by Hugh Walpole
Lady Adela came in; she reminded Lizzie of Mrs. Noah in her stiff wooden hat, her stiff wooden clothes, her anxiety to prevent any mobility that might give her away. She looked, as she always did, carefully about the room, at the “Cornhills” and “Blackwoods,” at the marble clock, at the prints of Beaminster House and Eton College Chapel, a little as though she would ascertain that no enemy, no robber, no brigand, no outlaw, was concealed about the premises, a little as though she would say— “Well, these things are all right anyway, nothing wrong here.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Rand,” she said. “I hope that I haven’t kept you.”
“No, thank you, Lady Adela, I have only just finished.”
Lady Adela sat down; they discussed correspondence, trivial things that were, Lizzie knew, placed as a barrier against something that frightened her.
At length it came.
“Miss Rand, I wonder whether — the fact is, my mother has just decided that she wishes to be moved to Beaminster House. I must of course go with her. I hope that this will not inconvenience you. You can, if you prefer not to leave your mother, come down every day by train; it only takes an hour. Just as you please....”
Lizzie’s heart was strangely, poignantly stirred. The moment had come then; the house was to be deserted. This could only mean the end. She herself would never return here, her little room, the large solemn house, that walk from Saxton Square, the Round Church, the Queen’s Hall, Regent’s Park....
But she gave no sign.
Gravely she replied: “I think I’d better come down with you, Lady Adela, if you don’t mind. My mother has my sister. Perhaps I might come up for the week-ends.”
“Yes. That would be quite easy. The other places, you know, are let, but Beaminster has always been kept. The Duke has been there a good deal. It reminds me ... I was there for some years as a girl.”
Lizzie realized that Lady Adela was very near to tears; she had never before seen her, in any way, moved. She was distressed and uncomfortable. It was as though Lady Adela were, suddenly, after all these years, about to be driven from a position that had seemed, in its day, impregnable.
“Oh! don’t, please don’t, now!” was Lizzie’s silent cry. “It will spoil it all — all these years.”
Lady Adela didn’t. Her voice became dry and hard, her eyes without expression.
“We shall go down, I expect, on Monday if Dr. Christopher thinks that a good day.”
“I hope that the Duchess — —”
“My mother’s very well to-day — quite her old self. I have just been up with her. It is odd, but for thirty years she has never expressed any interest in Beaminster. Now she is impatient to be there.”
“One often, I think, has a sudden longing for places.”
“Yes. I shall be glad myself to be there again.”
“This house?”
“Oh! we shall shut it up — for the time Lord John will come down to Beaminster with us. I have spoken to Norris, but to-morrow morning, if you don’t mind, we will go through things.”
“Certainly.”
“The house has not been shut for a great number of years — a very great number. During the last thirty years through the hottest weather my mother was here.
“It will seem strange ...” Her voice trembled.
“Is there anything more this afternoon?” Lizzie turned to the door.
“No, I think not. Except — perhaps ...” Lady Adela was in great agitation. Her eyes sought Lizzie, beseeching her help.
“Miss Rand — I think it only right to say. I’m afraid one cannot — in the nature of things — it’s impossible, I fear, to expect — my mother to live very much longer.” Her voice caught in a dry strangled cough. “Dr. Christopher has warned us. After my mother’s death my life, of course, will be very different. I shall live very quietly — a good deal in the country and abroad, I expect.
“I shall not, of course, have a secretary.”
“I quite understand,” said Lizzie quietly.
“I want you to know, Miss Rand,” Lady Adela continued, “that although during all these years I have seemed very unappreciative.... It is not my way — I find it difficult to express — But I have, nevertheless, been very conscious — we have all been — of the things that you have done for me, indeed for the whole house. You have been admirable; quite admirable.”
“I have been very happy here,” said Lizzie.
“I am very glad of that. I must have seemed often very blind to all that you were doing. But I should like you to know that it is more — it is more — than simply your duty to the house — it is the many things that you have done personally for me. You have not yourself been, I dare say, aware of the effect that your company has had upon me. It has been very great.”
Lizzie smiled. “I’ve loved the house and the work. It has meant a very important part of my life. I shall never forget it.”
Their embarrassment was terrible. After a moment of struggle Lady Adela’s voice was hard and unconcerned again. “You know, Miss Rand, that — when the time comes for this change — anything that I, or any of us, can do ... I do not know what your own plans may be, but you need have no fear, I think.”
“Thank you very much, Lady Adela. That is very kind.”
There was a little pause — then they said good night.
As Lizzie went down the great staircase, on every side of her, the stones of the house were whispering, “You’re all going — you’re all going — you’re all going.”
Her heart was very sad.
II
As she passed the Regent Street Post Office Francis Breton came out of it. They had not met often lately, but she was conscious that ever since that interview in Regent’s Park, they had been very good friends. Her absorption with Rachel and affairs in the Portland Place house had assisted her own resolution and she had thought that she could meet him now without a tremor. Nevertheless the tremor came as she caught sight of him there and, for a moment, the traffic and the shouting died away and there was a great stillness.
He was very glad to see her. He stood on the post office steps looking richer and smarter than she had ever known him. He wore a dark blue suit and a black tie and a bowler hat — all ordinary garments enough — but they surrounded him with an air of prosperity that had not been his before. He seemed to her to gleam and glitter and shine with confidence and assurance. One hurried glimpse she had had of him some weeks before, miserable, unkempt, almost furtive. She was glad for his sake that all was well with him, but he needed her more when he was unhappy....
But he was delighted. “Miss Rand. That’s splendid! Are you going back to Saxton Square now? The very thing! I’ve been wanting badly to see you!” It was always, she thought, in little hurried and occasional walks that they exchanged their confidences. There was not much to show for all the elaborate palace that she had once been building — snatches of conversation, clutches at words and movements, even eloquent interpretation of silences — well, she was wiser than all that now!
But, when they started off together, she found that she was caught up instantly into that fine assumption of intimacy that was one of his most alluring qualities. Radiant though he was he still needed her; he was more eager to talk to her than to anyone else even though he had forgotten her very existence until he saw her standing there.
“I am glad to see you. I should have come down and tried to find you, anyway, in a day or two. I’ve been through a rotten time — really rotten — and one doesn’t want to see anyone — even one’s best friends — in that sort of condition, does one?”
“That’s just the time your real friends — if they’re worth anything — want to see you. If they can be of any use — —”
“But you’d been such a tremendous help to me. I was ashamed to come to you any more. Besides, you’d showed me, in a way, that I ought to get through on my own without asking help from anyone. You’d taught me that I did try.”
She saw that he was sh
ining with the glory of one who had come, rather mightily, unaided through times of stress. A pleasant self-congratulatory pathos stirred behind his words. “It was a bad time — but it’s all right now. And I expect it was good for me,” was really what he said.
“I do want to tell you,” he went on eagerly, “about Rachel. It’s all been so strange — wonderful in a way. After that talk I had with you in the park I was absolutely broken up. Oh! but done for! I simply went under. I tried to go back to some of that old set I’ve told you about before, but the awful thing was that Rachel wouldn’t let me. Thinking of her, wanting her when all those other women were about. It simply wasn’t possible....
“It got worse and worse. I thought I’d go off my head. Then — do you remember that awful thunderstorm we had?”
“Yes,” said Lizzie, “I remember it very well.”
“That night was a kind of climax. I’d dined with Christopher, then got wandering about — it was horribly close and heavy — got into some music hall. I suppose I’d been drinking — anyway, I had suddenly a kind of vision, there in the music hall. I thought Rachel was dead, that I’d lost her altogether. And then — it’s all so hard to explain — but when I came to myself I seemed to understand that the only way I could keep her was by giving her up.... I’ve got it all muddled, but that was what it came to.”
“You were quite right,” said Lizzie.
“Well, then — what do you think happened? The very next day my uncle, John Beaminster, came to see me — yes, came himself. Talked and was most pleasant and wanted to be friends. At the same time — now just listen to this — came a note from Seddon asking me to go and see him. I went, found Rachel there. Apparently my delightful grandmother had been telling him stories about Rachel and me, and he wanted to put things straight. As though this weren’t enough, right upon us, without a word of warning, dropped my grandmother herself!”
He stopped that he might convey fully to Lizzie the drama of the occasion.
There was, in his words, just that touch of absurdity and exaggeration that she had noticed at her very first meeting with him. He was always too passionately anxious to thrill his audience!
“There was a scene! You can imagine it! We all tried to behave at first, although of course it was immensely difficult. I don’t think Seddon had in the least realized the kind of thing it would be. Then she — the old tyrant — could contain herself no longer and burst out concerning me, the blackguard I was and the rest of it. She was furious, you see, at Seddon taking my friendship with Rachel so quietly. He was splendid about it!
“Well, when she burst out about all the family cutting me and everybody casting me out, the opportunity was too good. I couldn’t help it. I had to tell her that Uncle John had been round that very afternoon to see me and that the family was holding out its arms.”
“What happened?” said Lizzie, as he paused.
“She collapsed — altogether, completely. She never said another word — she just went.”
“You shouldn’t have done it!” Lizzie cried, turning almost furiously upon him. “Oh! it was cruel — she was so old and all of you so young and strong.”
“Yes!” he answered her— “But think of the years that I’ve waited — the times she’s given me, the suffering — —”
“No,” interrupted Lizzie, quiet again now. “If you’re weak enough to be pushed down by anybody like that, then you’re weak enough to sink by your own fault, whether there’s anyone there or no. She’s been hard in her time, I dare say, but everything’s left her now and she’s ill and lonely. It was wrong of all of you. I shouldn’t have thought Sir Roderick — —”
“He only wanted things to be straightened out,” Breton said eagerly. “He didn’t intend to have a scene. But I expect you’re right, Miss Rand, as you always are. I’ve been a brute, the most howling cad. But there’s one thing — I don’t think it’s hurt my grandmother. She likes those scenes, and she’s been none the worse since.”
“She’s been much worse,” said Lizzie gravely. “She’s dying — She’s going down to Beaminster on Monday.”
He stopped. “Oh! but I’m sorry ... That’s dreadful ... I’d no idea. I’m always responsible — —”
He had sunk to such depths that she was compelled to raise him.
“I don’t think you need be disturbed, Mr. Breton. Something of the sort would have been certain to happen very soon. She would have found out in any case ... and there were other things, I know. Rachel — —”
“Ah!” he broke in, eager again and almost cheerful. “That was the wonderful thing. When I saw her there first with Seddon — I’d never met him before, you know — I felt angry and impatient. I wanted to carry her off — away from everybody. And then, when Seddon began to speak I lost all sense of Rachel’s belonging to me. She seemed older, ever so far away from him, and he was so fine, so splendid about it all that I felt — I felt — well, that I’d do anything in the world for both of them — but never anything that could separate them or make him unhappy.”
“You can’t separate them now,” said Lizzie, “nobody can.”
“No. It was just finished — our episode together that wasn’t really an episode at all if you consider the little that we saw one another.... Besides, I’ve never got near Rachel, and I felt in some way that the nearer I got to her the farther away she was. Why, the only time that I kissed her she was the farthest away of all!”
They were walking up the grey, peaceful square.
“You don’t mind my telling you all this, do you, Miss Rand? You’ve seen it all from the beginning. But I’m odd in a way....
“Uncle John coming to me, Seddon being friendly to me, the family taking me back ... that seems to have made all the difference to me. Although I’d never confess it, even to myself, I know that if Rachel and I had gone off together I’d never have been happy. You see, we’re both alike that way. We’re restless, one half of us, but oh! we’re Beaminster the other, and even Rachel, who’s been fighting the family all her days, has one part of her that’s happy to be married to Seddon and to be quiet and proper and English. That’s why neither I nor Seddon ever could hold her — because to be with me she’d have had to give up the other. If she had a child, that might — —”
“She’s going to have a child!” said Lizzie.
He stopped and stared at her.
“Miss Rand!... Is that certain?”
“Quite.”
“Ah, well, Seddon’s got her all right. They’ll be happy as anything.” He sighed. “You know, Miss Rand, Rachel and I have been fighting the old lady, and we seem to have won ... but I’m not sure whether, after all, she hasn’t!”
On the step he paused.
“I’m sticking to Candles, I’ve got work. I’m recognized again. I’ve got that little bit of Rachel that she gave me and that nobody else can have, and — I’ve got you for a friend — Not so bad after all!”
He laughed, opened the door for her, and then as they stood in the dark little hall he said:
“All along you’ve been such a friend for me. I want someone like you — someone strong and sensible, without my rotten sentiment and impulses. We’ll always be friends, won’t we?”
He held her hand.
“Always,” she said, smiling at him.
But, perhaps, to both of them there came, just then, sighing through the dark still hall, a breath, a whisper, of that hour when life had been at its intensest, that hour when Breton had held Rachel in his arms, that hour when Lizzie had dressed, with trembling hands, for the theatre....
For Breton his place once again in the world, for Lizzie work and peace of heart, but once on a day life had flamed before both of them and they would never forget —
“Well, good night, Mr. Breton.”
“Good night, Miss Rand.”
When he had gone, she stood in the hall a moment.
Their little dialogue had closed, with the sound of a closing door, a stage in her life. She wo
uld never be the same as she had been before that episode. It had shown her that she was as romantic as the rest of the world. It had made her kinder, tenderer, wiser. And now once again she was independent — once again her soul was her own. She could be, once more, his friend, seeing him with all his faults, his impetuosities, his weak impulses.
Her place was there for her to fill. It was not the place that she would once have chosen. But she had regained her soul, had once more control of her spirit. She was free.
There stretched before her a world of work, of thrilling and ever-changing interest. There were Rachel and Rachel’s baby....
“You seem in very good spirits, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Rand as she came in. “I’m sure I’m very glad because it’s too tiresome. Here’s Daisy gone off....”
III
Afterwards she said to her mother:
“I’m going down to Beaminster on Monday. I’m afraid I shall be away some time.”
“Oh! Lizzie!” said Mrs. Rand reproachfully. “Well, now — That is a pity. Why must you?”
“The Duchess is going and Lady Adela must go with her and I must go with Lady Adela.”
“Dear, dear. Whatever shall we do, Daisy and I? Daisy gets idler every day. It’s always clothes with her now.... I suppose we shall manage.”
“I shall come up for week-ends.”
“What a way you speak of it! Of course you don’t care! If you went away for years you wouldn’t miss us, I dare say. I can’t think why it is, Lizzie, that you’re always so hard. Daisy and I have got plenty of feeling and emotion and your father, poor man, had more than he could manage. But I’m sure more’s better than none at all, where feelings are concerned.”
“I suppose,” said Lizzie, speaking to more than her mother, “that if everyone had so much feeling there’d be nobody to give the advice. Feelings don’t suit everybody.”
“You’re a strange girl,” said Mrs. Rand, “and you’re like no one in our family. All your aunts and uncles are kind and friendly. I don’t suggest that you don’t do your best, Lizzie. You do, I’m sure — and nobody could deny that you’ve got a head for figures and running a house. But a little heart....”