Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  He could not do that now.

  “Your turn, Dr. Chris dear. Tell me about your holidays.”

  “Oh, mine don’t count. I went to Brittany first, then up to St. Andrews with another man to play golf.”

  “You’re looking splendidly well and you’re thinner. What was Brittany like?”

  “Delightful. Have you ever been there?”

  “Never. I must get Roddy to take me. Just suit him, I should think.”

  To Christopher’s intense relief tea was brought. He came to the table and then, for an instant, he did catch her eyes, saw tears in them, and behind the tears some appeal to him to help her. Her hand was shaking.

  “How silly of me to spill your tea. I’m so sorry. Let me pour it back....”

  “Rachel — —” he began, but a servant entered with something and he waited. When they were alone again, standing over her as though he were afraid that she would escape him, he plunged.

  “Rachel dear. We’re talking as though we’d never met before. You’ve never been shy with me like this. If marriage is going to make a stranger of you, I shall break young Seddon’s neck — —”

  “No,” she said in a voice that was between laughter and tears. “Of course, Dr. Chris. Things are just the same between us, only, only — well, I’m married and — one thing and another, you know.”

  He caught both her hands.

  “You’re perfectly happy?”

  She met his eyes.

  “Perfectly.”

  “Happier than you’ve ever been in your life?”

  She dropped her eyes.

  “Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  “And you’ll come to me just the same if there’s any kind of trouble?”

  “Of course.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  They talked then, for a little time, of other things. But he was not satisfied. Rachel’s soul, caught away in alarm, was still beyond his grasp.

  At last, feeling that the moments were precious and that Roddy might at any instant appear, he sat down on the sofa beside her.

  “Rachel dear. Something’s worrying you. You won’t tell me?”

  “Nothing’s worrying — —”

  “Ah, but I know — well, if you won’t you won’t — but if you knew how much I loved you you’d feel that you were cruel not to let me help you.”

  “Dear Dr. Chris — but there is nothing.”

  But her eyes were full of tears.

  “Look here,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll feel later on you can talk to me. Just come straight away if you do feel that.”

  He went on. “Don’t be frightened, my dear, if there are a whole heap of new emotions, new instincts, stirred in you by marriage. Just take them all as they come. It’s all progress, you know. Don’t be frightened of anything. Just take the animal by the head and look at it.”

  That led him to speak about Brun’s Tiger. He explained it — the force in people, the way they either grappled with the creature, and at last trained it to help them with their work in the world, or ignored it, silenced it, allowed it at last to die, and so, cosy and lazily comfortable, passed to their day’s end, but had, nevertheless, missed the whole purpose of life.

  He enlarged on that and showed the connection of the individual Tiger with the welfare of the world, so that everyone who denied his Tiger added to his world’s muddle and confusion, and at last there would come an inevitable crisis when war would spring up between those who had grappled with their Tiger and those who had not.

  “One knows one’s own Tiger — absolutely of oneself one knows it and has, of oneself, the choice whether to grapple or not — at least that’s what I gathered he meant — I know it struck me at the time.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a sigh that quivered through her whole body. “It’s so easy to talk.... But it’s true what he says. I know it.”

  At last Christopher got up to go. He did not know whether he had done any good; he felt that he was a miserable failure, and he had a foreboding that one day he would be ashamed indeed that he had not helped her.

  “Do something,” a voice seemed to tell him. “You’ll regret ... all your life you’ll regret.”

  He turned and held again her hands in his.... “Rachel — dear — tell me — —”

  Her hands were chill and lifeless. Her voice caught. “Oh! Dr. Chris!...” Then she suddenly stepped back from him —

  “It’s all right.... I’m all right. Come again soon, Dr. Chris dear — come soon.”

  He left her and found his way into the hot, breathless street.

  After he had gone Rachel sat, staring beyond the room out on to the white walls of the houses and the green branches of the trees in the square.

  Roddy came in.

  All the afternoon he had been thinking about her; at one moment he was furious with the discomfort that life was now becoming to him, at another moment he was imagining little plans that would sweep all the discomfort away.

  All this spring they had been miserable together. Now was beginning a time that was always jolly in London and yet he could not enjoy a moment of it. Did she dislike him instead of liking him, or did he like her instead of loving her, it would all be so easy — just the same as any other couple.

  Ever since that silly Nita incident there had been this restraint, and yet how could that be the cause?

  Rachel had made nothing of it; it was because it had meant so little to her that he had chafed so at the remembrance of it.

  She was fond of him — he knew that — she was miserably unhappy.

  He loved her — and he was miserably unhappy.

  Damn this weather.

  He looked at her, wondered what would happen did he cross over and suddenly kiss her, knew that he would see her struggle to be kind, to give him what he wanted, knew that that would hurt most damnably, and that he would be in a bad temper for the rest of the evening and would wonder why —

  So, with a muttered word he went out and up to his dressing-room, had a bath, and then lay reading with serious brows The Winning Post until his man told him that it was time to dress.

  Slowly and with the absorbed care that he always gave to these preparations he made himself ready for the Beaminster dinner.

  CHAPTER V

  LIZZIE’S JOURNEY — I

  “So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making; Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter In sleep a king; but waking no such matter.”

  William Shakespeare.

  I

  During this year Lizzie Rand was glad that she had so much to do. As she had never until now given the romance in her an opportunity for freedom, so had she never before realized the amazing invasion upon life that that same romance might threaten.

  Indeed by the early summer months of 1899 “threaten” was no longer an honest definition, for, now this same Romance had invaded, had conquered, had confronted the very citadels of Lizzie’s heart, citadels never surveyed nor challenged at any time before.

  Nevertheless, even now, Portland Place noticed no change in Miss Rand. Norris, Mrs. Newton, Dorchester would still, had they been challenged, have protested that Miss Rand had no conception of the softer, more sentimental side of life; she was there for discipline and order — Norris had been known to be led a fearful dance by young women “time and again” — Mrs. Newton had passionately adored the late Mr. Newton until a sudden chill had carried him to St. Agnes, Bare Street Cemetery, whither Mrs. Newton, every Sunday, did still make her stately pilgrimage — even Dorchester had once, it was said, paid grim attentions to a soldier who had, unhappily, found in some fluffy young woman a more hopeful comfort.

  Here, above and below stairs, passion had marked its victims ... Miss Rand only could have felt no touch of it.

  She sometimes wondered at herself that she could so calmly and dispassionately separate the one life from the other. Never, within that neat stern
room at Portland Place, was there a shudder or sudden invading thrill at some flashing recollection or imagination. To her work every nerve, every energy was given. Now, indeed, more than ever before in her experience of it did 104 Portland Place demand her presence. Increasingly throughout these months of 1899 was the solemn heavy air unsettled.

  Lizzie, to whom all impression came with sharpening acuteness, had seen in the appearance, success and marriage of Rachel Beaminster the disturbing elements at work— “Things will never be the same here again” — she had said to herself.

  It was, of course, through Lady Adela that Lizzie studied the house. The Duchess she never saw, but it was Lady Adela’s attitude, before and after those interviews with her mother, that told their story. Lady Adela had never until now appeared an interesting figure to Lizzie, but now forth, from the dry sterile husk of her, a life, pathetic, struggling against heritages of dumb years, tried to come.

  Lady Adela was unhappy; the very foundations of her existence threatened to dismay her, at any moment, by their insecurity. Within her the Beaminster tradition urged, before Lizzie Rand at any rate, the maintenance of dignity and indifference, but the novelty to her of all this disturbance brought with it a hapless inability to deal with it, and again and again little exclamations, little surprised wonders at what the world could be coming to, little confused clutchings at anything that offered stability, showed Lizzie that trouble was on every side of her. Then through the house rumour began to twist its way — Her Grace was not so well— “The Old Lady was breaking up” (this, in the close security of shuttered rooms below stairs).

  No one could say whence these whispers gathered. Dorchester would admit nothing. Her own position in the servants’ hall was that of a lofty uncompromising female Jove, and she knew well enough that her supremacy over Norris and Mrs. Newton depended on her mistress’s supremacy over the world in general. Not for her then to admit ill health.

  “Indeed no — Her Grace has been better of late than for years past.”

  But Norris and Mrs. Newton were not to be taken in. They were truly proud now of their alliance with the Beaminster family royal, but, supposing Her Grace were to leave this world to rule in a better one (“Here to-day, gone to-morrow ‘igh or low,” as Norris remarked), why, then “Le Roi est mort — Vive le Roi,” and the Crown might, in the meanwhile, have passed elsewhere.

  “You mark my words,” Mrs. Newton said to Norris, “‘er Grace will go, old Victorier will go, and where’ll the Beaminster crowd be then, I ask you? Times are movin’ too quick. I wouldn’t give a toss for your Birth and Debrett and all in another twenty years.”

  To Lizzie also there came other signs of the times. She noticed that now the relations and friends of the family gathered more frequently together than ever before within her memory. The Duke, Lord Richard were continually in the house, and the adherents, Lady Carloes, Lord Crewner, the Massiters and all the others, called, dined, came to tea.

  Throughout it all there was no expression of any change in the family policy. To Lizzie Lady Adela admitted nothing, only there were occasions when, almost against her will, she asked for advice, was uncertain a little, vague a little, even appealing a little.

  Here Lizzie was exactly right, assisted and yet admitted no need for assistance. Her tact was perfect.

  Lizzie had also Lady Seddon to besiege her attention.

  To her considerable surprise Rachel had written to her three times during this year. On each occasion there had been some definite reason for writing, but behind the reason there had been some implied friendliness and Lizzie had, in her turn, sent answers that were more than businesslike replies.

  Lizzie had seen Rachel several times in January and at each meeting her impression of Rachel’s unhappiness had grown.

  “There’ve been three of you,” Lizzie said to herself. “There was the girl in the schoolroom, and a fierce awkward difficult creature she was. There was the girl in her first season, and a delightful, joyful, radiant creature she was. And now — well, there’s a girl married, fierce again, suffering again — above all, afraid of herself.”

  In May Rachel asked Lizzie to go and see her, and Lizzie went. That meeting was in no way personal: Rachel seemed less friendly than she had been on that day, a year ago, when she had been to Lizzie’s, but behind all that outward stiffness the appeal was there.

  “She wants me to help her,” thought Lizzie. “She’s too proud now to ask me: the time will come though.”

  All this was connected, she knew, with the fortunes of the house. Through Lord John, Lord Richard, the Duke, Lady Adela, Dorchester, Norris, Mrs. Newton the spirit of uneasiness was abroad.

  The Duchess, during these months, more than ever before, was present in every room and passage of the house —

  The shadow of some coming event hovered.

  II

  Over Lizzie’s other life, also, the Duchess hovered. Were any disaster to snatch Her Grace from the domination of this world into a comparatively humble position in the next, Lizzie did not doubt that the Beaminsters would once more take Francis Breton into their ranks. It was the Duchess who held the gate against him.

  The romantic side of her did not hold complete dominion. She knew that were Francis Breton once more accepted by the family, his distance from her would be greatly increased. Were he, on the other hand, to marry her whilst he was yet an exile, then had she no fear of after consequences. She could hold her own with anyone.

  She had now very little doubt that he loved her. She had seen, during the last year, the flame of some passion burning in his eyes, increasingly he depended upon her and found opportunities for being with her. There was no other woman whom he saw, of that she was convinced.

  Often he had been about to tell her some secret and then had refrained; she thought that he was waiting until he could be quite assured that she loved him, and she had fancied that since that day in last December when the first snow had fallen and they had had that little talk together he had been much happier, as though he were now convinced of her love for him.

  The spring passed and still his confession did not come. With the early summer he seemed to be once more unhappy and unsettled, and throughout May she scarcely saw him.

  Then in July he asked her whether she would dine with him and go to the theatre. He had two dress circle tickets for Mrs. Lemiter’s Decision.

  Something told her that on this evening he would speak to her.

  As she dressed her fingers trembled so that buttons and hooks and laces were of terrible difficulty. In the glass she saw her cheeks flaming; she wished she were taller, not so sturdy. The lines of her face, she thought, were all so set as though they knew well for what purpose they were there. “Business we’re here for ...” they seemed to say.

  For once she envied her sister’s fair rounded fluffiness. Her black evening dress was fashionable, almost smart, but just a little stern: she fastened some dark red carnations into her waist and hung around her throat a chain of tiny pearls, her only piece of jewellery. Her hair was restrained and disciplined — she could not extract from it any waves or soft indulgencies.

  At the end, staring at her reflection, she let herself go.

  “He’s seen me all this time as I am. How silly to try to alter things!” Her face glowed, the pearls and carnations seemed to smile encouragement to her.

  What possibilities had this new, this wonderful Lizzie Rand! What a life might be hers! What a happy, fortunate woman she was!

  God, how grateful she was!

  Mrs. Rand saw them off in a four-wheeler with an air of reluctance. It always hurt her that anyone should go to the theatre without her.

  Of course Lizzie was old enough by now to look after herself, but at the same time this Mr. Breton was no safe character and it would have been altogether “nicer” if Lizzie had suggested her company —

  Lizzie had not suggested it; with a shiver Mrs. Rand resigned herself to an evening made hideous by a vision of a worl
d crowded with theatres through whose portals gay audiences were pouring —

  “Of course it’s selfish of her,” she said again and again to Daisy— “Selfish is the only word.”

  Meanwhile the cab was, for Lizzie, a chariot of happiness. He looked splendid to-night, more romantic than he had ever been, with his pointed beard, his armless sleeve buttoned across on to his coat, his top-hat shining, his clothes fitting so perfectly. Poor though he was, he always stood up as smart as anyone, the Duke or Lord John were no smarter.

  Did he realize, she wondered, that the edge of his hand touched the silk of her dress? Did he notice the absurd way that the pearls jumped up and down on her throat? Did he feel the little shiver of happiness that ran through her body and out at her toes and fingers?

  The chariot was dark, but beyond it there were piled lighted buildings; before these ran streets that flung dark figures, here one by one, now in throngs, against the glittering colour.

  She could not believe that anyone there by the lumbering cab could show happiness that could equal hers.

  Had she been coldly surveying, from the careful distance of an outside observer, these emotions in some other woman she would have demanded her reasons for such expectation of happiness, but it was her very inexperience of any other such affair in her life that allowed her now to rest assured. As he touched her hand to help her into the restaurant she was sure, by the beating of her heart, that she could not be deceived.

  The restaurant was in Pall Mall, and as she went in she noticed the string of faithful people waiting round the corner of Her Majesty’s Theatre; she was glad that there were so many others enjoying themselves to-night.

  They sat at a little round table on a balcony and below them other happy people were laughing and talking — Flowers, lights, women not so beautiful that they disheartened one, and, from the open windows, a whir, a rattle, a shout, a cry, a bell, a hurdy-gurdy, a laugh — Oh! the world was turning to-night!

  There was a beautiful dinner, but she was far too happy to eat much. He seemed to understand. They both talked a little, but it was, it appeared, implied between them that their real conversation should be postponed.