by Hugh Walpole
But she could not think of that now, she could only think of the letter. The envelope was so precious to her that it seemed to return the caress that his fingers gave it and to have of itself some especial individuality. She traced his hand on the address, treasured every line and mark, and then at last tore it open. It was not a very long letter. He had written to her:
“You will despise me for breaking my word. Perhaps you won’t read this — but I can’t help it, I can’t help it, and even if I could I don’t think that I would. I know that my writing to you is just another of the rash, foolish, silly weak things that I’ve gone on doing all my life, but let it be so. I don’t pretend to be fine or brave and I have tried all these weeks, tried harder than you can know. I’ve written to you every day letter after letter, and torn them up — torn them all up. I’ve fancied that perhaps you’ve forgotten by now and then I’ve known that you’ve not and then I’ve known that it were better if you did.
I love you so madly that — (here he had scratched some words out) — I must tell you that I love you so that you can hear me and not only my walls and furniture and my own self. I’m trying not to be selfish. I know that I’m doing something now that is hard on you, but my silence is eating me, thrusting, killing — I shall be better soon — I will be sensible — soon — I will be ——
But now, oh, my darling! for a moment at least I have caught you and held you throbbing against me, and put my hands in your hair and stroked your cheeks and kissed your eyes.
Don’t write to me if you must not, don’t be angry with me for this.
I will try not to break my word again.”
As the letter ended so silence came back into the room that had been beating and throbbing with sound.
The pale light had gone, only the Downs were dim grey shapes against a darker sky — the ripple of some water slipping and falling came from the garden.
The letter fell from her hands and lay white with the others on the floor.
She tumbled on to her knees by the window and her heart was the strangest confusion of triumph and fear, exultation and shame.
For a little time she lay there and felt that she was in his arms and that his lips were on her mouth and that her hand pressed his cheek.
She got up, turned on the lights, took off her walking things, brushed her hair and washed her hands, picked up the other letters, but put his in the inside of her dress — then went down to the others.
IV
She found Lizzie sitting alone— “Where’s Roddy?”
Lizzie looked up at her. “He had to go and see about a horse or something.”
Rachel came down to the table and poured out some tea and then sat smiling at Lizzie; Lizzie smiled back.
“I hope you liked your walk.”
“Yes, there’s a storm coming up. You’ve no idea how deeply one gets to care for these Downs — their quiet and their size.”
They were silent for a little and then Rachel said:
“Miss Rand — I do hope — that this really has been something of a holiday for you, being here, away from all your London work!”
Lizzie’s eyes were sharp— “Yes — It’s delightful for me. The first holiday I’ve had for years....”
“Don’t think it impulsive of me — but I’ve asked you here hoping that we’d get to know one another better. I’ve wanted to know you, to have you for a friend — for a long time. I’ve always admired so immensely the way that you’ve helped Aunt Adela — done things that I could never possibly have done — —”
She stopped, but Lizzie said nothing — Then she went on more uncertainly —
“You see, I hoped that perhaps you’d teach me a little order and method. I’ve married so young — I’ve hoped....” Then almost desperately— “But you know, Miss Rand, I don’t feel as though your coming here has helped us to know one another any better.”
The storm had come up and the sky beyond the house was black. Lizzie’s face, lighted by the fire, was white, sharp and set — there was no kindness in her eyes.
“Perhaps, Lady Rachel,” she said slowly, “I’m not a very emotional kind of woman. If one’s worked, as I have, since one was small — had to earn one’s living and fight for one’s place — it makes one perhaps rather self-reliant and independent of other people — Our lives have been so different, I’m afraid,” she added with a little laugh, “that I’m a dried-up, unsatisfactory kind of person — I know that my mother and sister have always found me so.”
“Yes,” Rachel said, “our lives have been different. Perhaps if mine had been a little more like yours — perhaps if I had had to work for my living — I....”
She broke off — a little catch was in her voice — she rose from her chair and went to the window and stood there, with her back to Lizzie, gazing into the darkening garden.
She knew that Lizzie had repulsed her; she was hardly aware why she had made her appeal, but she was now frightened of Lizzie and to her overstrung brain it seemed that she could now see Lizzie and Roddy in league against her.
She heard a step and turning round found Peters, the butler, large, square, of an immense impassivity.
“Please, my lady, might I speak to you a moment?”
She went out.
Lizzie, left in the darkening room, could think now only of the letter. The sight of that handwriting had stirred in her passions that she had never before imagined as hers — that first pathetic appeal of Roddy and then the sight of that letter!
Her brain, working feverishly, showed her the words that that letter would contain — the passion, the passion! There in the very face of her husband, Rachel was receiving letters from her lover, letters that she could not wait a moment to read, but must go instantly and open them.
This hour brought to a crisis Lizzie’s agony. Had such a letter been written to her!
She tortured herself now with the picture of him as he sat there in his room in Saxton Square writing it! It appeared to her now as though they two — there in the very throne of their triumphant love — had plotted this insult, this snap of the fingers, to show her, Lizzie Rand, how desolate, how lonely, how neglected and unwanted she was!
That then, after this, Rachel should appeal to her for friendship! The cruel insult of it.
She felt as she heard the fast drops of rain lash the window-frames, that no revenge that she could secure would satisfy her thirst for it.
V
Roddy, meanwhile, had gone out to the stables. That little talk with Lizzie had determined a resolution that had been growing now within him for many weeks.
That little woman, with her assured air and neat little ways, knew what she was about — knew moreover what others were about. She had watched and had given him the tip — He would take it.
Roddy’s mind was of far too simple an order to admit of more than one point of view at a time. He saw Rachel now as a dog or horse, of whom he was very fond, who needed, nevertheless, stern discipline. He wondered now how it was that he had allowed himself for so long to remain indecisive.
“London muddles a feller,” he concluded; “the country’s the place for clear thinkin’.”
He looked at his horses with great satisfaction, they were in splendid condition — he had never known them better. He also was in splendid condition — never been better.
As he walked away from the stables and turned towards the end of the garden bounded by the gryphons and the stone gate, he felt his body at its most supreme perfection. He thought, on that afternoon, that he was strong enough for anything, and perhaps never before in his life had he been so conscious of the glories of physical things; of all that it meant to have fine muscles and a strong heart and lungs of the best and thews and sinews as good as “any feller’s.”
“I’m strong enough for anythin’ — —” He turned back his arm and felt his muscle. He cocked his head with a little conceited gesture of satisfaction— “I was gettin’ a bit fat in London — got rid of all that.”
To walk, to ride, to fight, to swim, to eat and sleep, to love women and drink strong drink! God! what a world!
And then, beyond it all, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel! He had her now — she should be under his hand, she should be his as she had never been since the first week of their marriage.
“No more nonsense, by God!” he said triumphantly to himself— “no more nonsense.”
He leaned on the stone gate and looked out over the fields — The gryphons regarded him benevolently.
He was conscious, as he stood there, of the Duchess — what was the old lady doing? He’d like to see her. He felt more in sympathy with her than he had been for a long time past. “She’s right after all. You’ve got to stand up and run people. No use just lettin’ them handle you.”
There was a storm coming up. The white lights of the higher sky were being closed down by black blocks of cloud that spread, from one to another, merging far on the horizon above the hills into driving lines of rain. The white chalk hollows above Lewes stood out sharp and clear; the dark green of the fields was now a dull grey, the hedges were dark and a thin stream that cut the flat surface of the plain was black like ink.
Roddy welcomed the storm. Had he been superstitious the physical energy that now pervaded him might have frightened him. He felt as though with one raising of his arm he could hold up those black clouds and keep them off. The rain and the wind had not more force than he —
Life was a vast pæan of strength— “The weak must go” — He was, at this hour, Lord of Creation.
As he went back to the house the rain met him and whipped his cheek.
“By Gad, I’d like to find the old lady sittin’ in the house, waitin’ for a chat,” he thought.
When he came down to dinner, he came as one who rules the world. That simple clear light was in his eyes that was always there when he had found the solution to something that perplexed him. His expression too was one that belonged to Rachel’s earlier experience of him, one that she had not seen on his face for a long time past. His strong but rather stupid mouth had somewhere in its corners the suspicion of a smile. His chin stuck out rather obstinately — the light in the eyes, the smile, the set lips, these things revealed the old Roddy.
After dinner Lizzie went off to her room.
For a while Roddy and Rachel sat there — She read some book, her eyes often leaving the page and staring into the fire.
Then she got up and said good night. She came over and bent down and kissed him. He caught her arm and held her.
“I say, old girl, it’s time we had the same room again — much more convenient.” He heard her catch her breath and felt her tremble. She tried to draw her arm away, but he held her.
“Oh! but soon, Roddy — Yes — but not just now — I — —”
“Yes — now. I’ll see about it to-morrow.” She stepped back from him, dragging herself away, and then put her hand to her forehead with a desperate gesture.
“No, no — not — —”
He got up and smiling, swaying a little, faced her —
“Yes — I’ve made up my mind — all this business has got to come to an end — Been goin’ long enough.”
“What business?”
“Seein’ nothing of you — nothing from mornin’ till night. You know, old girl, it isn’t fair — if we didn’t care about one another — —”
“Yes, I know — but don’t let’s discuss it to-night. I’m tired, headachy — this storm — —”
He said nothing — She looked at him and at the steady stare in his eyes and the smile at his mouth turned away.
She moved towards the door — He said nothing, but his eyes followed her.
“Good night,” she said, turning round to him — but he still said nothing, only stood there very square and set.
For a long time he sat, looking into the fire — Then he went up to his room and very slowly undressed. Afterwards he came out, carefully closing the door behind him, then, in dressing-gown and pyjamas, went down the passage to Rachel’s door.
The house was very still, but the storm was raging and the boughs of some tree hit, with fierce protesting taps, a window at the passage-end.
He knocked at her door, waited, then heard her ask who was there.
“It’s I, Roddy,” he said. There was a pause, then the door was opened. He came in and stood in the doorway. Rachel was sitting up in bed, her face very white, her eyes fixed on him.
“I’m sleepin’ here to-night, Rachel,” he said.
Her voice was a whisper— “No, Roddy — no — not — not — —”
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“No, not to-night.”
“Yes — to-night — now.”
He walked carefully across the room, took off his dressing-gown, and hung it over a chair. He looked about the room.
“Too much light” — he said and, going to the door, switched off all the lights save the one above the bed.
CHAPTER XII
LIZZIE’S JOURNEY — III
“Exile of immortality, strongly wise, Strain through the dark with undesirous eyes, To what may be beyond it. Sets your star, O heart, for ever? Yet behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.”
Rupert Brooke.
I
That night Lizzie had a dream and, waking in the early hours of the grey dim morning, saw before her every detail of it. She had dreamt that she was lost in the house. No human being was there. Every room was closed and she knew that every room was empty.
It was full day, but only a dull yellow light lit the passages. — She could not find her way to the central staircase. A passage would be familiar to her and then suddenly would be dark and vague and menacing. She opened doors and found wide dusty empty rooms with windows thick in cobwebs and beyond them a garden green, tangled, deserted.
She knew that if she did not escape soon some disaster would overtake her, some disaster in which both Roddy and Rachel would be involved. She knew also that, in some way, Rachel’s safety absolutely depended upon her — She felt, within herself, a struggle as to whether she should save Rachel. She did not wish to save Rachel.... But some impulse drove her....
She ran down the passage, stumbling in the strange indistinct yellow light — She knew that, could she only reach the garden, Rachel would be saved.
She reached a window, looked down, and saw below her, like a green pond, the lawn overgrown now with weeds and bristling with strange twisted plants.
She flung open the window and tried to jump, but a cold blast of some storm met her and drove her back. The storm screamed about her, the dust rose in the room, the plants in the garden waved their heads ... the wind rushed through the house and she heard doors banging and windows creaking.
She knew suddenly that she was too late — Rachel was dead.
She stood there thinking, “I thought that I hated her — I know now that I loved her all the time.”
The storm died down — died away. A voice quite close to her said, “You made a mistake, Miss Rand. People have souls, you know — having a soul of your own is more important than criticizing other people’s.... People have souls, you know.”
She woke and heard a clock strike seven. As she lay there a sense of uneasiness was with her so strongly that she repeated to herself, half sleeping, half waking, “I wish to-day were over, quite over, quite over. I want to-day to be over.”
She was completely wakened by a sound. She lay there for a little time wondering what it was. Then she realized that something was scratching on the door.
She got out of bed, opened the door and found the dog, Jacob, sitting in the long dark passage, looking through his tangled hair into space as though the very last thing that he had been doing had been trying to attract her attention. Jacob was nearer to a human being than any animal that she had ever known. He had attached himself to Miss Rand and she had decided, after watching him, that he knew more about the situati
on in the house than anyone else. To catch him, as he watched, with his grave brown eyes, Roddy or Rachel as they spoke or moved was to have no kind of doubt as to his wisdom, his deep philosophy, his penetration into motives.
He liked Miss Rand, but she knew well that his feeling for her had nothing of the passionate urgency with which he regarded Roddy or Rachel. All tragedy — the depths and the heights of it — she had seen in that dog’s eyes, fixed with the deepest devotion upon Roddy.— “He knows,” she had often thought during the last week, “exactly what’s the matter with all of us.”
He always slept, she knew, in a basket in Rachel’s room, and she wondered why he had been ejected. He sat now in the middle of the floor and seemed deeply unhappy. He sat square with his legs spread out, his hair hanging in melancholy locks over his eyes, his small beard giving a last wistful touch to his expression. He did not look at Lizzie or show any interest in her, he only stared before him at the pattern on the wall.
Lizzie did not attempt to pat him — she went back to bed, and, lying there, saw the light gather about the room.
Once Jacob sighed. Otherwise he made no movement until the maid came in with Lizzie’s tea — Then he crawled under the bed.
II
When she came down to breakfast she felt that she could not endure another day of this place. She wished now for no revenge upon Rachel, she had no longer any curiosity as to the particular feelings of any one of these people for any other ... she felt detached from them all, and utterly, absolutely weary.
She was weighed down with a sense of disaster and she felt that she must, instantly, escape from it all, fling herself again into her London work, deal with the tiresome commonplaces of her mother and sister — she must escape.
Roddy was sitting alone at breakfast and she saw at once that he was uneasy. He seemed to avoid her eyes and he coloured as she came towards him.
“Mornin’, Miss Rand,” he said, “Rachel’s not comin’ down. Bit of headache — rotten night.”