CHAPTER V
MARCH 13th: RACHEL'S HEART
"When God smote His hands together, and struck out the soul at a spark,
Into the organized glory of things, from drops of the dark,—
Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form,
As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little ground-worm?
'I have sinned,' she said."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
I
Meanwhile Rachel had not spoken to Roddy. Bad though the months had been since that terrible afternoon at Seddon these days that followed the Duchess's visit were the worst that she had ever known.
During the weeks that immediately followed Roddy's accident she was allowed no line for thought. She discovered—and she never forgot the sharpness of the discovery—that she was the poorest of nurses. Everything that she did was clumsily and slowly done; she watched Lizzie Rand with admiration and wonder. Dimly through the absorption that held her, thoughts of Francis Breton pierced, but always to be instantly dismissed.
Before her was simply the amazing, incredible fact that Roddy, the most active, the most vigorous of human beings, would never stand upon his feet again. She could see nothing but Roddy, and no service, no sacrifice, was too stern or too difficult. Meanwhile subtly, almost unconsciously, she was influenced by Lizzie Rand. It was not strange to her that Lizzie should have changed so swiftly from hatred to friendship and affection. Rachel was passionate enough herself to understand that a woman will go, instantly, to the person who needs her most, even though she has hated that same person five minutes before. No, the thing that was wonderful to her was that Lizzie Rand should combine such feeling with such discipline.
To watch her as she moved about Roddy's rooms was to deny to her the possibility of emotion, of anything that could disturb that efficiency. And yet Rachel knew … she had seen depths of feeling in Lizzie that made her own desires and regrets small and puny things.
But it did not need Lizzie's power to abase Rachel before Roddy. It would have been enough for her to have remembered what her thoughts and intentions had been on that day to have brought her on her knees to beg his pardon, but when she saw the fashion in which he bore his sentence, his endurance, his stubborn will beating down any temptation to despair, she recognized that it was very little of Roddy that she had known before this crisis.
Then as the weeks passed and the world settled into this new shape and form, thoughts of Francis Breton returned to her. She had written to him soon after the accident, but that was for herself, that she might clear her mind of anything except her husband, rather than for Breton. She had considered him whilst she wrote that letter, had seen him as someone in her old, old life, someone who had stirred her then but possessed now no power to move her. She wanted him to be happy, but wished never to see him again; once, long ago, there had been a scene in a room and she had been carried up to strange and dangerous heights and the world had tossed and stormed about her—but oh! how long ago that was! How younger she had been then!
But, as the weeks passed, that scene drew closer to her and life crept back into its heart. Sometimes, when Roddy was sleeping and she was sitting there beside him, and, about her, the house slumbered and the very birds were still, her heart would beat, beat thickly, her cheeks would flush, and she would remember that, had it not been for a horse that stumbled, she might be now far away, leading a life that might be tragedy, but that was, at any rate, Life!
She would beat the thought down—she would tell herself what, now, from this distance, she knew to be true, that she would not have been happy had she gone with Breton. She remembered that even at that supreme moment in Breton's rooms when he had kissed her for the first time her swift thought had been "Poor Roddy!" She knew, with an older wisdom than she had possessed two months ago, that Breton on his side would not have held her any more than Roddy, in his so different fashion, could hold her now. Was she to be always thus, wanting something that was not hers?
During the weeks that had immediately followed the accident she had thought that, at last, love for Roddy had really come to her. Then, as the days threaded their way, she knew that it was not so. He was more to her, much more to her, helpless and courageous, than he could ever have been under the old conditions.
But it was not passion—it was care, affection, even love; she loved him, yes, but she was not in love with him. He held all of her save that one part that Breton alone, of all human beings, had called out of her.
But she had learnt discipline during these weeks—down, down she drove rebellion, memory. She was Roddy's—she had dedicated her life to his happiness.
Then they came to London, Lizzie returned to her mother and to Lady Adela, and Rachel was alone. Life was again very difficult for her. Roddy was wonderfully cheerful, but Rachel found that she could not do very much for him. He liked to have her there, but she knew that many of his friends who could tell him the town gossip, the latest from clubs, the hunting and racing chatter entertained him more than she did. She had not, since her marriage, made many friends and she knew that almost everyone who came to their little house came for Roddy's sake rather than for hers. She did not mind that—she was glad that he was happy … but she wished that he needed her a little more. Roddy urged her to drive, to see people, to dine and go to the theatre. She went because she saw that it disturbed him if he felt that she stayed indoors for his sake, but she did not enjoy her gaiety. When she was out she wished to hurry back to him and then, when she was with him again, she often wondered whether her presence made him any happier. Through all his intercourse with her she discerned a wistful restraint as though he would like to ask her for something that he had not got and yet was afraid. When she felt this in him she redoubled her affection towards him, but she thought that he noticed this and knew her effort.
Her thoughts went often now to Francis Breton, not as to anyone whom she would ever see again—but she hoped that he was happy, wondered whether there was anyone to look after him, wished that he had some friend so that she might know that he was safe. Her pride did not allow her to speak to Lizzie Rand about him; they had had one talk when Lizzie had taken her letter, but that was all.
Then, as February drew to a close, she was unwell; that was so unusual for her that she might have been disturbed had it been anything more material than headaches, strange fits of indifference to everything and a general failure of energy. She thought that she was indoors too much and was now in the air as often as her duties to Roddy allowed her.
But the indifference persisted. Her feelings for Roddy were an odd confusion; there were times, when she was away from him, and the thought of him made her heart beat—"This is love—at last." There were times again when, as she sat beside him, she could have beaten her hands against the walls for very boredom and for his impenetrable taciturnity as he read The Times from the Births and Marriages on the front page to the advertisements on the last and flung her details—"London Scottish won their game at Richmond—That Fettes man got over three times," or "I wouldn't give a button for that horse of old Tranty Stummits they're all so gone on. You mark my words...." "I'd like to see that new piece of Edwardes'"—"They've got a girl in it who dances on her nose—jolly pretty she is, too, so Massiter says. He's been five times and there's a song about moonlight or some old rot that they say is spiffin'–" How to adjust this horrible stupidity with the courage, the humour, the affection, even the poetry that she found in him at other times?
There were days when she cared for him with a new thrilling emotion, something that had in it a quality of curiosity as though he were coming before her as someone unknown and unexpected. There were other days when she wondered how he could have remained, through all the crisis, so precisely the same Roddy.
Meanwhile between all these uncertainties she lost touch with herself. It was as though her soul flew, like some bird in a strange country, from point to point, restless, unsatisfied....
II
Then those few hurried words with Christopher on the afternoon of the Duchess's visit flung, at an instant, her whole life into crisis. Even as the words left him she knew that it was up to this that all her days had been leading, that at last she was, in very truth, face to face with her grandmother, that the battle between the two of them had commenced.
She knew, in those few minutes whilst she stood there, motionless, in that room, other things. She knew—and this was the first sharp conviction that struck her heart—that, at all costs, whatever else might come to her, she must not now lose Roddy's love. Strangely, as she stood there facing her danger, some warm glow heightened her colour as she felt from this what Roddy really meant to her. She thought then of Francis Breton, of his danger if her family understood how implicated he was with her. It was true that she had, not very long ago, contemplated running away with him, and surely nothing could have implicated him more than that, but now that he should suffer and yet not have her, secured, as his reward for his suffering—that, at all pain to herself, she must prevent.
Her first impulse after Christopher had left her was to go down instantly to Roddy and confess everything. Then she paused.
Perhaps, after all, her grandmother had not spoken? In that case how cruel to make Roddy miserable with something that was dead and already remote. In her heart too was terror lest she should precipitate Breton into some peril. On every side it seemed to her better that she should wait and discover, perhaps through Christopher, perhaps by her own intelligence, what exactly had occurred.
Four days afterwards, on the afternoon of that day that brought Breton to dine with Christopher, she had not yet spoken. She had taken no steps at all; despising herself, afraid for Breton, feeling at one instant that Roddy knew everything, at another that he knew nothing, ill with this same lassitude that had hung about her now for so many weeks, determining at one moment that she would confront her grandmother, at another that she would go instantly and confess to Roddy.
Yet Rachel hesitated and did nothing.
On this close and heavy afternoon Rachel sat up in her little drawing-room, wondering whether she would wait there for possible callers, or go down to Roddy, who was being entertained at the moment by Lord Massiter, or, complete confession of surrender to nerves and general catastrophe, go up to her bedroom, pull down the blinds and lie there, hunting sleep.
The day was intolerably heavy. The windows of the little room had all been flung open and, through the park, figures wearily dragged themselves and the waters of the lake lay as though they had fallen, because of this leaden heaviness, from the grey sky.
She sat there, listening for every sound, starting at every opening or closing of a door, thinking that were Lord Massiter not there she would go down now and tell everything to Roddy, yet knowing in her heart that if Peters were to come now and tell her that his master was alone she would not move.
Peters did come, but it was to tell her that Lord John would like to see her. Uncle John! She scarcely knew whether she hailed him as a relief or no.
"Oh! ask him to come up, Peters, at once. Bring tea here. Lord Massiter will have his downstairs, I expect."
Had her grandmother told Uncle John anything? Was his visit in connection with anything that he had heard? Of all the changes that her marriage had brought her, that she should have slipped away from Uncle John was one of the saddest. She loved him as dearly as ever, but restraint had been there between them, struggle against it though they might. He was, like Roddy, so ineloquent that anything like a situation was real agony to him; he could never explain his feelings about anything and he would eagerly agree with you that it was a great pity that he had any. What had made this trouble between them? Rachel only knew that now there were so many things in her life which Uncle John could not understand. At her heart her love for him was as clear and simple as it had ever been.
But oh! Uncle John was glad to see her! His picture of her, as she sat there, her cheeks flushed, in a rose-coloured dress, with the room as soft and delicate as a shell around her, filled him with delight: changes had come to him even since their last meeting. The lines in his forehead seemed to her a little deeper, his eyes were anxious and his smile less sure and genial. He wore a beautiful white waistcoat and sat there, with his chest out, his white hair rising into a crest, looking exactly like a pouter pigeon.
"Dear Uncle John! I'm so glad!"
"Well, my dear, I was just passing. Been to some woman who's got a party in Harley House. War party, of course, there were characters of the names of different generals and if you won you paid a guinea to the War Fund—quite a reversal of the ordinary proceedings. I'm sure, my dear, I don't know why I went. Well, it was so close that I felt I couldn't walk back, even to 104, without a cup of tea from you. How's Roddy?"
"All right. Lord Massiter's been down there chatting to him ever since three o'clock. Would you like us to go down and have our tea with them, or shall we stay cosily up here by ourselves?"
"Why, stay up here of course! You're not looking very well, my dear. You've not been the thing lately, have you? This business with Roddy?…" (he took her hand and held it)—"Don't you think it would be a good thing if you went away for a week or two and had a change?"
"No, Uncle John dear, thank you. I am tired and I will go away later on, but just now it would only make me anxious and I should worry about Roddy."
Tea was brought. She looked at Uncle John and thought that he had heard nothing. His guileless eyes smiled back at her; all that she could discern in him was apprehension lest he should say something to displease her, to make her angry. Bless his heart, he need not be afraid of that now!
As she gave him his sugar she felt that some of the old intimate relationship between them was creeping back.
"Of course you heard of grandmother's wonderful visit to us the other day," Rachel said. "Wasn't it amazing? and Christopher says that she was none the worse—rather the better."
"Amazing," said Uncle John very solemnly. "Perfectly astonishing. Your grandmother, Rachel, is an astounding woman. Just when we were all of us thinking that she was really not quite so well, quite so fit as she used to be, she comes along and does something that she hasn't done for thirty years. I confess I was nervous when I first heard of it, but Christopher reassured me—said it would do her no harm, and it hasn't."
"It shows what her affection for Roddy is," Rachel said slowly.
"And for you, dear," Uncle John said timidly. "I know that you haven't—well, haven't—that is, weren't always very friendly, but I hope that now you've come to understand her a little more. She's a difficult woman. She wouldn't be so splendid if she weren't so difficult."
He saw those hard lines that he knew of old strike into Rachel's face. He shrank back himself, afraid that he had, by one ruthless sentence, lost all the happy intimacy that had returned to them.
She had risen and walked to the window. "Dear Uncle John," she said, "I know you'd like us to be friends, bless you. But you may as well give that idea up, once and for ever. Grandmother and I—the old and the new generation, you know. There's never been anything but war and never will be. Besides, she's never forgiven me for marrying Roddy, although she arranged it all."
"Oh! my dear!" said Uncle John.
"No, it is so. I shouldn't be astonished," she continued bitterly, "if I were to hear that she thinks that I flung Roddy from his horse and trampled on him. It would be quite likely."
Then, suddenly, she came back from the window to the sofa where Uncle John, looking greatly distressed, was sitting. She leaned down, put her arms round his neck and her cheek next to his.
"Uncle John dear. Don't you worry about grandmother and me. That's an old, old story and it can't alter. The case of us two, you and me, is much more important. I've been a beast, for a long time, Uncle John. We've got away from one another somehow and it's all been my fault. I've been a prig and all sorts of horrid things, and I've let things come between us. Nothing shall ever come between us again—never."
He kissed her and his fat body thrilled with happiness. Amongst all the distressing things that this last year had brought him, nothing had been more distressing than his separation from Rachel; now the old Rachel had come back to him again.
They sat on the sofa there and he talked of a number of things in his old happy, disconnected way. Some of her apprehension lifted from Rachel, she forgot the closeness of the day and sat there, happier than she had been for many weeks. Six o'clock struck and he got up to go.
"Taking your aunt out to dinner. You going anywhere to-night, my dear?"
"Yes. It's such a nuisance, but Roddy insists on my going. I'd so much rather stay with him. It's only a silly little dinner at Lady Carloes'. She's asked a harpist in afterwards! Fancy, harpist!"
But Uncle John liked Lady Carloes. She was an old friend of his. "Don't laugh at Lady Carloes, dear. She's a kind creature, and been a friend of the family's for ever so long—a devoted friend."
He stopped suddenly. "By the way, something I meant to have told you." He dropped his voice. "You needn't say anything about it and I don't want to worry your grandmother. I'm afraid she wouldn't like it. But the black sheep is to be restored to the fold."
"The black sheep?" said Rachel, wondering.
"Yes," said Uncle John. "Your Cousin Frank Breton, my dear. Your Uncle Vincent and your aunt and I thought that he'd behaved so well, been so quiet and steady all this time, that really something ought to be done about him. It's been on my conscience, I can assure you, for a long time past. Well, I've written to him. I'm going to see him. Of course it's better to be quiet about it whilst your grandmother feels as she does—but in time–"
Rachel's voice was sharp and rather harsh as she said, "Dear Uncle John, that is kind of you. I'm so glad. Poor Cousin Frank! I always felt it unfair."
John looked at her with one of his supplicating, "Please-don't-be-hard-on-me" glances.
Rachel really was strange. She seemed to dislike the idea of Breton's redemption. He had thought that she would have been delighted.
She kissed him. "Nothing's ever to come between us again," she whispered. He pressed her hand.
"I must just look in upon Roddy," he said, and they went down together.
III
The thought that instantly occurred to her was that she must not allow Uncle John to talk to Roddy about Breton. She saw some innocent word falling, like a match into a haystack, and starting immediately the most horrible blaze.
There were other thoughts behind that—thought of her grandmother's actions when she heard of this, thoughts of Roddy's probable decision about it, thoughts that she, Rachel, might prove to be the one person in the world who had helped to drive Breton out, thoughts intolerable were they, for a moment, indulged—but now, as she walked, laughing, downstairs, with Uncle John, her one urgent resolve was to prevent an immediate scene.
She need not have feared. Massiter, stout, red-faced, hearty and stupid, held the stage. He had been holding it since three o'clock and Roddy's white face showed fatigue, his eyes were half closed and, although he smiled, his mind, distressed and exhausted, was far away.
Rachel's glance at him told her that his visitor had been too much for him. When she saw Roddy like this she longed to have him alone, away from all the world, to love him and care for him; although, in hard fact, when he was worn out, Peters was of more value than she. She looked at him now, loved him and was also afraid; she hated Lord Massiter, at this moment, and hoped that he would go.
He talked in his cheerful voice, as though he were addressing an assembly in the open air. He spoke of the hunting (pretty rotten), of the musical comedies (absolutely rotten), of our tactics in South Africa (rotten of course beyond all words), and of farming on his land in the country (unspeakably rotten), and was cheerful about all these things. He knew that he had been self-sacrificing and had spent a whole afternoon in cheering up "that poor devil, Seddon. Got to lie on his back all his life, poor chap. Active beggar he was too."
He overwhelmed Lord John, whom he liked but scorned. "Never takes any decent exercise, John Beaminster. Always about with a parcel of women." Finally he departed, carrying with him a faint scent of soap and tobacco, swearing that it was the closest night he'd ever known and wiping his red forehead with the air of one who rules this country and is going very shortly to enjoy an excellent meal.
Soon Uncle John also departed.
Roddy, alone with Rachel, faintly smiled and then closed his eyes again.
"Better go and dress, dear. It's gone half-past six."
"What on earth did he stay all that time for, roaring like a bull?" she cried indignantly. "Tired you out. Roddy, dear, I don't think I'll go out to dinner. I'll send a wire to Lady Carloes."
"No, you must," he said firmly. "It's too late to disappoint her."
"It's such an appalling night. I'm not feeling awfully well. I don't think I could stand one of her dinners. There'll be old Lord Crewner, old Mrs. Brunning and young somebody or other for me, and I believe Uncle Richard. I simply couldn't stand it."
"Aren't you well?" He looked up at her sharply.
"Not very." Their eyes met; she turned hers away. She was desperately near to tears, near to flinging herself down at his side and hiding her head and telling him all. "Wait—wait—perhaps he knows nothing …"
Still looking away from him she said, "Oh yes! I must go, of course. It's only this thunder that one feels."
She bent down, hurriedly, and kissed him. They said good night to one another and she left the room.
Later, in the carriage, she saw his white face and was miserable. She thought of Breton and that made her miserable too. To everyone she seemed to bring unhappiness. The stifling evening held a hand at her throat; the carriage moved languidly along—on every side of her she saw people listlessly moving as though controlled by an enchantment. She really was ill. "If I don't look out," she thought, "I shall be hysterical to-night. I shall just have to hold on and keep quiet. I've never felt like this before. Fancy being hysterical before Uncle Richard. How surprised he'd be and how he'd disapprove!"
In Lady Carloes' small and stuffy drawing-room bony Mrs. Brunning and Lord Crewner were being polite to one another. One would suppose that it had been Lady Carloes' intention to gather together into a confined space as many of her grandmother's possessions as possible. Her grandmother had known Sir Walter Scott and had Lord Wellington to tea and spent several days in the country with Joanna Baillie. The little room had an old faded wall-paper covered thickly with prints, miniatures and fading water-colours. On the many little tables were scattered old keepsakes, "bijouterie" of every kind, dragon china, coloured stones and even an ebony box with sea-shells. There were cabinets and glass cases, several chattering clocks, nodding mandarins and shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, a faded illustrated edition of Sir Walter's poems and, finally, three cats with large blue bows and tinkling bells. All these things added, immensely, to Rachel's distress; on such an evening this jumble of small objects rose, like the sound of the sea, and threatened to throttle her. A fire was burning and only the upper part of one window was open. Rachel felt that she was in real peril of fainting; that she had never done, but to-night she had the sensation that at any moment the floor with its old faded carpet would rise slanting before her and pitch her into the street. Lady Carloes, more hunched together than usual, her voice thick and husky and her dress of blue satin, hurried in. Uncle Richard, untouched by the closeness of the evening, clean and starched and dignified, made his majestic entry; a young man from the Embassy, so beautifully dressed that he appeared to have spent his days in the effort to make his personality of less importance than his studs and his waistcoat buttons, apologized from behind his shining collar for being the last of the party. They all went down to dinner.
Rachel felt, as the young man led her downstairs, that at last she knew what Panic was. Panic was the state of standing, surrounded by ordinary everyday things and people, waiting for the bolt to fall, the enemy to advance, danger to spring, but seeing, in actual vision, nothing to justify terror. She had reached to-night the climax of months of alarm, and, during these past days, unbroken suspense. She was at the end of endurance....
How was she ever to compass this horrible meal? The young man was finding her difficult. She was aware that Uncle Richard watched her and was expecting her to sustain the family ease and dignity. They were at a little round table, so that he was able to hear all the conversation.
"Yes," she said desperately. "I quite agree with you. The lack of enterprise at Covent Garden is shameful. We want more competition...."
"So I said to her, 'My good woman, if you really imagine that I'm taken in by your pretending that that's Dresden'…"
"Herr Becknet is coming in afterwards," old Lady Carloes said. "You'll like him, my dear. He plays the harp too wonderfully. I've asked a few friends to come in. Of course the drawing-room isn't very large, but I hope–"
The room was swimming before Rachel. A stuffed bird in a glass case sailed across the table towards her and the fireplace tottered and staggered. She was just able to gasp: "Lady Carloes—please—it's this heat or something–"
There were cries of agitation. The young man gave her his arm into the passage, she was surrounded by anxious servants; someone fanned her, she drank water and was conscious of Lady Carloes' blue satin and Uncle Richard's shirt-front.
She knew now what she wanted; she pulled herself together and absolutely refused Uncle Richard's escort.
"No, I shall be quite all right—really. No, Uncle Richard, I won't hear of it. It was silly of me to come out really. I've been feeling this thundery weather all day. No, Lady Carloes, thank you, I'll just go straight back and go to bed. I won't hear of anyone coming with me, thanks. No, really I am so sorry, Lady Carloes. I shall be all right in the morning. Yes, if you'd call a cab, please. No, Uncle Richard, I'd rather not."
She was better. She knew what she wanted. At last the cab was there, but it was not "York Terrace" that she had commanded, but "24 Saxton Square."
It was Lizzie whom she needed.