by Hugh Walpole
At any rate it was a cold November day, and always now the streets seemed to echo with newsboys crying out editions.
Even through these stone walls, those cries could penetrate; he could hear one as he climbed the stairs.
The Duchess, looking peaked and shrivelled, received him with an eagerness that showed that she was longing for company. The room was close, but, in spite of that, now and again she shivered a little.
As he sat opposite her the glance that she flung him was almost pathetic — struggling to maintain her pride, but showing, too, that she might now, in his company, a little relax that great effort.
“I’m not so well,” she said; “I’ve slept badly.”
“I’m sorry for that,” he said; “what’s the trouble?”
“It’s this war,” she said, taking her eyes away from his face. “This war — I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything before, but this — Oh! I’m old, old at last,” she said almost savagely.
“Everybody’s feeling it just now,” Christopher answered her quietly. “I suppose I’m as level-headed as most people, but even I have been imagining things to-day — Nerves, simply nerves — —”
“Nonsense,” she answered him— “Don’t tell me, Christopher. What have I ever had to do with nerves?”
“Wait a little. All we want is to get used to War: it’s a new experience for all of us — —”
She laughed sharply —
“It’s ludicrous, but really you’d think if you studied my family that I was responsible for the whole thing. It’s positively as though I’d made some huge blunder which they would do their best to excuse. Adela, John — I’m now to them an old sick woman who’s got to be kept quiet and away from worry. They wouldn’t have dared let me see that six months ago—”
Her voice was trembling.
She went on again, more quietly. “Every hour now one hears some horrible thing. This morning that young Dick Staveling dead, shot in some skirmish or another — Fine boy he was. They’re all going out, one after the other — Not useless idiots who aren’t wanted here like John or Vincent — but boys, boys like — like Roddy.”
Again her voice trembled.
For the first time in his knowledge of her some pity for her stirred in him, for the first time in her knowledge of him she definitely looked to him with some appeal.
“Roddy came to see me yesterday,” she said.
“Yes?” said Christopher.
“He had not been so often as he used — I told him so; he made some feeble apology, but I can see that he will not come again so often — —”
He would have interrupted her, but she went on— “He’s not happy, but he loves her madly — madly. He did not tell me so, but I could see that. That was something I had never reckoned on.”
“You prefer,” Christopher said sharply, “to imagine that he is not happy. I know, unfortunately, what your feeling is about Rachel. Fond of him though you are you’d prefer that he was unhappy with her.”
“I know that he is unhappy. He would not care for her so much if she returned it. I know Roddy. But she’s clever enough — —” She broke off.
“If Roddy were to go out to South Africa,” she said, “I think I would kill Rachel — then die happy — —”
“Forgive me,” Christopher said, “but this is sheer melodrama. Rachel is devoted to Roddy and Roddy to Rachel. I’ve the best means for knowing — —”
Even as he spoke he saw her mouth curve with that smile that was always the wickedest thing about her. He had seen it on many occasions and it always meant that, then, in her heart there was something cruel or remorseless.
It gave her now an elfin look so that, amongst the absurd furniture of the room, she took her place as some old witch might take hers amongst the paraphernalia of her incantations — her cauldron, her bones, her noxious herbs.
“That shows, Christopher my friend, that you know very little. I’ve a piece of news that will surprise you.”
He said nothing, but, in his heart, made ready for some blow.
“What would you say if our Rachel — your Rachel and my Rachel — had found a new friend in my worthy, most admirable nephew, Francis?”
“Rachel — Rachel and Breton?”
The Duchess watched him with amusement. “Exactly. I have the surest information — —”
“What does your — information — say?”
He hated her at that moment as he had never hated her before.
“It says — and I know that it is true — that for more than a year now they have been meeting and corresponding — The other day Rachel went to tea with him — alone. Was with him alone for some time — I’m sure that Roddy knows nothing of this — —”
“It’s impossible — impossible! Rachel is the soul of honour — —”
“I know that you have always thought so. But what more likely? Their feeling about myself would, alone, be enough....”
But he would not let her see how hardly he was taking it. He deprived her of her triumph, did not even question her as to what she would do with it, turned the conversation into other channels, and left her at last — seeming there, amongst her candles, with her nose and thin hands, like some old bird of most evil omen.
III
But for him there was to be no more peace.
It was now about four o’clock and already the dusk was closing in about the town. He decided that he would go and see whether Rachel were in.
He was determined that he would ask Rachel nothing; if she wished to speak to him he would help her, but it must be of her own free will — that was the only way at present.
For how much was the Duchess’s malignity responsible? What exactly did she know? What did she intend to do?
Oddly enough, for a long time past some subconscious part of him had linked Rachel and Breton together, perhaps because they were the two persons in all the world for whom he most cared, perhaps because he had always known in both of them that rebellious discontent so unlike that Beaminster acquiescence.
As he drove through the evening streets, he felt that never, until now, had he known how dearly he loved Rachel. In his mind there was no judgment of her, only a sense of her peril; if she would speak to him!...
When he asked at the door of the flat for Lady Seddon he was told that she was out.
“Sir Roderick is at home, sir.” He would see Roddy.
Roddy was sitting in the little box-like room known as the smoking-room, poring over a war map. About the map little flags were dotted; he had two in his hand and, with one hand lifted, was hesitating as to their position.
“That was a damned bad mess — —” Christopher heard him say as he came in.
At the sound of the door Roddy looked up, straightened himself, and then came forward.
“Hallo! Christopher,” he said. “Delighted. Splendid! Rachel’s out, but she said she’d be back to tea.”
He was not looking well — fat, his cheeks pale and puffy, lines beneath his eyes.
“I’m jolly glad you’ve come,” he said. He drew two arm-chairs to the fire and they sat down.
Roddy then talked a great deal. He was always a little nervous with Christopher because he was well aware that the doctor had disapproved of his marriage.
Christopher had lately shown him that he liked him, but still Roddy was not at his ease. He talked of the war, then of golf, then polo, then horses, Seddon Court — abruptly he stopped and sat there gazing moodily into the fire.
“You’re not looking well, Seddon,” Christopher said quietly.
“I’m not very — Nobody’s at their liveliest just now with fellers one knows droppin’ out any minute.... One feels a bit of a worm keepin’ out of it all — skunkin’ rather — —”
Moodily he sat there, his head hanging, dejected as Christopher had never seen him before.
Suddenly he said— “That ain’t quite the truth, Doctor. I am a bit worried — —”
“My dear boy,” Christ
opher said, putting his hand on the other’s knee— “If there’s anything in the world I can do for you, tell me.”
“Thank you. You’re a brick. I’m damned unhappy, Christopher, and that’s the truth — —”
“Rachel — —” said Christopher.
“Yes — Rachel. I got to talk to somebody. I’ve been goin’ along on my own now for months and I know you’re fond of her — —”
“I am,” said Christopher, “more than of anyone in the world — —”
“I know. That’s how I can talk to you. I wouldn’t have you think I’m complainin’ of her. I’m gettin’ nothin’ but what I asked for, you know. But it’s just this. When she took me she never said she loved me, in fact she said she didn’t, but I thought that it wouldn’t matter — all you wanted in marriage was just to be pals and show up about the town together and treat one another honourably. Well,” said Roddy, taking now a melancholy interest in his discoveries concerning himself, “damn it all, if I haven’t rotted the bargain by fallin’ in love with her. Jove! Why, I hadn’t a ghost’s guess at what Love meant before Rachel came along. Of course it isn’t her fault. You couldn’t expect her to love an ordinary sort of chap like me, just like a million other fellers knockin’ about — but she’s so unusual there ain’t another woman in the world so surprisin’ as Rachel —
“She’s fond of me,” he went on, “I know that, but what I want she just can’t give me and that’s the long and short of it.
“Lately it’s been terrible hard. She’s not happy and that makes me wild, and every day that passes I seem to want her more. Nothin’ else, no one else matters now. I’ve been playin’ golf, ridin’, sittin’ down to this bridge they’re all getting mad about, doin’ every blessed thing — it isn’t any use. Do you know, Christopher,” he said slowly, “I’d give my soul to make her happy and I just can’t — —”
“I know — —” said Christopher.
“But it’s worse than that—” Roddy went on, taking up the poker and knocking on the fire— “Lately she’s been having a room of her own. Started it a while ago as a temporary thing and now she sticks to it. Up here, in this damned town, we hardly see one another; always a crowd either here or outside. I know Rachel don’t like it and I don’t like it, but there it is —
“Next week we’re going down to Seddon and things may get better there — But I can’t stand it much more — not like this.”
“Wait a bit. It’ll come all right.” Christopher spoke confidently. “I’ve know Rachel since she was a small child. She’s half Russian, you know — you must always remember that — and Russian and Beaminster make a strange mixture — Wait — —”
“That’s so easy to say—” Roddy answered, shaking his head. “It’s so easy to say, but I don’t see just what’s goin’ to make things different from what they are — —”
“No — one never sees,” said Christopher. “And then Destiny comes along and does something that we call coincidence and just settles it all. Your trouble will be settled, Roddy, if you’re patient — —”
“Perhaps,” Roddy said slowly, “you could see her a bit — find out — —” he stopped.
“Anything in the world I can do I will. We’ll find a way. Meanwhile, Seddon, there is a bit of advice I can give you — —”
“What’s that?” asked Roddy.
“Go and see the Duchess more than you’ve been doing. See her a lot — more than you did ever — —”
“Oh! the Duchess!” Roddy sighed. “I don’t know, but it all seems different with her now. I’ve changed, I suppose. All her ideas are old-fashioned and wrong; I used to think her rather splendid — —”
“Yes — but she’s ill and old, and you’re the only person in the world she cares about.”
“Yes, I’ll go,” said Roddy slowly. “I’ve known I ought to go.”
Voices broke in upon them; the door opened and Rachel, followed by her friend May Cremlin, once May Eversley, came in —
“Oh! Dr. Chris! You dear!” she cried, and came forward and flung her arms about him and kissed him.
Her cheeks were flushed, from her black furs her eyes shone at him. Some thought caught him. He knew where he had seen that excited glitter already to-day — Breton at luncheon —
They all talked. Then Christopher said that he must go.
Rachel came with him to the door. In the hall she looked at him defiantly, that flash he knew so well.
“You never come now, Dr. Chris: you’ve given me up.”
“I don’t care for you in a crowd very much. There’s always a crowd now — —”
“Ask me alone and I’ll come,” she said, but still her eyes were defiant.
“No,” he said gravely. “I’ll do no asking, Rachel. When you want me I’m there for you at any time — at any time — —”
For answer she flung her arms again about him and hugged him. Her heart was beating furiously. Then without another word she left him.
IV
He could not go back to Harley Street yet. The sense of apprehension that had been growing with him all day would give him a melancholy evening, were he to spend it alone. He thought of Brun. Someone had told him that the little man was in London.
He found him in his rooms, reading, with a cynical expression on his face, a French review.
“I came to see—” said Christopher, “whether you happened to be free to-night and would dine with me. I’m a pessimist for once this evening and it doesn’t suit me!”
Brun was very, very sorry, but he was dining with a Russian princess; it was most tiresome that he should have to waste his time with a Russian princess when he’d come over to London on this occasion expressly to study the English people at this interesting crisis of their affairs, but there it was — he’d no idea how he’d let himself in for it, and how much rather would he spend the evening with his friend, Christopher.
Christopher said that he would smoke one cigarette and that then he must go.
“And so you feel pessimistic?” said Brun, looking at Christopher curiously— “It’s the war, Je crois bien — How alike you all are!”
“No,” said Christopher, “I don’t think the war’s much to do with it. I dare say the war’s a very good thing for all of us.”
“Didn’t I tell you — ?” said Brun, greatly excited — then pulled himself up— “No, it wasn’t you. It was Arkwright. More than a year ago we were in a picture gallery looking at your Duchess’s picture, and coming home we talked. I said then that something would come, that something must come, and that then everything, everything would crumple up. And behold!” cried Brun, his eyes flashing— “See, it crumples!”
“That’s a little previous of you,” said Christopher. “Nothing crumpled yet. We’re disturbed of course — —”
“It is most lucky,” Brun said, “most lucky. Here we are, you and I, ordinary people enough, with the end of a Period with its death and the way it takes it, all for us to watch. Most lucky....”
“End of Victorian Age ... Voilà!” and with a little dramatic gesture he waved his hand as though he were flinging the Age and its lumber away, out of the window.
“You know, Christopher,” he went on, “I’ve seen things coming over here for so long. All you people, you couldn’t have gone on very much longer so remote from life. And now this — it will finish your Duchess, your Beaminsters, your queen in her bonnet, your Sundays and your religion and your Whigs and Tories, and all your hypocrisies — No names any more taken just because they’ve always been taken, but new names made by men who’re doing things. Nothing taken for granted any more.
“Your Beaminsters will vanish, and then you’ll have your Denisons and Oaks and Ruddards on top. Then you’ll see a time. You’ll all be spinning like a top, dancing, dancing like dervishes. Then while you’re busy dancing up the other people will quietly come — all the real people, the Individualists — Women will have their justice — no man will skunk behind his garden hedge bec
ause he doesn’t want to be bothered. No more superstition, no more inefficiency — —”
“You’re a wonderful fellow, Brun,” said Christopher, getting up and flinging away the end of his cigarette. “You’ve always got any amount to say — but do you never think of people as people, not as theories or movements or developments — —”
“No, thank God, I don’t. That’s for the sentimentalists like you, Christopher. People are all the same, fools or knaves.”
“Well, I’m glad I don’t think so,” said Christopher.
“Tell me,” Brun put his little hand on the other’s elbow, “your Beaminsters now, how are they?”
“They’re all right.”
“The Duchess? I hear she’s not so well — —”
“Oh! nonsense — Well as she’s been any time these last thirty years.”
“Yes? So — I’m glad. But the other Beaminsters? Ah! I must go quickly and call — To see them burst asunder, that will be most amusing — —”
Christopher laughed. “You won’t see the Duke or Richard Beaminster burst,” he said— “They’re like you — no personal feeling.”
“And the girl?”
“Lady Seddon?”
“Yes. She’ll stir things up. She’s not a Beaminster, or only enough of one to make her hate the family. And she does hate them, hein?”
“Oh, my dear Brun, you’ve got an absurdly exaggerated view about everything. You’d twist the Beaminsters into anything to make them fit your theory.”
“Oh, they’ll fit it right enough. But I must be in at the death. We’ll meet there together, Christopher. Things will occur before we’re much older, my sentimentalist.”
Christopher shook his head. “There’s something sinister about your appearances in the City, Brun. ‘Where the carcases are, there will....’”