Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  It must be confessed, however, that London Society was not moved to its foundations by the news of her death. People said, “Oh! that old woman; gone at last, I see. She’s been dying for years, hasn’t she? Quite a power in her day ...” Or, “Oh, the Duchess of Wrexe is dead, I see. I must write to Addie Beaminster. Don’t expect the family will miss her much — awful old tyrant, I believe ...” or “I say, see Johnnie Beaminster’s old lady’s gone? She kept the whip-hand of him in his time.... Damned glad he’ll be, I bet.”

  Two years earlier and it would not have been thus, but now there was the War (daily the relief of Mafeking was frantically anticipated) and fine regal majesty, sitting dignified in a solemn room, irritated the world by its quiescence.

  “What we’re needing now is for everyone to get a move on. No use sitting around.” A few carefully selected American phrases can very swiftly kill a great deal of dignity and tradition.

  In the Beaminster camp itself there was an unexpressed disappointment. They had grown accustomed to thinking of her as a fine figure, sitting there where, rather fortunately, they were not compelled to visit her, but where, nevertheless, she had a grand effect. They had known, for a long time now, that she was not so well, but they had expected, in a vague way, that she would go on living for ever. They had been making, during the last two years, a succession of enforced compromises and now the crisis of her death showed them how far they had gone without knowing it.

  “Things will never be the same as they were....” And in their hearts they said, “We’re getting old — we aren’t wanted as we once were.”

  Meanwhile there was a fine funeral down at Beaminster. The Queen was represented, the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition, all the heads of all the old families in England, artists and one or two very distinguished actor-managers (who looked far more sumptuous than anyone else present).... Everyone was there.

  Christopher detected Mrs. Bronson and wondered what the Duchess would think of it if she knew: Brun, also, although Christopher did not see him, flashed upon them from the Continent, was present, neat and solemn and immensely observant. It was all admirable and worthy of the best English traditions.

  “She was a fine figure,” said the Prime Minister, who had known her and disliked her intensely. “We shall never see her like again,” but his sigh was nearer relief than regret.

  II

  Christopher, three days after the funeral, went to have tea with Roddy and Rachel. He was a man of great physical strength and had never had “nerves” in his life, but he was feeling, just now, tired out. He had not realized, in the least, during all these years, the part that that old woman played in his life, and he found that his whole scheme of things was now disorganized and without vitality. It was vitality that she had given him, a tiresome, troublesome, irritating vitality perhaps, but, nevertheless a fire, an energy, a driving curiosity.

  He would capture it again, his eagerness to investigate, to assist, to prophesy, but it would never any more be quite the same energy — everyone with whom she had had anything to do would find life now a little different....

  Some weeks before her death Roddy had sent for him. “I’m awfully upset, Christopher,” he said and then he had told him about the scene in his rooms and had begged to know the truth. “I hear she’s much worse — she’s had a stroke — I wrote to her and she hasn’t answered me. Christopher, tell me truthfully, was it her comin’ to me that day and all the kick-up and everythin’ that made her so much worse?”

  Christopher had reassured him— “Quite honestly, if she’d asked my leave to let her go out that afternoon I’d not have granted it. But as it turned out she wasn’t a bit the worse. I saw her directly afterwards — she told me all about it. She was rather grimly pleased. Mind you, it marked, I think, a kind of crisis. As she put it to me she saw that afternoon that the whole scheme of things had gone out of her hands and that the new generation didn’t want her — But I think she was glad to have it settled for her, she was tired of it all, her struggle to keep it had been much earlier.

  “She just wasn’t going to bother any more and she might have gone on in that sort of way for years.”

  But although he had thus reassured Roddy he was not, in his heart, so certain. He seemed to see a long chain of events (he dated his own observation of them from the time of Rachel’s coming out), that had led both Rachel and the Duchess to the climax of their actual challenge one to another. It was not that that meeting in Roddy’s house had been of itself so important, it was rather that the fates had selected it as a definite culmination of the struggle. That meeting stood for a sharp visualization of much more than the personal conflict.

  She had been glad to go, he did not in any way see her death as a tragedy, but her departure had marked the opening of a new period, a new personal history for the remaining characters, ultimately perhaps a new social epoch for everybody —

  Meanwhile he was happy about Roddy and Rachel for the first time since their marriage and, as he was a man who lived in the lives of his friends, their happiness meant his own.

  He found Lord John with Roddy, Rachel was with Aunt Adela, but “would be back for tea.” Lord John, rather solemn and awkward in black clothes, was demanding comfort and assistance from his friends. His trouble was that he did not miss his mother as fundamentally as he desired, and that, at the same time, life was now most terribly different. His brothers, Vincent and Richard, had instantly after the funeral adapted themselves, with gravity and assurance, to the new conditions.

  Lord John had never adapted himself to anything, but had fitted his stout body into the soft places that life had offered to him and had been placidly grateful for their softness. Only once had he shown energy of his own initiative and that had been in the matter of his nephew Francis, and of that now he did not dare to think.

  He could never, so long as he lived, forget the slightest detail of that horrible quarter of an hour with his mother when she discovered his iniquity — and yet, even now, he felt, obscurely but obstinately, that he had done right. Nevertheless he would never again take life into his own hands: upon that he was absolutely resolved. What he needed now was reassurance from his friends. He had always before found that life arranged itself about him in a comfortable way and he confidently expected that it would do so now, but meanwhile he must have kind looks and words from somebody. He was a man who hailed with joy the opportunity of bestowing affection upon a friend who was not likely, at a later time, to rebuff him. He had never been quite sure of Rachel — she was so strange and uncertain — but upon Roddy, helpless, good-natured, and a man of his own world, he felt that he could rely. He spent therefore many hours at Roddy’s side, rather silent, smiling a great deal, playing chess with him, sticking little flags on the War Map.

  At times, as he sat there, he would think of his mother, of the Portland Place house shortly to be sold, of a world altered and alarming, and then he would wonder how long the time would be before he might again take up his old habits, his old houses, his old comforts, and then his fat cheerful face would gather wrinkles upon its surface. “It’s after a thing like this that a feller gets old — Richard and Adela and I — We’ll have to make up our minds to it.”

  Christopher found them busied with the map, discussing the probable hour of Mafeking’s relief. Lord John looked at Christopher a little anxiously, perhaps he was going to be down upon him! But Christopher was a very quiet and genial Christopher. He sank down into a chair with a sigh of comfort, waved his hand to them.

  “Don’t you mind me. I’m tired to death. Was up all last night with a case — —”

  “You see,” said Roddy, “there’s Ramathlabama. Well — Plumer lost a lot o’ men there and they say his crowd have had fever too and there ain’t much to hope for there — now Roberts — —”

  But Lord John’s attention was distracted. He wished to be quite sure that Christopher did not regard him with severity.

  “You look fagged out, Chr
istopher.”

  “I am!” said Christopher, smiling.

  “I’m feeling a bit done up, too. Think I’ll take Adela abroad somewhere for a little.”

  “I should,” said Christopher. “Excellent thing for both of you.”

  “Now where do you suggest?”

  “Oh, anywhere different from London. Go on a cruise — —”

  “Adela’s a bad sailor — wretched. I’m not very good myself.”

  They discussed places. Christopher was more than friendly. There had been occasions when he had been the stern family physician and had treated Lord John with some severity. Now there was implied a new comradeship as though they had passed through perils together and would have always between them in the future a strong bond of friendship.

  John felt that the atmosphere at this moment was so friendly and comforting that he would not risk the disturbance of it.

  He got up.

  “Think I’ll be going on, Roddy. Don’t like leaving Adela alone. Rachel will be on her way here now, so I’ll be getting back.”

  He was staying with Adela at a quiet little hotel in Dover Street.

  “Well, good-bye for the moment, Christopher. Adela’d be very glad if you’d come in and see her. Come and have lunch with us to-morrow.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  He stood, for a moment, looking out upon the park, warm and comfortable under the sun. He thought of Rachel. He had regained the old Rachel the other night at Beaminster — dear Rachel!

  Rachel, Roddy, Christopher — how nice they all were! There was, he felt, a new feeling of security amongst them all. Yes, he really did believe that life, now, was going to be very comfortable and safe and easy....

  “So long, Roddy.”

  He beamed happily upon them and went.

  Jacob, the dog, came in from his afternoon walk, very grave, paying no attention to Christopher, but going at once and lying, full length, near Roddy’s sofa, his head between his paws, his eyes fixed upon his master.

  “What’s happened to all your other dogs?” asked Christopher. “They must be missing you very badly.”

  “Oh, they’re down at Seddon, got a jolly good man there whom I can trust — don’t think they miss me. This beggar would though. Funny thing, Christopher — when I was goin’ about and all the rest of it I thought nothin’ of this dog, couldn’t see why Rachel made such a fuss of it — now — why I don’t know how I’d ever get on without it, so understandin’ and quiet with it all too. Nothin’ like a trouble of some sort for showin’ who’s worth what, whether they’re dogs or people....”

  “I hope the funeral did Rachel no harm,” Christopher said.

  “Not a bit of it. She’d had a last interview with the old lady and knew, after that, she’d never see her again. In a way she hasn’t felt it, but in a way too I believe she’d like to have all the old time over again and see whether she couldn’t manage it better ... she said to me she’d never understood the old woman until that last talk with her, not that there was much love lost between ’em even then. Was Breton there?”

  “No — He scarcely could go, in the circumstances.”

  “Funny feller, Breton. What puzzles me is what did he go and give up Rachel so easily for? I couldn’t tell you why, but that day he came here I was as sure as I was lyin’ here that whatever there was between them was finished. I wouldn’t have said what I did, seemed to take it so quietly, if I hadn’t seen in a minute it was all over.”

  “Ah, you don’t know Francis,” said Christopher. “It’s all romantic impulses that set him going — Rachel romantic impulse on one side, getting back to the family romantic impulse on the other. He knew if he went off with her that getting back to the family would be over for ever as far as he was concerned. He knew that he’d never cease to regret it.... John Beaminster coming to him gave him what he’d been waiting for, longing for. He seized it — —”

  “Yes, but it was more than that,” said Roddy slowly. “It all lies with Rachel. He never got close to her any more than I’ve done. I know now that she’s fond of me, but it’s by the child I’ll hold her and by my helplessness, nothin’ else. And she’ll have her wild moments when myself and everythin’ about me will seem simply impossible, just as if she’d gone off with Breton she’d have had her comfortable domestic sort of longin’s and hated him and everythin’ about him. I believe Breton knew — just as I knew — that never tryin’ to hold her was the way to keep her, and he’d have had to have her if he’d gone off with her....

  “Anyway, Rachel wouldn’t be so adorable if there wasn’t a lot of her that no one man could master. But I’ve been given all the tricks in the game by bein’ laid up like this — just when I thought I’d lost all worth havin’ in life and never a chance of a kid again!... Funny thing, Life!

  “But she’s mine! Christopher, and no one can take her. Breton’s got his idea of her; there is a bit of her that he stirred that I never could touch, but it don’t matter — she’s the most wonderful creature on this earth and I’m the luckiest beggar.”

  “She’ll be quieter,” said Christopher, “now that the Duchess is gone. They were always conscious of one another....”

  “And now there’ll be the kid instead. If he’s a boy I swear he shall be the best rider, the best sportsman in this bloomin’ old world — not that I’d mind a girl, either. I’d like to have a girl — just the time for a woman nowadays. Whichever way it is I’ll be contented. Not, you know,” he added hastily, “that I’m going to be a sort o’ blessed angel with domestic bliss and never wantin’ to get off this old sofa and the rest — not a bit of it — it’s damned tryin’ and I curse hours together often enough. Peters has the benefit of it. I wasn’t born an angel and I shan’t die one....”

  “Nobody wants you to,” said Christopher.

  “Well, you needn’t worry. But it’s funny how I get talkin’ nowadays — never used to say a word — now I gas away.... Well, cheers for the new generation, cheers for young Roddy Secundus.... Long life to him!”

  “There’s one thing,” said Christopher, looking at him. “Whatever inspired you, that day you had the scene here, to behave to Frank Breton as you did? To give them both carte blanche — it wouldn’t be the way of most husbands confronted with such a question — it was the only way for Rachel ... but how did you know her well enough? You’ll forgive my saying so, your method as a rule is to drive straight in, let fly all round, and then count the bits.”

  “If you love anybody,” said Roddy, with confusion and hesitation, “as much as I love Rachel you become wonderfully understandin’.... Look here,” he broke off, “don’t let’s talk any more rot. Just drop all jaw about feelin’s and such. There’s been an awful lot of it lately.”

  He would say no more; they got the war map and, very happily for the next quarter of an hour, moved flags up and down its surface.

  Then came Rachel and, after her, tea. They were a quiet but very happy company during the next half-hour.

  “How’s Aunt Adela?” asked Roddy.

  “Very well, considering,” said Rachel. “Of course she’s confused and lost her bearings rather. She misses the Portland Place house more than anything, I think — she was there so long. But Uncle Vincent was right; it would have been very bad for her if she’d stayed in it.... She’s quiet and depending a lot upon Lizzie — —”

  When tea was ended Rachel said, “Dr. Chris, I’ve got something to say to you. I’m going to tear you away from Roddy for five minutes if you’ll come upstairs.”

  “Well, that’s a nice sort of thing — —” protested Roddy.

  “I won’t keep him.” She took him up to the little drawing-room and as they sat there by the window together he thought of that day when he had told her the Duchess was downstairs with Roddy. They had all travelled a long way since then.

  “There’s a favour I want you to grant me.”

  “Anything in the world.”

  “It’s about Francis—” She gave
him the name with a little hesitation and with an air of restraint as though about the very whisper penalties could linger.

  “You’re the best friend that he’s got — the best friend any man could have — and I want you to care for him, to look after him, to watch over him. I know,” she went on hurriedly, “that you always have done that, but I want you to feel now that you’re doing it a little for my sake as well as your own. I want you to be the one link that I’ve still got with him.”

  “But Roddy asked him — —” began Christopher.

  “Oh yes! I know — Roddy was splendid. But of course that can’t be. We can’t meet, at any rate for years. Besides, that time is so utterly done with. There’s only Roddy now for me in all the world. But I know, better, I expect, than you think, how weak Francis is, how much he depends upon what the people whom he cares for say to him — and so I want you — —”

  “But of course,” Christopher said. “He knows that he can count on me whatever happens — he’s always known that.”

  He stopped and waited for her to continue; he saw that she had more to say.

  “It’s so strange,” she said, staring, her eyes deep and black seeing into sacred places that were known only to her, “how grandmother’s death has cleared, amazingly, the air. The motive for almost everything has gone. I didn’t see — I hadn’t the least idea — how all my thoughts and actions and wishes and impulses came from my sense of opposition to her. Francis saw that — knowing that we both hated her — and that was why I was so difficult with Roddy, because I thought that grandmother had arranged the marriage and had him under her thumb — I had no idea of the kind of person Roddy was.”