CHAPTER IV
MARCH 13th: BRETON'S TIGER
"If I'd had the power not to be born, I would certainly not have accepted existence upon conditions that are such a mockery. But I still have the power to die, though the days I give back are numbered. It's no great power, it's no great mutiny."
—Dostoevsky.
I
Christopher's knowledge of Rachel, long and intimate though it had been, had never made him sure of her. In his relations with his fellow-men he proceeded on the broad lines that best suited, he felt, any investigation of his own character. Broad lines, however, did not catch that subtle spirit that was Rachel; he had been baffled again and again by some fierceness or sudden wildness in her, and had often been held from approaching her lest by something too impetuous or ill-considered he should drive her from him altogether. He had been aware that, since her marriage, she had been gradually slipping from him, and this had made him, during the last year, the more careful how he approached her. He loved her the more in that something that was part of her was strange and mysterious to him; the idealist and the poet concealed in him behind his frank worldliness cherished her aloofness. She was precious to him because nothing else in this life had quite her unexpected beauty.
Since that afternoon when the Duchess had paid her visit to Roddy he wished many times that he were a cleverer man. He felt that something must instantly be done, but he felt, too, that one false step on his part would plunge them all into the most tragical catastrophe.
He was baffled by his own ignorance as to the real truth; neither Breton nor Rachel had taken him into their confidence. He could not say how any of them could be expected to act, and yet he knew that something must be done at once. He saw Rachel through it all, like a strange dark flower, mysterious, shining, with her colour, beyond his grasp, but so beautiful, so poignant! She had never appealed to him as now, in the heart of some danger that he could not define she eluded him and yet demanded his help.
After much puzzled thinking he decided that it must be Breton whom he had best approach, and so he wrote and asked him to come and dine quietly with him in Harley Street on the evening of March 13th. Breton accepted if he might be released at nine-thirty, as he had then another appointment.
"Can't stand a whole evening," thought Christopher, "thinks I want to bully him. Well, perhaps I do!"
He was detained to a late hour on that afternoon by a patient in Halkin Street and it was after seven when he started home, driving through Piccadilly and Bond Street.
It had been an afternoon of intense closeness, and now as evening came down upon the town the thick curtain of grey that had been hanging all day overhead seemed, with a clanking and jolting, one might imagine, so heavy and brazen was its aspect, to fall lower above the dim grey streets. The lights were out, swinging pale and distended down the length of Piccadilly, and already the carriages were pressing in a long row towards the restaurants; boys were crying the latest editions with the war news and upon all those ears their cries now fell drearily, monotonously, for so long had the town been filled with details of escape, folly, death, ignominy, that it was tired and weary of any voice or cry that concerned itself with War....
Christopher, waiting impatiently for his carriage to move on, thought of Brun; this oppressive, stifling evening seemed to call, in some manner too subtle for Christopher's powers of expression, the houses, the streets, the lamps, the very railings into some life of their own. Under the iron sky that surely with every minute dropped lower upon the oppressed town the clubs opposite the Green Park raised their hooded eyes and stirred ever so little above the people, and the twisted chimneys watched and whispered, as the trail of carriages wound, drearily, into the misty distance. Christopher was not an imaginative man, but he thought that he had never known London so evilly perceptive.
It grew hotter and hotter, but with a heat that made the body perspire and yet left it cold. A dim yellow colour, that seemed to herald a fog that had not made up its mind whether it would appear or no, hung at street corners. Figures seemed furtive in the half-light and, instinctively, voices were lowered as though some sudden sound would explode the air like a match in a gas-filled room. A bell began to ring and startled everyone....
"There'll be an awful thunderstorm soon," thought Christopher. "I've never known things so heavy. Everyone's nerves will be on the stretch to-night. Why, one might fancy anything." His own brain would not work. He had just left a case that had needed all his sharpest attention, but he had found that it was only with the utmost difficulty that he could keep his mind alert, and now when he wanted to think about Breton he was continually arrested by some sense of apprehension, so that he had to stop himself from crying out to his driver, "Look out! Take care! There's someone there."
When he got to his house he found that his forehead was covered with perspiration and that he could scarcely breathe. Meanwhile he had decided nothing as to the course he would pursue with Breton. When he had dressed and come down he found that Breton was waiting for him.
"How ill he looks!" was Christopher's first thought. Perhaps Breton also was oppressed by the weather and indeed in the house, although the windows were open, it was stifling enough.
"No, the man's in pieces." Christopher's look was sharp. He had never seen Breton, who was naturally neat and a little vain about his appearance, so dishevelled. His beard was untrimmed, his eyes bloodshot, his hair unbrushed, his face white and drawn and his mouth seemed, in that light, to be trembling.
"Good heavens, man," said Christopher, "what have you been doing to yourself?"
Breton smiled feebly—"Oh, nothing. Don't badger me—I can't stand it."
"Badger you? Who's going to badger you? only–" Christopher broke off, looked at him a moment, then put his hand on the other's shoulder.
"Look here, old man, why have you left me alone all these weeks?"
"Haven't felt like seeing anybody."
"Well, you might have felt like seeing me. I've missed you. I haven't got so many friends that I can spare, so easily, my best one."
"Oh, rot, Chris," Breton said almost angrily. "You know it's only the kind of interest you've got in all lame dogs that ties you to me at all."
"You're an ungrateful sort of fellow, Frank. But no matter—I'm fond of you in spite of your ingratitude. Come in to dinner and see whether you can eat anything on this stifling night." It was stifling, but oppressive with something more than the mere physical discomfort of it. It was a night that worked havoc with the nerves, so that Christopher, who had naturally a vast deal of common sense, found himself glancing round his shoulder, irritated at the least noise that his servant made, expecting always to hear a knock on the door.
Breton contributed very little to the conversation during dinner. He ate almost nothing, drank only water, looked about him restlessly, muttered something about its being strangely close for March, crumbled up his bread into little heaps.
When they were back in Christopher's smoking-room Breton collapsed into a deep chair, lay there, staring desperately about him, then, with a jerk, pulled himself up and began to stride the room, swinging his arm, then pulling at his beard, crying out at last, "My God! it's stifling. Christopher—I must go out. I can't stand this. It's beyond my bearing."
Christopher made him sit down again and then, feeling that he could not more surely hold the man than by plunging at once into what was, in all probability, the heart of his trouble, said:
"Look here, Frank, I said I wouldn't badger you and I won't, but there's something about which I must speak to you. You must tell me the truth. There's more involved than just ourselves."
Breton seemed instantly aware of Christopher's meaning. He sat up. "I knew," he said, "that I was in for a lecture. Well, it can't make any difference."
"No," Christopher answered brusquely. "Whether it makes any difference to you or no you've got to listen, Frank. It's simply this. I happened to hear, a good time ago, that you had met Rachel. I knew that she had been to your rooms. I knew that you had corresponded. I should dismiss that man-servant of yours, Frank."
Breton muttered something.
"You might have told me yourself, Frank. You might, both of you, have told me. But never mind—it's all too late for that now. The point is that it was your grandmother that told me."
"My God!" Breton cried. "She knows? She knew.... But there was nothing to know. There was nothing anyone mightn't have known. If anyone dares to breathe a syllable against one of the purest, noblest …"
"Yes, yes. I know all that," Christopher answered. "But the thing is simply this. I don't know—she doesn't know exactly what the truth is between you and Rachel. All that she does know is that Rachel went to see you and wrote to you. Now Roddy Seddon isn't—or wasn't aware that his wife had ever met you. He holds the more or less traditional family point of view about you. I believe that, two or three days ago, the Duchess told him about Rachel's visits. I am not sure of this. I hope that by now Rachel herself has told her husband. But of that also I'm not sure. All I know is that it's our duty—your duty and my duty to save Rachel all the unhappiness we can, and still more to save Roddy. Remember the position he's in."
Breton sprang to his feet. "Look here, Chris, I should have told you of all this long ago. I didn't know that you had heard. I wish to God I had spoken to you. But as Heaven is my witness, Rachel is a saint. I'm a miserable cur—a misery to myself and a misery to everyone else. But she–"
"You've been fools, the couple of you," he answered sternly. "It's no use cursing now. I won't go and urge Rachel to tell Roddy—she must do that of her own free will—All our hands are tied. It depends upon the steps that Roddy takes, and after all the old lady may never have told him. But I've warned you, Frank. It's up to you to do the right thing."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Breton.
"I don't know what you can do. You must see for yourself—only, Frank," here Christopher's voice became softer, "by all our old friendship and by any affection that you may have left for me, I do conjure you to play fair by Rachel and her husband. Rachel is very, very young. Roddy is helpless–"
"That's enough," Breton cried. "My God, Christopher, of you could realize the weeks I've been having you wouldn't think, perhaps, so badly of me. It's been more, I swear, than any mortal flesh can endure. I'm driven, driven—I'm at the end.... But she's safe from me, safe now and safe forever. And that now that old woman should step in—now."
Christopher came and again put his arm on Breton's shoulder and held him up, it might seem, with more than physical strength.
His affection for Breton was an affection sprung from his very knowledge of the man's weaknesses. He had in him that British quality of ruthless condemnation for the sinner whom he did not know and sentimental weakness for the sinner whom he did. He had seen Francis Breton through a thousand scrapes, he would see him, doubtless, through a thousand more.
"We'll say no more now, old boy—You look done up—I won't worry you, but if you want me here I am and I promise not to lecture. Only you owe me some confidence, you do indeed."
Breton got up and stood there, with his hand pressed to his forehead. "What you've told me," he said. "I must do something … something … it's all been my fault. If they should touch her–"
Then, turning to Christopher, he said: "You are the only friend I've got, and I know it. I do value it—only lately I've been going to bits again. If it weren't for you and little Miss Rand I swear I'd have gone altogether. You are a brick, Christopher. Another day I'll come to you and tell you everything. To-night I'm simply past talking."
A servant came in and gave Christopher a note. It was from Lord John saying that he was anxious about his mother and asking the doctor whether he could possibly come round and see her.
Breton then said that he must go. He went, promising that he would soon come again. When he had left the house Christopher stood, perplexed, wondering whether he should have left him alone. Then he put on his hat and coat and set off for 104 Portland Place.
II
Breton had, indeed, no destination. He had been frightened of a whole evening with Christopher.
He was frightened of everything, of everybody—above all, of himself. He found himself, with a sense of surprise, as though he were the helpless actor in some bad dream, standing in Oxford Circus. Surely it was a dream.
The sky, grey and lowering, was yet tinged with a smoky red. He had an overpowering sense of the minuteness of humanity, so that the crowds crossing and recrossing the Circus seemed like tiny animals crawling over the surface of a pond from which the water had been drained.
His old fancy of the waterways came back to him and now he thought that Oxford Circus, often a maelstrom of tossing, whirling humanity, had run dry and lay stagnant, filled with dying life, beneath the red-tinged sky.
Ever lower and lower that sky seemed to fall. Theatres, restaurants on that evening were almost deserted. People stood about in groups, saying that soon the thunder would be upon them, wondering at this weather in March, watching, with curious eyes, the sky.
Breton was near madness that evening. He was near madness to this extent, that he was not certain of reality. Were those lamp-posts real? What was the meaning of those strange high buildings in whose heart there burnt so sinister a light? He watched them expecting that at any moment these would burst into flame and with a screaming rattling flare go tossing to the sky.
Near him a girl said, "All right—of course it ain't of no moment what I might happen to pre-fere—Oh, no!"
A mild young man answered her: "Well, if yer want ter go to the Oxford why not say so? That's what I say. Why not say so 'stead of 'angin' about–"
"Oh! 'angin' about! Say that again and off I go. 'Angin' about! I'd like to know–"
"I didn't say anythink about your 'angin' about. Yer catch a feller up so quickly, Bertha. What I mean to say–"
"Oh! yer and yer meanin's. Don't know what yer do mean, if the truth were known. 'Ere's a pleasant way of spendin' an evenin'–"
Breton regarded them with curiosity. Were they real? Did they feel the strange oppression of this lowering sky as strongly as he did? Were they uncertain as to whether these buildings were alive or no? Perhaps they could tell him whether those omnibuses that came lumbering so heavily up Regent Street were safe and secure.
Oddly enough, although he tried, he could not remember exactly what it was that Christopher had told him. Something, of course, to do with his grandmother. Everything was to do with her.... She was the one who was driving him to destruction. Always she was stepping forward, sending him down when he was climbing up, at last, to safety, always it was she who stood behind him, on the watch lest some happiness or success should come his way.
He felt as though he would like to go and force his way into 104 Portland Place and face the woman and tell her what she had done to him. Yes, that would be a fine thing—to see all those Beaminster relations gathering round, protesting, frightened.
And then it occurred to him that he really did not know the way to Portland Place. Things were so strange to-night. He knew that it was close at hand, but he was afraid that he would never find it. He was really afraid that he would never find it.
Some man jostled into him, apologized and moved away. The contact cleared his brain, asserted the reality of the buildings, the crowds, the cabs and carriages. He pulled himself together and began slowly to walk down Oxford Street in the direction of Tottenham Court Road.
He remembered very clearly and distinctly what it was that Christopher had told him. Rachel was in danger because her husband had heard of her friendship with him, Breton....
It would not have been Francis Breton if he had not taken this piece of news and looked at it in its most sensational colours. He had, through all these last weeks, been striving to accustom himself to the agony of enduring life without her. He dimly perceived that it was the emptiness of life rather than any actual loss of any particular person that was so terrible to him. He had still, very fine and beautiful, his memory of the day when she had come to him in his rooms, and had that day been followed by a secret relationship between them and many hours spent together, then his passion would have been very genuine and moving.
But, after all, she had flashed into his life, and then flashed out of it again, and, so swiftly with him did moods follow one upon another, and ideals and ambitions and despairs and glories jostle together in his brain, that she might have remained, very happily raised to a fine altar in his temple, very distantly recognized as a beautiful episode now closed and contemplated only from a worshipping distance, had any other figure or incident definitely occupied his attention.
But no figure, no incident had arrived. He had had, during all these weeks, no drama into which he might fling his fine feelings, his great ambitions, his glorious sacrifices. Of genuine sincerity were these moods of his—he had never stood sufficiently beyond himself to arrive at any definite insincerity about any of his movements or impulses—but of all things in the world he could not endure that his life should be empty, and empty now it had been for, as it seemed to his swift impatience, a long, long time.
Christopher's news did touch him very deeply. He would instantly have sacrificed his life, his honour, anything at all, for Rachel, and the fact that he would enjoy the drama of that sacrifice did not rob it of any atom of its sincerity.
But the pity of it was that he really did not see what he could do. Had he been able, here and now, to rush into the Portland Place house and seize his grandmother by the throat and shake her, or had it been possible to appear before Roddy Seddon, to declare himself the only culprit, to proclaim that he was ready for any condemnation, any punishment, then, in spite of all his unhappiness, he would be now a happy man, but, alas, the only possible action was to pause, to see what happened, to wait—and waiting it was that sent him mad.
One action indeed was possible and that was that he should put a close to his wretched existence. On this close and sterile night such an action did not appear at all absurd. It had fine elements about it, it would deal a sure blow at his grandmother and all that family who had treated him so basely. What a headline for the papers! "Suicide of member of one of England's noblest families!" Rachel should be, no longer, annoyed with his unfortunate presence: he would make it, of course, quite obvious that she had had nothing to do with his sad end.
He looked about him, with an air of fine melancholy, at the passers-by. Little they knew of the terrible tragedy that was even now preparing in their midst!
He felt almost happy again as he turned this solution over and over again. Some people would be sorry—Christopher, Lizzie Rand, and Rachel: above all, it must be heavy upon the consciences of the Duchess and her wretched children. They had driven him to his death and must bear the blame to the grave and beyond.
Very faintly the rolling of thunder could be heard as the storm approached the town.
He was standing outside the Oxford Music Hall, and he thought that he would go inside for a little time that he might avoid the rain … and then upon that followed the reflection that it did not matter whether he was wet or no—he would soon be dead.
Faintly behind these gloomy resolves some voice seemed to tell him that if he could only pass safely through this night fortune would again be kind to him. "Wait," something told him. "Be patient for once in your life".... But no, to wait any more was impossible. Some fine action, some splendid defiance or heroic defence, here and now … otherwise he would show the world that he had courage, at least, to die. Most of his impetuous follies had their origin in his conviction that the eyes of the world were always upon him.
He paid his money and walked into the circle promenade. Behind him was a bar at which several stout gentlemen and ladies were happily conversational. In front of him a crowd of men and women leaned forward over the back of the circle and listened to the entertainment.
On the stage, in a circle of brilliant light, a thin man with a melancholy face, a top hat and pepper-and-salt trousers was singing—
"Straike me pink and straike me blue,
Straike me purple and crimson too
I'll be there,
Lottie dear,
Down by the old Canteen."
"Now," said the gentleman, "once more. Let's 'ave it—all together."
There was a moment's pause, then the orchestra began very softly and, in a kind of ecstasy the crowd sang—
"Straike me pink and straike me blue,
Straike me purple and crimson too," etc.
Breton sat down on a little velvet seat near the bar and gloomily looked about him. Did they only realize, these people, the tragedy that was so close to them, then would they very swiftly cease their silly singing. The place was hot, infernally hot. It glowed with light, it crackled with noise, it was possessed with a glaring unreality. It occurred to him that to make a leap upon the railing at the back of the circle, to stand for one instant balanced there before the frightened people, then to plunge, down, down, into the stalls—that would be a striking finish! How they would all scream, and run and scatter! … yes …
Against the clinking and chatter of the bar he would hear the voice of the funny man: "And so I says to 'er, 'Maria, if you're tryin' to prove to me that it's two in the mornin', then I says what I want to know is oo's been 'elpin' yer to stay awake all this time? That's what....'"
It was then that, in spite of himself, he was drawn from his moody thoughts by the eyes of the girl standing near the bar against the wall. She was a small, timid, rather pale girl in a huge black hat. She wore a long trailing purple dress and soiled white gloves, and was looking, just now, unhappy and frightened.
He had noticed her because of the contrast that her white face and small body made with her grand untidy clothes, but, looking at her more closely, he saw something about her that stirred all his sympathy and protection.
Like most Englishmen he was at heart an eager sentimentalist and he was, just now, in a mood that responded instantly to anyone in distress.
He forgot for the moment his desperate plans of self-destruction. A fat red-faced man came from the bar towards her, with two drinks; he was himself very unsteady and uncertain in his movements and his smile was both vacuous and full of purpose. He lurched towards her, put his hand upon her shoulder to steady himself, then, as one of the glasses spilled, cursed.
She refused the drink, but he continued to press it upon her. His fat hand wandered about her neck, stroked her chin, and he was leaning now so that his face almost touched hers.
Breton heard him say—
"Well, if you won't drink—damme—come along, my dear—let's be goin'." She shook her head, her eyes growing larger and larger.
"Nonshensh," he said. "Darn nonshensh." She glanced about her desperately, but no one, save Breton, was watching them. She caught his eyes, pitifully, eagerly.
The man put his arm about her and tried to draw her from the wall.
"Come," he said. "We'll go home."
She drew away. He pulled at her hand. "Damn the O–Place. Wash the matter? You got to come."
Then he seized her by the arm, and, still lurching from side to side, began to move away.
"No, no," she whispered, obviously terrified of a scene, but using all her strength to resist. Her eyes again met Breton's.
"That lady," he said, advancing to the stout gentleman, "is a friend of mine."
The man looked at him with an expression astonished, simply and rather puzzled.
"Wash—wash…?" he said.
"You'll be so good as to leave that lady alone."
"Well, I'm b–well damned. Oh! gosh." The stout gentleman contemplated him with furious amazement.
"'Oo the b–'ell I'd like to know? Get out or I'll kick yer out."
The quarrel had by now gathered its crowd.
The stout gentleman, lurching forward, aimed a blow at Breton which missed him.
"Let her alone, do you hear?" cried Breton.
The stout gentleman, amazed, apparently, at a world that defied all the probabilities, turned, caught the girl by the body and, dragging her with him, pushed past his opponent.
Breton seized him by the waist, turned him round so that, with a little puzzled gasp, he half fell, half sat upon the cushioned seat against the wall.
Then Breton offered the girl his arm and walked away with her, conscious that an attendant had arrived rather late upon the scene and was now abusing the stout gentleman, whilst a sympathetic little crowd listened and advised.
He walked down the stairs with the girl. "That was decent of you," she said. "Most awfully–"
Beyond the doors the world was a hissing, spurting deluge of rain.
A cab was called and she climbed into it.
"What about coming back?" she said. He shook his head.
"Not to-night. You have a good rest. That's what you want."
"Well, I am done. Meet 'nother night p'raps–"
"I hope so," he said politely. He raised his hat and the cab splashed away.
"Another cab, sir?" said the commissionaire.
"No, thanks," said Breton, and plunged out into the rain. The air was fresh and cool. Streams of water danced and spurted on the gleaming pavements.
Breton walked along. The little adventure had swept completely from his mind his earlier desperate decisions.
There were still things for him to do! Poor little girl … he was glad that he had been there! What a fool he had been all these weeks, sitting there, letting himself go to pieces because the world had gone badly! What sort of a creature was he? Well, he was some good yet. Just one twist of the hand and that man had gone down … Yes, she was grateful.... Her eyes had shone.
And what of the candles, his business? Why had he allowed that to drop when he had made, already, so good a start? He would be in the City early to-morrow. Business was humming just now.
And Rachel? Rachel!
Let him be content to have her as his ideal, his fine beacon to light him on, to hold him to his work and do the best that was in him!
After all, things were for the best. They would always have their fine memories, one of the other. Nothing to spoil that idyll.
He arrived, soaked to the very skin, at his door. "Funny," he thought, "how that thunder depresses one. I've been moody for weeks. Air's ever so much clearer now. God, didn't that old beast tumble?—Poor little girl—she was grateful though!"
Then as he opened the door, he remembered what Christopher had, that evening, told him.
"To-morrow," he said to himself, in a fine glow of hope and confidence, "to-morrow I'll get to work and soon stop that wicked old woman's mouth. Rachel—God bless her—I'll show her what I'm like...."
He climbed the dark stairs as though he were storming a town.