Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Although he was not touching her, it was as though she were chained to him. If he moved she felt that she must move with him and every motion that he made seemed to rouse some response in her.

  She was aware, of course, as she was always aware with him, of the way that intimacy between them had moved since their last meeting. All her romantic evocation of life as she wanted it to be helped her to this. It was as though she said to herself, “Here at least is my true self free and dominant. I must make the most of it” — and yet, with that, something seemed to warn her that freedom too easily obtained carried at its heart disappointment. The ugly man-servant brought in tea and then disappeared. Breton moved about, waited upon her, then sat down closer to her, leaning forward and looking into her eyes.

  It was part of his temperament that he should take her coming to him as an instant acknowledgment of the complete fulfilment of his wishes. He always saw life as the very rosiest of his dreams until it woke him to reality. He was ruled completely by the mood of the moment, and his one emotion now was that Rachel was divinely intended for him alone of all human beings —

  But he could not wait.... He knew, by this time, that reflection was always a period of disappointment. He was unhappily made in that he yielded to his impulses of regret as eagerly as to his impulses of anticipation — One mood followed so swiftly upon another that collision might seem inevitable.

  They were, both of them, young enough to see life as something that would inevitably, in a short time, condemn them both to years of sterile monotony. Rachel indeed felt that she was already caught....

  They must, both of them, therefore, make the best of their time.

  “I was so afraid,” he repeated again, “lest something should have stopped you.”

  “I would have asked you to come to us, only I’m afraid that my husband still — —”

  “Oh! I quite understand.”

  “It’s natural — Roddy’s like that. If he wants to do a thing he doesn’t care for anybody and just does it. But if nothing makes him especially want to do it, then he just takes other people’s opinions. Now he might ask you suddenly to come and see us — simply because he took it into his head. Then nobody could stop him.... He’s very obstinate.”

  She was rather surprised at herself for talking about Roddy. She had a curious feeling about him as though she were going on a journey and had just said good-bye to him and had a rather desolate choke in her throat because she wouldn’t see him again for so long.

  “Oh! but I’m glad you’ve come! If you knew the times and times when I’ve imagined this meeting — thought about it, pictured — —”

  She saw that his hand was trembling on the window-ledge —

  “I oughtn’t to have come, perhaps — But I don’t know. I’ve felt so indignant at the way that grandmother is treating you. I wanted to show you that I was indignant....”

  “You don’t know,” he said, “what a help you’ve been to me already — You showed me the very first time that we met that you did sympathize....”

  His voice was tender, partly because her presence moved him so deeply and partly because the sympathy of anyone about his own affairs made him instantly full of sorrow for himself — When anyone said that they thought that he had been badly treated he always felt with an air of surprised discovery: “By Jove, I have been having a bad time!”

  “Yes — Wasn’t it strange, that first meeting in Miss Rand’s room? We seem to have known one another all our lives.”

  She looked at him. “That you should hate grandmamma so,” she said, “was a great thing to me. I’d been all alone — fighting her — for so long.”

  Rachel felt, in the glow of the occasion, that, all her days, there had been active constant war-to-the-knife in the Portland Place house.

  “She’s been the curse of my life,” he said bitterly. “Always keeping me down, making me unable to do myself justice. Why should she hate me so?”

  “She hates us,” cried Rachel, “because we’re both determined to be free. We wouldn’t have our lives ruled for us. She wants everyone to be under her in everything.”

  They glowed together, very close to one another now, in a glorious assertion of rebellious independence. He put his hand upon the back of her chair —

  “Now,” he said, his voice trembling, “now that we’ve got to know one another, you won’t go back on it, will you? If I couldn’t feel that you were behind me, after being so encouraged, it would be terrible for me — worse than anything’s ever been for me.”

  “You needn’t be afraid,” she said, not looking at him, but tremendously conscious of his hand that now touched her dress. Then there was a long and very difficult silence during which events seemed to move with terrific impetus.

  She was overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions. She was past analysis of regret or anticipation. Somewhere, very far away, there was Roddy, and somewhere — also very far away — there was her grandmother, but, for herself, she could only feel that she was very lonely, that nobody cared about her except Breton and that nobody cared about him except herself — and that she wanted urgently to be comforted and that he himself needed comfort from her.

  She knew that if she were not very strong-minded and resolute she would cry; she could feel the tears burning her eyes.

  “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have come — Oh! it’s all so difficult — with grandmother — and everything — I thought I could — could manage things, but I can’t — We oughtn’t — I wanted to do what was best. I — I didn’t know — You — —”

  Then the tears came — She tried desperately to stop them, then they came rushing; she buried her head in her hands and abandoned herself to weeping that was partly sorrow for herself and partly sorrow for Breton and partly, in the strangest way, sorrow for Roddy.

  He was on his knees by her chair, had his arm about her, was crying:

  “Oh! Rachel — Rachel — Rachel — I love you. I love you — Don’t cry — Don’t — Rachel — —” He kissed her again and again and she clung to him like a frightened child.

  III

  After a time her crying ceased, she got up from the chair, moving gently out of his embrace, and then went to the looking-glass above the fireplace and stood there wiping her eyes.

  Then, smiling, she looked back at him — He was standing in front of the window and behind him the reflection, from the departed sun, flooded the town with gold. He seemed a man transformed, gazing upon her with an ecstasy of triumph, exaltation, happiness.

  “My dear — my dear — Oh! how glorious you are!”

  But she did not move.

  He stirred impatiently, and then, looking at her with adoring eyes, he whispered, “Oh! my dear! but I love you!”

  “I must go,” she said, her eyes, large and frightened, appealingly upon him —

  He smiled at her, his eyes laughing.

  “Yes, Francis — let me — let me. Now while I can still see what I ought to do.”

  “There’s only one thing that you ought to do. You belong to me now.” She plucked nervously with her hands one against the other.

  “Francis, let me go — please — please — —” He saw then that she was unhappy and the laughter died from his eyes. His voice, fallen from its happiness, was almost harsh, as he replied —

  “You know we love one another, have loved one another ever since that day when we met in Miss Rand’s rooms? You know it as well as I do. You knew it when you came to these rooms to-day.”

  “I oughtn’t to have come.” Her voice had gathered strength. “It’s only because I realize now what you are to me that I want to go. I thought I was so strong, that I could be fair to Roddy and to you too ... I didn’t know — —”

  “Then stay — stay—” he whispered urgently. “It’s a thing that you’ve got to face anyhow — We can’t stay apart, you and I, now. We can try, but you know — you know as well as I — that we can’t do it.”

  “We must — That’s what I meant
before. That’s why I must go now, because soon I shan’t be strong enough. But we’ve got to part — we’ve got to.”

  “Oh, this is absurd,” he cried. “We’re human beings, not figures to hang a theory on — Now just as we realize what we are to one another — —”

  “Yes, because of that,” she broke in swiftly, urgently. “You know that I love you — I know that you love me. We’ve got that knowledge that nothing can take away from us — and we’ve got the love — nothing can touch it. But my duty is with Roddy.”

  “You knew that,” he said, “when you came here to-day.”

  Her face flamed— “That’s not fair of you, Francis.”

  “No, I beg your pardon. It isn’t — —” He suddenly came to her, caught her and kissed her, holding her with his arm close to him, murmuring in her ear. At first she had struggled, then she lay absolutely still against him, making no response.

  He felt her passive against his beating heart. He released her and watched her as she went across to the window and looked out into the darkening city.

  “I don’t care,” he said roughly, “I love you. There’s no talk about it or anything else. You belong to me.”

  “I belong to Roddy,” she answered quietly. “It’s all quite clear. My duty is to him until ... unless, life with him becomes impossible. I’ve got absolutely to do my best and while I’m doing that you’ve got to help me.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, his eyes upon her.

  “Help me by our not meeting, by our not writing, by our doing nothing — nothing — —”

  “No — No,” he answered her, his eyes set upon her.

  “You don’t get me any other way. Francis, don’t you see that we’re not the sort of people, either of us, to put up with the deceits, the trickeries, the lies that the other thing means? Some people might — lots of people do, I suppose — but we’re not built that way. We’re idealists — We aren’t made to stand quietly and see all the quality of the thing vanish before our eyes — just to take the husk when we’ve known what the kernel was like.

  “Besides, it isn’t as though I hated Roddy. If I did I’d go off with you now, in a minute if you wanted me, although even then it would be a hopeless thing for us to do. But I’m very fond of Roddy. I’m not in love with him — I never have been — I told him from the first — But I’m going to do my best by him.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I came here because I was driven towards you. I wanted to hear you say that you loved me — I wanted to tell you that I loved you. We’ve both of us said it. We know it now — and we’ve got to keep it, the most precious thing in the world.

  “But we should soon hate one another if we destroyed one another’s ideals. For many people it wouldn’t matter — For us, weak as we are, it matters everything.”

  “All this talk,” he said. “I’m a man. I’m here to love you, not to talk about it. I’ve got you and I’m going to keep you.”

  “You haven’t got me,” she cried. “You’ve got a bit of me. There’ll be times when I’m away from you when I shall think that you’ve got all of me. But you haven’t — no one’s got all of me....

  “And I haven’t got you either — You think now for the moment that it is so — But I know what it would be if we were hiding about on the Continent or secretly meeting here in London — That’s not for us, Francis.”

  “I’ve got you,” he repeated. “I’m not going to wait any longer — —”

  “It’s the only way you’ll ever have me,” she answered, “by letting me do my duty to Roddy — I promise you that. If ever life is impossible — if it’s ever better for both of us that I should go, I’ll come to you — But I shall tell him first.”

  “Tell him! But he won’t let you go.”

  “He won’t stop me — if it comes to that.”

  He pleaded with her then, telling her about his life, its loneliness, his unhappiness, how impossible it would be now without her.

  But she shook her head.

  “Don’t you think,” she cried, “that grandmother would be delighted if we went off? Both of us done for — you never able to return again ... Ah! no! For all of us, for every reason, it’s not to be.”

  “I won’t let you go — I’ve got you. I’ll keep you.”

  “You can’t, Francis — —”

  “I can and I will — —”

  Then looking up, catching a vision of her framed in the window with the lighted city behind her, he saw in her eyes how unattainable she might be....

  He had, he had always had, his ideals. There was a long silence between them, then he bowed his head.

  “You shall do as you will — anything with me that you will.”

  “Oh, my dear,” she whispered, “I love you for that.”

  Then hurriedly, moving as though she feared her own weakness, she went to put on her wraps — He came to her.

  “Let me write — let me.”

  “No — Better not.”

  “Just a line — Nothing that any ordinary person — —”

  “No, we mustn’t, Francis.”

  He put her furs about her neck, then his hand rested on her shoulder. Her head fell back.

  “Once more” — she said. He kissed her throat, then her eyes, then their lips met.

  “Stay,” he whispered, “stay” — Very slowly she drew away from him, smiled at him once, and was gone.

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHRISTOPHER’S DAY

  “I judge more than I used to — but it seems to me that I have earned the right. One can’t judge till one is forty; before that we are too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition too ignorant.”

  Henry James.

  I

  The War had the City in its grip. There was now, during these early weeks of November, no other thought, no other anxiety, no other interest. The shock of its reality came most severely upon those whose lives had been most unreal. Here, in the midst of their dining and their dancing, was the sure fact that many whom they knew and with whom they had been in the habit of playing might now, at any moment, find death —

  Here was a reality against which there was no argument, and against the harshness of it music screamed and food was uninteresting.

  During that first month of that war, so new a thing was the horrid grimness of it, that hysteria was abroad, life was twopence coloured. For everyone now it was the question— “What might they do?”

  Something to help, something to ease that biting truth— “Your life has been the most utterly useless business — no purpose, no strength, no unselfishness from first to last — what now?”

  Christopher’s life had not been useless and he knew it. The reality of it had never been in doubt and death — the haphazard surprise of it and the pathos and melodrama and sometimes drab monotony of it — had been his companion for many years.

  Christopher, although he had been a hard worker from his childhood, had always taken life lightly. He loved the gifts of this world — food and amusement and exercise and pleasant company. He loved, also, certain people whose lives were of immense concern to him. He also believed in a quite traditional God about Whom he had never argued, but Whose definite particular existence was as certain to him as his own.

  He had faults that he tried to cure — his temper — his pleasure in food and wine.

  He had three great motives in his life — His love of God, his love of his friends and his love of his work. He hated hypocrites, mean persons, cruel persons, anyone who showed cowardice or deceit or arrogance. He was dogmatic and therefore disliked anyone else to be so. He was humble about his work, but not humble about his position in the world, which he thought, quite frankly, a very good one.

  His interest in his especial friends was compounded of his love for them and also of his curiosity about them, and he always loved someone the more if he or she gave him the opportunity to practise his inquisitiveness upon them.

  After Rachel Seddon he car
ed more, perhaps, for Francis Breton than anyone in the world. He had also of late been interested in Roddy, who was a far better fellow than he had expected.

  One puzzle, meanwhile, obstinately and continually beset him. What had happened to Breton during this last year? Something, or in surer probability someone, had been behind him. Christopher might have flattered himself that he had been the influence, but he knew that, if that had been so, Breton’s attitude to him would have implied it. Breton was fond of him, but did not owe that to him. Who then was it?

  On one of these November days he invited a friend and Breton to luncheon together.

  Christopher’s geniality and the supreme importance of the war over everything else helped amiability. Christopher’s little house in Harley Street showed, beyond its consulting-room, a cheerful Philistine appreciation of comfort and love. There was old silver, there were old prints, sofas, soft carpets, book-cases, whose glass coverings were more important than their contents. Also a luncheon that was the most artistic thing that the house contained, save only the wine.

  At the side of the round gleaming table Christopher sat smiling, and soon Breton told the friend about India and the friend told Breton about Africa.

  Meanwhile Christopher watched Breton. He knew Breton very well and, in the old days, he would have said that that nervous excitement that the man sometimes betrayed meant that he was on the edge of some most foolish action.

  He knew that light in the eyes, that excited voice, that restlessness — these things had meant that Breton’s self-control was about to break.

  To-day there were all these signs, and Christopher knew that after luncheon Breton would escape him.

  Breton did escape him, went off somewhere in a hurry; no, Christopher could not drive him — he was going in the opposite direction.

  Whilst Christopher drove, first down to Eaton Square, then back to 104 Portland Place, he was wondering about Breton....

  II

  It seemed that, on this afternoon, he was unduly sensitive to impression. The house struck him with a chill, deserted air. There seemed to be no one about as Norris led him up to the Duchess’s rooms, the old portraits grinned at him, as though they would have him to know that, very soon, the house would be once more in their possession and Beaminsters dead and gone be of more importance than Beaminsters alive.