’s all! I’ll go another time — —”
“Well, you see, Roddy did send a wire and the Rockingtons would hate being put off at the last moment.... Oh! You beastly dog! He’s been licking my shoe, Rachel. Really he oughtn’t to, ought he? So funny of you, Rachel, when he’s such a mongrel and Roddy’s got such lovely darlings — Of course Jacob’s a dear, but he is rather absurd to look at — —”
Jacob glanced at her, shook his ears and then, hearing a step that he knew, retired, instantly, under a sofa in a far corner of the room.
Roddy came in and stood for a moment laughing across at them. He was in an old tweed suit with a soft collar and his face was brick-red; looking at him as he stood there, the absolute type of health and strength and cleanly vigour, Rachel wondered why she felt irritable. She certainly was out of sorts.
“Hullo, you two,” Roddy said, “you do look cosy! Talkin’ secrets, or will you put up with a man?”
“Oh! Roddy,” said Nita Raseley, “why, of course. Rachel’s only just come down, hasn’t been any time for secrets. Come and get warm.”
Room was made for him. Rachel smiled at him as she gave him his tea. “Well, Roddy, what have you been doing? I’ve been trying to write letters and Nita’s been abusing a novel I lent her. I hope you’ve been better employed — —”
“I’ve been botherin’ around with Nugent over those two horses he bought last week. And — oh! I say, Rachel, you’ll come over to Hawes to-morrow, won’t you?”
“You know I can’t. I’ve got Miss Crale coming to luncheon — —”
“Oh, I say! Put her off — —”
“Can’t — I’ve put her off before and she doesn’t deserve to be badly treated — —”
“Oh! dash it! But I’ve gone and wired. The Rockingtons won’t like my changin’ — —”
“Well, don’t change — you and Nita go over — —”
“No, but you know we’d always arranged to go over together. You see, I felt sure you’d put old Miss Crale on to another day. She won’t mind — —”
“No, Roddy, thank you. That’s not fair on her. It can’t be helped. You go over with Nita.”
Then there occurred between them one of those little situations that were now so frequent. Rachel was hurt, but was determined to show nothing; Roddy knew that she was hurt, but
was quite unable to improve relations, partly because he had no words, partly because “a feller looks such a fool tryin’ to explain,” partly because there was in him a quality of sullen obstinacy that was mingled, most strangely, with his kindness and sentiment.
He was absolutely ready to fling Nita and the Rockingtons into limbo, but he was quite unable to set about such a business.
Moreover now there was Nita Raseley — It was at this moment that Jacob, having fought in the dark recesses of the sofa between his dislike of Roddy and his love of tea, declared for his stomach and walked slowly, and with the dignity required by the presence of an enemy, across the room.
“Hullo! there’s the mongrel—” Roddy endeavoured to cover earlier awkwardness by easy laughter, but the laughter was not easy and his attempt to pat Jacob was frustrated by a sidling movement on the dog’s part.
Then Nita Raseley laughed.
Roddy now thought that women were damnable, that his wife had no right to drag a mongrel like that about with her, that he’d show them if they laughed at him, and that if Rachel couldn’t come to-morrow, why then, she must just lump it — The last thought of all was that Rachel was always finding a grievance in something.
He waited a little while, talked in a stiff and unnatural fashion and then went.
“This weather is very trying, dear, isn’t it?” said Nita. “If I were you I really would go and lie down. You do look so seedy!”
“I think I will,” said Rachel.