CHAPTER I
THE POOL AND THE SNOW
"For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow. And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken."
ROBERT BRIDGES.
I
In the early days of the December of that year, 1898, the first snowfell.
Francis Breton, standing at his window high up in the Saxton Squarehouse, watched the first flakes, as they came, lingering, from the heavybrooding sky; as he watched a great tide of unhappiness and restlessnessand discontent swept over him. His was a temperament that could beraised to heaven and dashed to hell in a second of time; life nevershowed him its true colours and his sensitive suspicion to the signs andomens of the gods gave him radiant confidence and utter despair whenonly a patient quiescence had been intended. During the last threemonths he had risen and fallen and risen again, as the impulse to dosomething magnificent somewhere interchanged with the impulse to dosomething desperate--meanwhile nothing was done and, standing nowstaring at the snow, he realized it.
He had never, in all his days, known how to moderate. If he might not bethe hero of society then must he be the famous outcast, in one fashionor another London must ring with his name.
And yet now here had he been in London since the end of April andnothing had occurred, no steps, beyond that first letter to hisgrandmother, had he taken. He had not even responded to the advancesmade to him by his old associates, he had seen no one save Christopher,Brun once or twice, the Rands and his cousin Rachel.
Throughout this time he had done what he had never done before, he hadwaited. For what?
A little perhaps he had expected that the family would take some step.Looking back now he knew that the shadow of his grandmother had beenover it all. He had always seen her when he had contemplated any action,seen her, and, deny it as he might, feared her. She confused his mind;he had never been very readily clear as to reasons and instincts--he hadnever paused for a period long enough to allow clear thinking, but now,through all these weeks, he had been conscious that that same clearthinking would have come to him had not his grandmother clouded hismind. He felt her as one feels, in a dream, some power that prevents ourmovement, holds us fascinated--so now he was held.
The other great force persuading him to inaction was Rachel Beaminster,now Rachel Seddon.
Long before his return to England the thought of this cousin of his hadoften come to him. He would speculate about her. She, like himself, wasby birth half a rebel, she _must_ be--She _must_ be. He had sometimesthought that he would write to her, and then he had felt that that wouldnot be fair. Behind all his dreams and romances he always saw somedestiny whose colours were woven simply for him, Francis Breton, andthis confidence in an especial personally constructed God had beenresponsible for his wildest and most foolish mistakes.
Often had he seen this especial God bringing his cousin and himselftogether. Always he had known that, in some way, they two were to bechosen to work out, together, vengeance and destruction against all theBeaminsters. When, therefore, that meeting in the Rands' drawing-roomhad taken place he had accepted it all. She was even more wonderfulthan he had expected, but he had known, instantly, that she was hiscompanion, his chosen, his fellow-traveller; between them he hadrealized a claim, implied on some common knowledge or experience, at thefirst moment of their meeting.
From the age of ten, when he had been petted by one of his father'smistresses, his life had been entangled with women; some he had loved,others he had been in love with, others again had _loved him_.
He did not know now whether he were in love with Rachel or no--he onlyknew that the whole current of his life was changed from the moment thathe met her and that, until the end of it, she now would be intermingledwith all his history.
At first so sure had he been of the workings of fate in this matter thathe had been content (for the first time in all his days) to wait withhis hands folded. During this period all thought of action against theBeaminsters on the one hand or a relapse into the company of the friendsof his earlier London days on the other, had been out of the question.This certainty of Rachel's future alliance with himself had made suchthings impossibly absurd.
Then had come the announcement of her engagement to Seddon. For a momentthe shock had been terrific. He had suddenly seen the face of hisespecial God and it was blind and stupid and dead....
Then swiftly upon that had come thought of his grandmother. This was, ofcourse, her doing--Rachel was too young to know--She would discover hermistake: the engagement would be broken off.
During this time he had met Rachel on several occasions, and althoughthe meetings had been very brief, yet always he had felt that sameunacknowledged, secret intimacy. After every meeting his confidence hadrisen, once again, to the skies.
Then had come the news of her marriage.
From that moment he had known no peace. At first he had wildly fanciedthat this had happened because he had not come to her and more plainlydeclared himself; his picture of her idea of him was confused with allthe dramatic untruth of _his_ idea of her; then, interchanging withthat, had come moods when he had seen things more plainly as they wereand had told himself that all relations between herself and him had beeninvented by himself, that any kindness that she had shown him had beenkindness sprung from pity.
During the early months of the autumn Rachel and her husband wereabroad, and during this time, Breton told himself that he was waitingfor her return before taking any action. Then a certain Mrs. Pont, alady whose beauty had been increased but her reputation lessened byseveral scandals and a tiresomely querulous Mr. Pont, had suggested toFrancis Breton a continuation of certain earlier relationships.
He knew himself well enough to be sure that one evening in Mrs. Pont'scompany would put an end to his struggles, so weak was he in his ownknowledge that the only possible evading of a conflict was by the denialof the enemy's very existence.
He denied Mrs. Pont and, throughout those dark gloomy autumn weeks,clinging to Christopher and Lizzie Rand, waited to hear of Rachel'sreturn.
Although he would confess it to no man alive, he longed now, with anaching heart, for some sort of reconciliation with the family. He wouldhave astonished them with his humility had they given him any sign orsignal. He fancied that Lord John or even the Duke might come.... Onceadmitted to his proper rank again and what a citizen he would be! Vanishfor ever Mrs. Pont and her tribe and all that dark underworld thatwaited, like some sluggish but confident monster, for his inevitabledescent. Wild phantasmic plans crossed his brain every hour of everyday--nothing came of it all; only when at last it was announced thatSir Roderick and Lady Seddon had returned to England he discovered thathe had nothing to do, nothing to say, no step to take.
That return had been at the end of October; from then until the end ofNovember he waited, expecting that she would write to him; still, bythis anticipation, were Mrs. Pont and Mrs. Pont's world kept at bay.
No word came. Driven now to take some step that would shatter thissilence, he wrote to her a long letter about nothing very much, onlysomething that would bring him a line from her.
For ten days now he had waited and there had come no word. As thesefirst flakes of snow softly, relentlessly, fell past his window thenebulous cloud of all the uncertainties, disappointments, rebellions, ofthis pointless wasted thing that men called Life crystallized intoform--"I'm no good--Life, like this, it's impossible--I'm no goodagainst it--I'd better climb down...."
And here the irony of it was that he'd never climbed _up_.
The awful moments in Life are those that threaten us by their suspensionof all action. "Just feel what's piling up for you out of all thissilence," they seem to say. Breton's trouble now was
that he did notknow in what direction to move. His relation to Rachel was so nebulousthat it could scarcely be called a relation at all.
He only knew that she alone was the person for whom now life was worthcombating. He had told her in his letter that she could help him, andthe absence of an answer spoke now, in this threatening silence, withmighty reverberating voice. "She doesn't care."
Well then, who else is there? Almost he could have fancied that hisgrandmother, there in the Portland Place house, was withdrawing from himall the supports in which he trusted.
Now the snow, falling ever more swiftly, ever more stealthily, seemed tobe with him in the room, stifling, choking, blinding.
He felt that if he could not find company of some kind he would go mad,and so, leaving the storm and the silence behind him in his room, hewent to find Lizzie Rand.
II
Lizzie Rand did not conceal from herself now that she loved him. So longhad her emotional life been waiting there, undesired, that now it couldbe kept by her utterly apart from her daily habit, but it became aflame, a fire, that lighted with its splendid warmth and colour thewhole of her accustomed world. She indulged it now without restraint,through the long dark autumn she had it treasured there; she did not, asthings then were, ask for more than this splendid knowledge that therewas now someone upon whom she loved to spend her care. She had not lovedto spend it upon her mother and sister, but that had been a duty definedand necessary. Now everything that she could do for Breton was more fuelto fling to her flame. That further question as to whether he might carefor her she kept just in sight, but nevertheless not definite enough torisk the absolute challenge.
At least, now, as the weeks passed, he sought her company more and more.She helped him, she cheered and comforted him, enough for her presentneed.
Even, beyond it all, could she survey herself humorously. This the firstlove affair of her life made her smile at her capture and defeat.
"Well, I'm just like the rest--And oh! I'm glad, I'm glad that I am."
Finally she knew that there was still a step that might be taken,between them, at any moment. He had, she knew, something to tell her.Again and again lately he had been about to speak and then had caughtthe impulse back.
This too she would not examine too closely, but from the moment that heshould demand from her definite concrete assistance, from that momentshe would be to him what she knew no one now living could claim to be.
Breton was glad when the little maid told him that Mrs. Rand was out,but that Miss Lizzie was at home. He saw her in the warm cosy room,sitting before the fire with her toes on the fender and her skirtspulled up, drying her shoes.
She looked up and smiled at him and told him to sit down, but did notmove from her position.
"Mother's out at a matinee with Daisy. I got away early this afternoon.Do you hate snow, Mr. Breton?"
"I hate it to-day. I've got the dumps. I had to find someone to talk toor I'd have gone screaming into the street----"
"Couldn't find anyone better, so took me--thank you for the compliment.But I like the snow. Your pool's more like a pool now than ever, Mr.Breton."
He went across to the window and stood there looking at the littlesquare now white with the gaunt trees rising black from the heart of itand the grey houses that hemmed it in. Over it the snow, yellow and greyand then delicately white, swirled and tossed.
He came back and sat down beside her and wondered at her neat comfortand air of calm control of all her emotions and desires.
She, looking at him, saw that he was ill. Dark lines beneath his eyes,his cheeks pale and an air of picturesque melancholy that made her wantfirst to laugh at him and then mother him.
"I know what's the matter with you," she said, nodding her head.
"What?"
"Something to do. That's what you want." She turned towards him, lookingat him with a little smile and yet with grave seriousness in her eyes."Oh! Mr. Breton, why don't you? What is the use of sitting here monthafter month, doing nothing, just waiting for something tohappen--something that can't happen unless you make it? Things don'tfall into people's mouths just because they sit with them open."
He coloured. "Everybody's always scolding me," he said."Christopher--you--everybody. Nobody understands--how difficult...."
He broke off. So intangible were his difficulties that no words woulddefine them, and yet, God knew, they were real enough.
"I know--" she said, nodding her head. "It's the thought of them all atPortland Place that's holding you back. You began by fancying that youwanted to cut their throats, and you still wouldn't mind slaughteringthem if only they in their turn would do something definite. It's theirdoing _nothing_ that just holds you up. But really as long as yourgrandmother's alive I'm afraid that it's no good thinking of them. Whenshe's dead--and she _can't_ live for ever--anything may happen.Meanwhile why not show them what you _can_ do?"
"But what _can_ I do?" he answered her fiercely. "I've never beenbrought up to do anything--except what I oughtn't--There's my arm andone thing and another--Besides, there's more than that in it, Miss Rand.It's the fact that--well, that there's nobody that cares that's--sofreezing. If only somebody minded----"
As he spoke Rachel rose, beautifully, wonderfully, before him. There, asshe had been on that first day when she had had tea there, bendingforward, listening, her dark wondering eyes on his face.
Lizzie at the sound of the appeal in his voice had felt her heartexpand, beat, so that her body seemed to hold, suddenly, some greatpossession that hurt her by its force and urgency.
But she answered almost sharply:
"Nonsense, Mr. Breton. Excuse me, but I've no patience with that kind ofthing. People are meant to stand alone, not to go leaning about forother people's support. You're cursed with too much imagination, Mr.Breton, and you remember too clearly everything that's happened before.Begin now, as though you were born yesterday, and startle the family byyour energy----"
"Now you're laughing at me," he said hotly. "I dare say I deserve it,but I don't feel as though I could stand--very much of it from anyoneto-day----"
Then he was astonished by the sudden softness of her voice. "No, no,please," she said; "I understand so well. But indeed you have gotfriends who believe in you. Dr. Christopher, myself, if you'll count me,and lots more. You'll win everyone in time if you're not impatient anddon't despair. Don't think of your grandmother too much. The mere factof your not seeing her makes you imagine her as something portentous anddreadful, and she weighs you down, but she isn't really anything at all.She can't stop one's energies if one's determined to let them go.Please, please don't think I'm laughing. I only want to help----"
"I know you do," he answered warmly, "I owe you more than I can say. Allthese last weeks you and Christopher have been the two people who'veheld the world together for me. But there's more than you know, MissRand. There's----"
He bent towards her. She knew that the confidence was at last to behers. It needed her strongest control to prevent the trembling of herhands. His eyes were alight, his whole body eloquent. At the thought ofwhat he might be about to tell her the room turned before her.
Voices in the little hall. Then the door opened and in came Mrs. Randand Daisy. They had been to the play--_Such_ nonsense. One of these new,serious plays with long, long conversations--Mrs. Rand wanted tea. Daisywanted admiration.
Between Lizzie and Breton the precious cup had fallen, smashed to thetiniest atoms.
Meanwhile aimless conversation was more than he, in his present mood,could endure.
He made some excuse and, scarcely knowing what he did, found his hat andcoat and went out into the square.
III
There had come to him one of those agonies of loneliness that noargument, no reasoning can destroy.
The absence of any letter from Rachel seemed to show that she hadabandoned him. In all this vast thickly peopled world there was now noone to whom his presence or absence, his fortunes or disasters mattered.The snowsto
rm gathered him into its folds; the snow fell against hismouth, his eyes, and before him, behind him, around him there was aworld deserted of man, houses blind and without life.
The snow might fall now to the end of time. It would creep up and up,falling from the heavens, rising from the earth, swallowing allcreation--the end of the world.
He pressed into the park and there under the trees stretching likegallows against the throttling sky temptation to give it all up, to gounder and have done with it all, leapt, hot and fierce, upon him. Mrs.Pont and the others were waiting for him. They would be good to him. TheUpper World would not hear nor see nor think of his disasters, andslowly, with the others, life would recede, he would crumble and decayand cease to care, and death would come soon enough.
Then the wind smote his face and tore at his coat: the snow died away,beyond the black bare trees a very faint yellow bar threaded the thickgrey--promise that the storm was at an end.
Suddenly with the cessation of the storm the long field of white seemedgood and restful, and beyond the park the houses showed light in theirwindows.
The yellow spread through the sky, and stars, very slowly, came and thewind died away.
Courage filled him. Rachel might never come or write or care, but hewould make the thought of her the one true thing in his heart, and withthat he would do battle so long as he could.
Christopher and Miss Rand ... he thought of them as he trudged his wayhome--and when he saw the white silence of Saxton Square and the goldensky breaking above its peace and quiet he thought that, for a timelonger, he would keep his place and hold his own.
The Duchess of Wrexe, Her Decline and Death; A Romantic Commentary Page 14