CHAPTER I

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THE DUCHESS OF WREXE

Her Decline and Death

A Romantic Commentary

by

HUGH WALPOLE

Author of "Fortitude," etc.

New York

George H. Doran Company

Copyright, 1914,

By George H. Doran Company

TO

MY MOTHER

A SMALL EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDE

BEYOND WORDS

"And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's Wood."

_Letter to Maria Gisborne_

THE RISING CITY: I

THE DUCHESS OF WREXE

_NOTE: This is an age of Trilogies and Sequels. The title at the

beginning of this book, "The Rising City: I," may lead nervous readers

to fear yet another attempt in that extended and discursive direction_.

_To reassure them I wish to emphasize this point--that_ The Duchess of

Wrexe _is entirely a novel complete and independent in itself. It is

grouped, with the two stories that will follow it, under the heading of

"The Rising City" because the three novels will be connected in place,

in idea, and in sequence of time. Also certain of the same characters

will appear in all three books. But the novels are not intended as

sequels of one another, nor is "The Rising City" a Trilogy.--H. W._

CONTENTS

BOOK I: THE DUCHESS

I Felix Brun, Dr. Christopher, Rachel Beaminster--They

Are Surveyed by the Portrait

II Rachel

III Lady Adela

IV The Pool

V She Comes Out

VI Fans

VII In the Heart of the House

VIII The Tiger

IX The Golden Cage

X Lizzie and Breton

XI Her Grace's Day

XII Defiance of the Tiger--I

XIII Defiance of the Tiger--II

BOOK II: RACHEL

I The Pool and the Snow

II A Little House

III First Sequel to Defiance

IV Rachel--and Christopher and Roddy

V Lizzie's Journey--I

VI All the Beaminsters

VII Rachel and Breton

VIII Christopher's Day

IX The Darkest Hour

X Lizzie's Journey--II

XI Roddy Is Master

XII Lizzie's Journey--III

BOOK III: RODDY

I Regent's Park--Breton and Lizzie

II The Duchess Moves

III Roddy Moves

IV March 13th: Breton's Tiger

V March 13th: Rachel's Heart

VI March 13th: Roddy Talks to the Devil and the Duchess

Denies God

VII Chamber Music--A Trio

VIII A Quartette

IX Rachel and Roddy

X Lizzie Becomes Miss Rand Again

XI The Last View from High Windows

XII Rachel, Roddy, Lord John, Christopher

XIII Epilogue--Prologue

BOOK I

THE DUCHESS

CHAPTER I

FELIX BRUN, DR. CHRISTOPHER, RACHEL BEAMINSTER--THEY ARE SURVEYED BY THE

PORTRAIT.

I

Felix Brun, perched like a little bird, on the steps of the Rede Art

Gallery, gazed up and down Bond Street, with his sharp eyes for someone

to whom he might show Yale Ross's portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. The

afternoon was warm, the date May of the year 1898, and the occasion was

the Young Portrait Painters' first show with Ross's "Duchess" as its

principal attraction.

Brun was thrilled with excitement, with emotion, and he must have his

audience. There must be somebody to whom he might talk, to whom he might

explain exactly why this occasion was of so stirring an importance.

His eyes lighted with satisfaction. Coming towards him was a tall, gaunt

man with a bronzed face, loose ill-fitting clothes, a stride that had

little of the town about it. This was Arkwright, the explorer, a man who

had been lost in African jungles during the last five years, the very

creature for Brun's purposes.

Here was someone who, knowing nothing about Art, would listen all the

more readily to Brun's pronouncement upon it, a homely simple soul,

fitted for the killing of lions and tigers, but pliable as wax in the

hands of a master of civilization like Brun. At the same time Arkwright

was no fool; a psychologist in his way, he had written two books about

the East that had aroused considerable interest.

No fool, Arkwright.... He would be able to appreciate Brun's subtleties

and perhaps add some of his own.

He had, however, been away from England for so long a time that

anything that Brun had to tell him about the London world would be

pleasantly fresh and stimulating.

Brun, round and neat, and a citizen of the world from the crown of his

head to the top of his shining toes, tapped Arkwright on his shoulder:

"Hallo! Brun. How are you? It _is_ good to see you! Haven't seen a soul

I know for the last ever so long."

"Good--good. Excellent. Come along in here."

"In there? Pictures? What's the use of me looking at pictures?"

"We can talk in here. I'll tell you all the news. Besides, there's

something that even you will appreciate."

"Well?" Arkwright laughed good-humouredly and moved towards the door.

"What is it?"

"The Duchess," Brun answered him. "Yale Ross's portrait of the Duchess

of Wrexe. At last," he triumphantly cried, "at last we've got her!"

II

The Duchess had a small corner wall for her own individual possession.

The thin glowing May sunlight fell about her and the dull gold of her

frame received it and gave it back with a rich solemnity as though it

had said, "You have been gay and unrestrained enough with all those

crowds, but here, let me tell you, is something that requires a very

different attitude."

The Duchess received the colour and the sunlight, but made no response.

She sat, leaning forward a little, bending with one of her dry wrinkled

hands over a black ebony cane, a high carved chair supporting and

surrounding her. She seemed, herself, to be carved there, stone, marble,

anything lifeless save for her eyes, the tense clutch of her fingers

about the cane, and the dull but brooding gleam that a large jade

pendant, the only colour against the black of her dress, flung at the

observer. Her mouth was a thin hard line, her nose small but sharp, her

colour so white that it seemed to cut into the paper, and the skin

drawn so tightly over her bones that a breath, a sigh, might snap it.

Her little body was, one might suppose, shrivelled with age, with the

business and pleasure of the world, with the pursuit of some great

ambition or prize, with the battle, unceasing and unyielding, over some

weakness or softness.

Indomitable, remorseless, unhumorous, proud, the pose of the body was

absolutely, one felt, the justest possible.

On either side of the chair were two white and green Chinese dragons,

grotesque with open mouths and large flat feet; a hanging tapestry of

dull gold filled in the background.

Out upon these dull colours the little body, with the white face, the

shining eyes, the clenched hand, was flung, poised, sustained by its

very force and will.

Nothing in the world could be so fierce as that determined absence of

ferocity, nothing so energetic as that negation of all energy, nothing

so proud as that contemptuous rejection of all that had to do with

pride.

It was as though she had said: "They shall see nothing of me, these

people. I will give them nothing" ... and then the green jade on her

bosom had betrayed her.

Maliciously the dragons grinned behind her back.

III

Arkwright, as he watched, was conscious suddenly of an overwhelming

curiosity. He had in earlier days seen her portrait, and always it had

been interesting, suggestive, provocative; but now, as he stood there,

he was aware that something quite definite, something uncomfortably

disconcerting had occurred; life absurdly seemed to warn him that he

must prepare for some new development.

The Duchess had, he was aware, taken notice of him for the first time.

Little Felix Brun watched Arkwright with interest. They were, at that

moment, the only persons in the room, and it was as though they had

begged for a private interview and had been granted it. The other

portraits of the exhibition had vanished into the mild May afternoon.

"She doesn't like us," Brun said, laughing. "She'd turn the dragons on

to us if she could."

"It's wonderful." Arkwright moved back a little. "Young Ross has done it

this time. No other portrait has ever given one the least idea of her.

She _must_ be that."

Brun stood regarding her. "There'll never be anything like her again. As

far as your England is concerned she's the very, very last, and when she

goes a heap of things will go with her. There'll be other Principalities

and Powers, but never _that_ Power."

"She's asked us to come," said Arkwright, "or, at any rate, asked _me_.

I wonder what she wants."

"She's only asked you," said Brun, "to tell you how she hates you. And

doesn't she, my word!"

There were voices behind him; Brun turned, and Arkwright heard him

exclaim beneath his breath. Then in a moment the little man was received

with: "Why, Mr. Brun! How fortunate! We've come to see my mother's

portrait."

Arkwright caught these words, and knew that the lady standing there must

be Lady Adela Beaminster, the Duchess's only daughter. He had never seen

Lady Adela before, but it amused him now that she should resemble so

exactly the figure that he had imagined--it showed, after all, that one

could take the world's verdict about these things.

The world's verdict about Lady Adela was that she was dull, but

important, bearing her tall dried body as a kind of flag for the right

people to range themselves behind her--and range themselves they did.

Standing now, with Felix Brun in front of her demanding a display of

graciousness, she extended her patronage. Thin, with her sharp nose and

tight mouth, she was like an exclamation mark that had left off

exclaiming, and it was only her ability to be gracious, and the sense

that she conveyed of having any number of rights and possessions to

stand for, that gave her claim to attention.

Her black hat was harsh, her hair iron-grey, her eyes cold with lack of

intelligence. Arkwright thought her unpleasant.

Standing a little behind her was a tall thin girl who was obviously

determined to be as ungracious as a protest against her companion's

amiability should require. The girl's thinness was accentuated by her

rather tightly clinging white dress, and beneath her long black gloves

her hands moved a little awkwardly, as though she were not quite sure

what she should do with them. A large black hat overshadowed her face,

but Arkwright could see that her eyes, large and dark, were more

beautiful than anything else about her. Her nose was too thin, her mouth

too large, her face too white and pinched.

Her body as she stood there was graceful, but not yet disciplined, so

that she made movements and then checked them, giving the impression

that she wished to do a number of things, but was uncertain of the

correctness of any of them.

She was of foreign blood Arkwright decided--much too black and white for

England. But it was her expression that demanded his attention. As she

watched Felix Brun talking to Lady Adela, she seemed to be longing to

express the contempt that she felt for both of them, and yet to have

behind that desire a pathetic hesitation as to whether she had a right

to be contemptuous of anyone.

It was the pathos, Arkwright decided, that one ultimately felt

concerning her. She looked lonely, she looked frightened, and she looked

"in the devil of a temper." Her black eyes would be beautiful, whether

they were filled with tears or with anger, and it seemed that they must

very often be filled with both. "I wouldn't like to have the handling of

her," thought Arkwright, and then instantly after, "I'd like to take

away some of that loneliness."

"She'll have a fine old time," he thought, "if she isn't too sensitive."

Lady Adela had now moved forward with Brun to look at the picture, but

the girl did not move with them. She did not look at the portrait nor

did she appear to take any interest in the other pictures. She stood

there, making, every now and again, little nervous movements with her

black gloves.

Arkwright moved about the gallery by himself a little, and he was

conscious that the girl's large black eyes followed him. He fancied, as,

for an instant he glanced back, that the Duchess from her high wall

leaned forward on her cane just a little further, so that she might

force the girl to give her attention. "That girl's got plenty of

spirit," thought Arkwright, "I'd like to see a battle between her and

the old lady. It would be tooth and nail."

Then once again the door opened--there was again an addition to the

company. Arkwright was, at that moment, facing the girl, and as he heard

the sharp closing of the door he saw in her eyes the welcome that the

new-comer had received.

She was transformed. The pallor of her face was now flooded with colour,

and she seemed almost beautiful as the hostility left her, and her mouth

curved in a smile of so immense a relief that it emphasized indeed her

earlier burden. Her whole body expressed the intensity of her pleasure;

her awkwardness had departed; she was suddenly in possession of herself.

Arkwright's gaze went past her to the door. The man who stood there was

greeting the girl with a smile that had in it both surprise and

intimacy, as though they were the two oldest friends in the world, and

yet he was astonished to see her there. The man was large, roughly

built, with big limbs and a face that, without being good-looking,

beamed kindness and good-nature. His eyes and mouth were sensitive and

less ragged than the rest of him, his nose the plainest thing about him,

was square and too large for his mouth. His hair was white, although he

looked between forty and fifty years of age. His dress was correct, but

he obviously did not give his clothes more consideration than the

feelings of his friends required of him. Ruddy of face, with his white

hair and large limbs and smiling good-humour, he was pleasant to look

upon, and Arkwright did not wonder at the girl's welcome; he would be,

precisely, the kind of friend that she would need--benevolent,

understanding, strong.

They greeted one another, and then they moved forward and spoke to Lady

Adela and Brun.

Arkwright watched them. There they all were, gathered together under the

sharp eyes of the Duchess, and she seemed, so Arkwright fancied, to hold

them with her gaze. Little Brun was neater than ever, and Lady Adela

drier than ever by the side of the stranger. They talked; they were

discussing the picture--their eyes travelled up to it, and for an

instant there was silence as though they were all charging it with their

challenge or surrender, as the case might be. The girl's eyes moved up

to it with a sudden sharpened, thinning of the face that brought back

the gleam of hostility that it had worn before. Then her eyes fell, and,

with a smile, they sought her friend.

Arkwright did not know any reason for his interest, but he watched them

breathlessly, and the sense that he had had, on first entering the room,

of being on the verge of some new experience, deepened with him.

Brun was apparently suddenly conscious that he had left his friend alone

long enough, for he detached himself from the group, shook hands with

Lady Adela and the girl, bowed stiffly to the man and joined Arkwright.

"Seen enough?" he said.

"Yes," said Arkwright.

They went out together.

IV

Felix Brun and Arkwright were not intimate friends. No one was intimate

with Brun, and the little man came and disappeared, was there and was

not there, was absent for a year, and then back again as though he had

been away a week, was, indeed, simply a succession of explanatory

footnotes to the social history of Europe.

It was for the social history of Europe that he lived, for the eager

penetrating gaze into this capital and that, something suddenly noted,

some case examined and dismissed. Life is discovered most accurately by

those who learn to watch for its accidents rather than its intentions,

and it was always the things that occurred by change that gave Brun his

discoveries. He was a cosmopolitan of a multitude of acquaintances, no

friends, no occupation, an enthusiasm only for cynical and pessimistic

observation, invaluable as a commentator, useless as a human being.

When, as was now the case, some chance meeting had assisted his theories

his neat little body shone like a celluloid ball. If, having made his

discovery, he might also have his audience to whom he might declare it,

then his very fingers quivered with the excitement of it. His hands,

white and thin and tapering, waved now. His eyes were on fire. As they

walked up Bond Street one might have imagined air-bladders at his

armpits, Mercury's wings at his heels. The quiet evening air was charged

with him.

"Well," said Arkwright, smiling and looking down at his companion. "Who

are they all?"

"Lady Adela Beaminster, Rachel Beaminster, Christopher----"

"Christopher?"

"Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He's the Duchess' doctor, has

been for years. The girl was the Duchess' granddaughter--Lady Adela's

niece."

"Well?"

"The girl's coming out in three days' time. They're giving a ball in

Portland Place for her. Nobody knows much about her. She's been educated

abroad, and always kept very close when she's here. I shouldn't think

the old Duchess loves her much. She loved the girl's father, but he

married a Russian actress, bolted to Russia with her, and the old lady

never forgave him. He and the actress were both killed in a Petersburg

fire, and the child was sent home--only tiny then----"

"Ah! that explains the foreign air she had. She didn't look as though

she loved her aunt very much either."

"No--don't suppose she does. But that's not it--that's not it."

They had arrived now at the top of Bond Street, and they paused for a

moment to allow the Oxford Street traffic to sweep past them.

It was an hour of stir and clatter--hansoms, carts, lumbering omnibuses,

bicycles, all were hurled along as though by some impatient hand, and

the evening light crept higher and higher along the walls of the street,

leaving grey-purple shadows beneath it.

They crossed over, and were instantly in a dim, golden, voiceless

square. It was as though a door had been closed.

Brun still held Arkwright's arm. "Now we can talk--no noise. Francis

Breton has come back."

To Arkwright this name, unfortunately, conveyed nothing.

"You don't know?" Brun was disappointed.

"Never heard of him."

"Fancy that. World of wonders; what have you been doing with your time?

He is the Duchess's grandson, son of the beautiful, the wonderful Iris

Beaminster, who eloped with Kit Breton thirty years ago. I believe the

old Duchess pursued her relentlessly until the end. They were married

only a few years and then Iris Breton committed suicide. Kit Breton beat

her and was always drunk; an absolute rascal. There was one boy, and he

wandered about Europe with his father until he was twenty or so. Then

Kit Breton died, and the boy came home. Revenge on his grandmother was

his one idea. He was taken up by her enemies, of whom she always had a

goodly store, and they might have made something out of him, if he

hadn't developed his father's habits and finally been mixed up in some

gambling scandal, and forced to leave the country.

"You can imagine what all this was to the Beaminsters--the great

immaculate Beaminsters--you can picture the Duchess.... He went and saw

her once ... but that's another story. Well, abroad he went, and abroad

he stayed--just now, coming out of the Gallery, I saw him----"

"You are sure?"

"Positive. There could be no mistake. He's just the same, a trifle

tireder, a trifle lower down--but the same, oh yes."

It was when Brun was most excited that he was unmistakably the

foreigner. Now little exclamations that escaped him revealed him. As a

rule in England he was more English than the English.

They had left the square and were passing up Harley Street. The houses

wore their accustomed air of profitable secrecy. The doors, the windows,

the brass knockers, the white and chastened steps were so discreet that

Sunday morning was the only time in the week when they were really

comfortable and at home. In every muffled hall there was lying in wait a

muffled man-servant, beyond every muffled man-servant there was a

muffled waiting-room with muffled illustrated papers: only the tinkling,

at long intervals, of some sharp little bell from some inner secrecy

would pierce that horrible discretion. Upon both men that shining

succession of little brass plates produced its solemnity.

Arkwright was nevertheless interested by Brun's discoveries. He was

accompanied, as they talked, by that picture of the thin, dark girl

moving restlessly her long, gloved hands. He could see now that look

that she had flung at the picture.... Oh! she was interesting!

"But tell me, Brun," he said, "you go on so fast. As I understand you

there are these two, Breton and the girl, both of them the result of

tragedies.... Do they know one another, do you suppose?"

"No. The girl was only a small child when Breton was in England, and you

can be sure that she was carefully kept out of his way. But now that

he's back ... now that he's back!"

"It's the girl that interests me!" said Arkwright.

"Oh! the girl!" Brun was almost contemptuous. "There you go--English

sentiment--missing all the time the great thing, the splendid thing."

"Explain," Arkwright said, laughing; "I know you won't be happy until

you have."

"Why--it's the Duchess, the Duchess, the Duchess all the time. She's the

centre of the picture; she _is_ the picture. _She's_ the subject."

Arkwright said nothing. Brun tossed his hands in the air.

"Oh--you English! No wonder you're centuries behind everything--you miss

the very things under your nose. There's the Duchess, sitting there--a

great figure as she has been these sixty years, but a figure hidden,

veiled. There she has been for the last thirty years, shut up in that

great house, wrapped about and concealed. Nobody knows what the matter

was--I don't know. I should think Christopher's the only man who can

tell. At any rate, thirty years ago she retired altogether from the

world, and sees only the fewest of people. But all the ceremony goes on,

dressing up, receiving, and the influence she has! She was powerful

enough before she disappeared, but since! Why, there's no pie she hasn't

her finger in: politics, society, revolution, life, death; nothing goes

on without her knowledge, her approval, her disapproval----"

"Her family, poor dears!"

"Oh; they love it--at any rate, the ones who are left do. The rebels are

the younger generation. Society in England, my dear Arkwright, is

dissolved into three divisions--the Autocrats, the Aristocrats, and the

Democrats. I take my hat off to the Aristocrats--the Chichesters, the

Medleys, the Darrants, the Weddons. All those quiet, decorous people,

poor as mice many of them, standing aside altogether from any movements

or war-cries of the day, living in their quiet little houses, or their

empty big ones, clever some of them, charitable all of them, but never

asserting their position or estimating it. They never look about them

and see where they are. They've no need to. They're just there.

"The Democrats are quite a new development--not much of them at

present--the Ruddards, the Denisons, the Oaks--but we shall hear a lot

of them in the future, I'm sure. They'll sacrifice anything for

cleverness; they must be amused; life must be entertaining. They embrace

everybody: actors, Americans, writers; they're quite clever, mind you,

and it's all perfectly genuine. They're not snobs--they say, 'Here are

our lands and our titles. You're common and vulgar, but you've got

brains--you're amusing and we're well born--let's make an exchange. Life

must be fun for us, so we'll have anyone with money or talent."

"Then, last of all, the Autocrats--the Beaminsters, the Gutterils, the

Ministers. I'm using Autocrat in its broadest sense, but that's just

what they are. You _must_ have your quarterings, and you must look down

on those who haven't. But, more than that, everything must be preserved,

and continual ceremonies, dignities, chastities, restraints, pomps, and

circumstances. Above all, no one must be admitted within the company who

is not of the noblest, the stupidest, the narrowest.

"The Beaminsters are the bodyguard of this little army, and the Duchess

is their general. There, behind her shut doors, she keeps it all going;

an American like Mrs. Bronson, a democrat like George Lent, she spoils

their games here, there, everywhere. So far all has been well. But at

last there are enemies within her gates--that girl, Breton. Now, at

last, for the first time in her life, she must look out."

He paused. They had reached Portland Place. To right and left of them

the broad road was golden in the sun--dark trees guarded one end of it,

bronzed roofs the other.

Two carriages stood like sentinels at the upper end.

Brun raised his hand as though he would invoke the spirit of it. "There,

Arkwright, there's your subject. The Duchess, tiny, indomitable,

brooding over this place. This square of London round the Circus, your

prostituted street, this splendour, Harley Street, Morris Square with

its respectability, Ferris Street with its boarding-houses, over them

all the Duchess is ruling. There's not one of them, I dare fancy, that

is not conscious of her existence, not one of them that will not see

life differently when she is gone. Meanwhile, she'll fight for her

Autocrats to the last breath, and she's got a battle in front of her

that will take her all her time. And when she goes the Autocrats will go

with her, the Beaminsters as Beaminsters will be done for; life here

round the Circus will never be the same again. There's a new city

rising, Arkwright, and the new citizens may forget, the Aristocrats may

compromise with the Democrats, but they'll turn out the Autocrats. A lot

of good things will go with them--good old things--but a lot of fine new

things will come in."

As they passed out of Portland Place the wooden-legged crossing-sweeper

touched his hat to them.

"Will _he_ come in?" said Arkwright, laughing.

"Perhaps," said Brun gravely.

Arkwright shook his head. "You can talk, Brun, you can say a lot. But

it's artificial the whole of it. Your subject, as you call it, is in the

air. We're realists nowadays, you know."

Brun's flat stared at them with its hideous red brick and ugly

shapelessness. No romance for Dent Street; the glittering expanse of

Portland Place was gone.

"You can't be a realist only, if you're to do the Duchess properly,"

said Brun. "There's more than that wanted."

CHAPTER II

RACHEL

"My dear thing, it all comes back, as everything always does,

simply to personal pluck. It's only a question, no matter when

or where, of having enough."--HENRY JAMES.

I

No. 104 Portland Place was the house where the Duchess of Wrexe had

lived now for sixty years. On the left as you go towards the park it had

an air that no other house in the Place had ever been able to catch.

There were certain buildings, Nos. 31, 26, 42, for instance, that were

obviously doing their little best to present a successful imitation, but

they were left a long, a very long way behind. The interesting thing

would be to know whether No. 104 had had that wonderful "note" sixty

years ago, when the Duchess came to it. Probably not; it was, beyond

question, her presence that had thus given it its distinction. Its grim

facade, without her, would not so strangely have hinted at beauties and

wonders and glories within, nor would the windows have gleamed so

finely, nor the great hall-door have symbolized such rich dark depths.

Here the temple of the Beaminsters, here, therefore, the shrine of all

that is best and finest in English aristocracy. It was indeed the

largest house in Portland Place, and most of the houses there were

large, but, across that blank austere front more was written than mere

size. It was Age at its most scornful, but observant Age, an Age that

could compare one period with another, an Age that had not forgotten the

things that belonged to its Youth.

There was very little, up and down Portland Place, at morning, at

midday, at night, that the house did not perceive. Those high, broad,

shining windows were not as other windows--there was assertion in their

very bland stupidity.

Within the house was dark and cold, with high square rooms, wide stone

staircase, and a curious capacity for clutching any boisterous or seedy

humanity on the very threshold and strangling it.

From the hall the great stone staircase was the feature. It struck a

chill, at once, into the heart of the visitor so vast was it, so cold

and white, so uncompromising, so scornful of other less solid

staircases. Very ancient, too--went back a long, long way and would

last, just like that, for ever!

What people it must have known, what scenes, what catastrophes

encountered! About it, on either side, the hall vanished into blackness;

here a gleaming portrait, there some antlers, here again an

eighteenth-century gentleman with a full wig and the Beaminster nose and

comfortable contempt in his eyes ... and, around and about it all,

silence; no sound from any part of the house penetrated here.

Up the stone staircase, passages, doors, more family portraits, more

staircase, more passages, more doors and, somewhere, in some hidden

solemnity, the ticking of a clock, so lonely in all that silence that

every now and again it would catch its breath with a little whir, as

though it wondered whether it really could go on in the teeth of so

contemptuous an indifference.

Rachel Beaminster's sitting-room overlooked Portland Place, and caught

the sun on lucky days for quite a time. It was small, square of shape,

like a box with a high window, a tiny fireplace, an arm-chair, and a

squat table with a bright blue cloth.

Always during the two years that had been devoted to "finishing" in

Munich she had had that little room, cosy, compact, before her. Now did

it seem a little shabby, the carpet and tablecloth and curtains a little

faded; it yet had its cosiness, there in the heart of the great waste

and desert that the house presented to her.

The little silver clock on the mantelpiece had struck five: she had come

back with Aunt Adela from the picture gallery, and, hearing voices in

the Long Drawing-room (the voices said, "My dear Adela, we just

came...." "Adela dear, how well...."), she slipped up the stairs and

secured her own refuge, and rang for tea to be brought to her there.

She wanted to think: she wanted to lie in the arm-chair there with the

window a little open and the evening air coming from the park across

Portland Place curiously scented like the sea.

As she lay back in her chair her body seemed fragile, and, almost, in

its abandonment, exhausted. Under the black eyes her cheeks and neck

were very white, and her black hair gave it all the intensest setting.

She _was_ tired, horribly tired, and she wondered, vaguely, as she lay

there how she was ever to manage this life that, in three days' time,

she must take up and carry, a life that offered, perhaps, a little

freedom, a little release, but so many, so many terrors.

As her gaze took in the little room--its grey paper, a photograph of

Uncle John, a book-case with poets, some miscellaneous and

untidy-looking novels, and a number of little red Carlyles, a china

cockatoo with an impertinent stare, a copy of Furze's "Ride," and a

water-colour of red Munich roofs signed "Mary," a tiny writing-table

with one old yellow photograph of a sad dark woman in a silver

frame--these things were, it seemed the only friendly things she knew.

Outside this room there was her grandmother, the house, London, the

world--more and more horrible as the circles grew wider and wider.

At the mere thought of the things that she must, in three days' time,

face, her heart began to beat so that she could scarcely breathe, and,

with that beating, came the iron determination that no one should ever

know.

She could not remember a time when these two emotions had not come

together. She saw, as though it had happened only an hour ago, a tiny

child in a black frock stumbling across endless deserts of carpet

towards someone who looked older and more curious than anything one

could have conceived possible. Someone sitting in a high carved chair,

someone leaning on a stick, with two terrifying great dragons behind

her.

The child was seized with such a panic that her breath came in little

pumping gasps, her legs quivered and trembled, her mouth was open, her

eyes like saucers. And then, suddenly, after what had seemed a century

of time, there came the thin trembling voice: "Why, the child's an

idiot!"

Since that awful day Rachel had determined that "no one should ever

know." There had come to her, at that moment, the knowledge that round

every corner there might lurk dragons and a witch. Sometimes they were

there, sometimes they were not, but always there was the terror before

the corner was turned.

Life for Rachel during those early years was one long determination to

meet bravely that half-hour, from six to half-past. Every evening at

five minutes before six down the long passages she would be led, then

would come the short pause before the dark door, a pause when the

beating of the child's heart seemed the only sound in the vast house;

then the knock, someone's voice "Come in," then the slow opening of the

door, the revelation of the strange dim room with the old mirrors, the

purple carpet, the china dragons, and grandmother in the high carved

chair. There was always, in the hottest weather, a fire burning, always

Dorchester, a large ugly woman, behind the chair, always the cockatoo

see-sawing on a golden perch and crying out every now and again with

shrill, hostile cries. And then, in the centre of this, grandmother,

with her terrible hands, her terrible nose, her terrible eyes, and, most

terrible of all, her voice.

Rachel would sit upright on her chair, and very often nothing would be

said throughout the half-hour. Sometimes Dorchester would ask questions,

such as: "And what has Miss Rachel been doing to-day?" "Did Miss Rachel

enjoy her walk in the park this afternoon?" "Has Miss Rachel enjoyed her

lessons to-day?" Sometimes, and these were the terrible occasions, her

grandmother would speak: "Well, have you been a good little girl?" or

"Tell me what you have been doing, child."

At the sound of that voice the room would flood with terror: the child

would still, by an effort of will, her body. She could feel now, from

all that distance of years, the discipline that it had needed to steady

her little black legs that dangled from her chair. She learnt, in time,

to control herself so that she could give long answers in a grave,

reserved tone.

The old lady never moved as she spoke, only bent forward and stared at

her, as though she would see whether it were the truth that she were

speaking.

As the days passed and Rachel grew older it was around this half-hour

that the house ranged itself. The things in it--the rooms, the passages,

the stairs, the high, cold schoolroom with its shining maps and large

frigid table, the tapestry room, long and dark and mysterious with

strange beasts and horsemen waving in the dusk, the white drawing-room

so delicate and fragile that the furniture seemed to be all holding its

breath as though a little motion in the air would dissipate it, the vast

dining-room with the great hanging candelabra, and the family portraits

and the stone fireplace--all these things existed only that that

terrible half-hour might fling its shadow about the day.

The child was much alone; she had governesses, a music master, a drawing

master, but from these persons, however friendly they might be, she held

aloof. She told them nothing of her thoughts. She had behind her her

very early years that were now to her like a dream; she did not know

that it had ever really existed, that picture of snow and some dark kind

figure that was always beside her protecting her, and in the air always

a noise of bells. As she grew older that picture was not dimmed in the

vision of it, but only she doubted its authenticity. Nevertheless, the

memory provided a standard and before that standard these governesses

were compelled to yield.

There were, of course, her uncles and her aunt. Aunt Adela was more

immediately concerned in the duty of her niece's progress than any

other, but as a duty she always, from the first, represented it. From

that first morning, when she had given her cold dry cheek to the little

girl to kiss until now, three days before Rachel's freedom, she had made

no suggestion nor provocation of affection. "It is a business, my dear

niece," she seemed to say, "that, for the sake of our family, we must go

through. Let us be honest and deny all foolish sentiment."

To this Rachel was only too ready to agree. She did not like her Aunt

Adela. Aunt Adela resembled a dry, wintry tree, a tree whose branches

cracked and snapped, a tree that gave no hope of any spring. Rachel

always saw Aunt Adela as an ugly necessity; she was not a thing of

terror, but merely something unpleasant, something frigid and of a

lukewarm hostility.

Then there were the uncles--Uncle Vincent, Uncle John, and Uncle

Richard.

Uncle Vincent, the Duke, was over sixty now and very like his mother,

withered and sharp and shrivelled, but he was without her terror, being

merely dapper and insignificant, and his sleek hair (there was only a

little of it very carefully spread out) and his white spats were the

most prominent things about him. He was fond, Rachel gathered, of his

racing and his club and his meals, and he was unmarried.

Uncle Richard had been twice Prime Minister and was a widower. He lived

in a beautiful house in Grosvenor Street, and collected wine and fans

and first editions. He was always very kind to Rachel, and she liked his

tall thin figure, bent a little, with his high white forehead,

gold-rimmed pince-nez on the Beaminster nose, and beautiful long white

hands. She went to have tea with him sometimes, and this was an hour of

freedom and delight, because he talked to her about the Elizabethans and

Homer, and, when she was older, Nietzsche and Kant. She liked the warm

rooms, with their thick curtains and soft carpets and rows and rows of

gleaming glittering books, and he always had tea in such beautiful china

and the silver teapot shone like a mirror. But she never felt that she

was of the same value to him as a first edition would be, and he talked

to her of the Elizabethans for their sake, and not for hers.

Lastly, there was Uncle John, and her heart was divided between Uncle

John and Dr. Christopher. Uncle John was a dear. He was round and fat,

with snow-white hair that had waves in it, and his face resembled that

of a very, very good-natured pig. His nose was not in the least a

Beaminster nose, being round and snub and his eyes beamed kindliness.

Rachel, although she had always loved him, had long learnt to place no

reliance upon him. His aim in life was to make it as comfortable, as

free from all vulgar squabble and dispute, as pleasant for everyone

everywhere as it could possibly be. He was a Beaminster in so far as he

thought the Beaminsters were a splendid and ancient family, and that

there was no other family to which a man might count himself so

fortunate to belong. But he was kind and pleasant about the rest of the

world. He would like everyone to have a good time, and it was vaguely a

puzzle to him that it should be so arranged that life should have any

difficulties--it would be so much easier if everything were pleasant.

When, however, difficulties did arise they must at all costs be

dismissed. There had been no time in his life when he had not been in

love with some woman or other, but the hazards and difficulties of

marriage had always frightened him too much.

He was not entirely selfish, for he thought a great deal about the

wishes and comforts of other people, but unpleasantness frightened him,

like a rabbit, into his hole. He lived the life of the "Compleat

Bachelor" at 93 Portland Place, having a multitude of friends of both

sexes, spending hours in his clubs with some of them, week-ends in

country houses with others of them, and months in delightful places

abroad with one or two of them.

He was very popular, always smiling and good-natured, and cared more for

Rachel than for anyone else in the world ... but even for Rachel he

would not risk discomfort.

There they all were, then.

Gradually they had emerged, for her, out of the mists and shadows,

arranging themselves about her as possible protections against that

horrible half-hour of hers. She soon found that, in that, at any rate,

they would, none of them, be of use to her except Uncle John. Uncle

Vincent did not count at all. Uncle Richard only counted as china or

pictures counted.

Uncle John could not count as a very strong defence, it was true, but he

was fond of her; he showed it in a thousand ways, and although he might

never actually stand up for her, yet he would always be there to comfort

her.

Not that she wanted comfort. From a very early age indeed she

resolutely flung from her all props and sympathies and sentiments. She

hated the house, she hated the loneliness, most of all she hated

grandmother ... but she would go through with it, and no one should know

that she suffered.

II

Then, when she was seventeen, came Munich.

On the day that she first heard that she was to go to Germany to be

"finished" the flashing thought that came to her was that, for a time at

any rate, the "half-hour" would be suspended. Standing there thinking of

the days passing without the shadow of that interview about them was

like emerging from some black and screaming, banging, shouting tunnel

into the clear serenity of a shining landscape. Two years might count

for her escape, and perhaps, on her return, she would be old enough for

her grandmother to have lost her terrors--perhaps....

Meanwhile, that Germany, with its music and forests and toys and

fairies, danced before her. Her two years in it gave her all that she

had expected; it gave her Wagner and Mozart and Beethoven, it gave her

Goethe and Heine, Jean Paul and Heyse, Hauptmann and Moerike, it gave her

a perception of life that admitted physical and spiritual emotions on

precisely the same level, so that a sausage and the _Unfinished

Symphony_ gave you the same ecstatic crawl down your spine and did not,

for an instant, object to sharing that honour.

Munich also gave her the experience and revelations of May Eversley.

There were some twenty or thirty girls who were, with Rachel, under the

finishing care of Frau Bebel, but Rachel held herself apart from them

all. She could not herself have explained why she did so. It was partly

because she felt that she had nothing, whether experience or discovery,

to give to them, partly because they seemed already so happy and

comfortable amongst themselves that they had surely no need of her, and

partly because she feared that from some person or some place, suddenly

round the corner there would spring the terror again. She could even

fancy that her grandmother, watching her, had placed horrors behind

curtains, closed doors, grimed and shuttered windows.--"If you think, my

dear," she might perhaps be saying, "that you've escaped by this year or

two in Germany, you're mightily mistaken.--Back to me you're coming."

But May Eversley was different from the other girls. She was different

because she saw things without a muddle, knew what she wanted, knew what

she disliked, knew what was delightful, knew what was intolerable.

To Rachel this clear-cut decision was more enviable than any other

quality that one could have. At this stage of her experience it was the

assent, so it seemed to her, that could give life its intensest value.

"Sit down and see, without any exaggeration or false colouring, what

you've got. Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you imagine that you've

got but haven't. See what you want. Take away ruthlessly everything

that you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident of

securing. See what's happened to you in the past. Take away ruthlessly

any sentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quite

resolutely from your ugly mistakes."

Rachel's world had hitherto been limited very largely to the schoolroom

in Portland Place, the park and Beaminster House, the country

place-in-chief (three others, one in Leicestershire, one in

Northumberland, one in Norfolk), but even within this limited country

the terrific importance of those rules was driven in upon her.

She felt that her grandmother was clear-headed, but, no, none of the

others--not Aunt Adela, nor the uncles, nor any of the governesses. She

was allowed to meet one or two little boys and girls of her own age. She

walked with them in the park, played with them at Beaminster House, had

tea with them occasionally, but they were, none of them, clear-headed.

She was not priggish about this discovery of hers. She did not despise

other people because their definite rules did not seem to them of

importance. She did not talk about these things.

To see facts very steadily without blinking was impelled upon her by the

necessity for courage. It was the only weapon wherewith to fight her

grandmother. "Now," she might say to herself, "this half-hour of yours.

Is it so bad? What definitely do you fear about it? Is it the knock at

the door? Is it the crossing the room? Is it answering questions?"

So challenged her terror did fall, a little, away from her, ashamed at

its inadequate cause. So she went to face every peril--"Is the danger

really so bad? What exactly is it?..."

May Eversley was thin and spare, small with sharp features, pince-nez,

hair brushed sternly back, and every inch of her body trained to the

purpose that it was meant to fulfil. She rang her sentences on the air

like coin on a plate. Meanwhile, as she explained to Rachel, she had

been fighting since she was five. Her mother, Lady Eversley, was the

widow of Tom Eversley, now happily deceased, once the most dissolute

scamp in Europe. He had died leaving nothing but debts behind him. Since

then his widow and his daughter had lived in three little rooms above a

public house off Shepherd's Market, and the widow had battled to keep up

the gayest of appearances. May had been, at a very early age, introduced

to the struggle. "My silver mug and rattle were pawned to get a dress

for mother to go to a drawing-room in. I shouldn't be here now if it

weren't for an uncle, and it's the last thing he'll do for us. So back I

go in two year's time--to do my damnedest."

Of course she was clear-headed--she had to be.

"There are only two sorts of people," she said to Rachel. "Like

soup--thick and clear--the Clear ones get on and the Thick don't."

May obviously liked Rachel, but was amused by her. Nobody, it seemed to

May, showed so nakedly her emotions as Rachel, and yet, also, nobody

could produce, more suddenly, the closest of reserves. May, to whom the

world had been, since she was six, a measured plain of contest,

marvelled at the poignancy of Rachel's contact with it. "If she's going

to be hurt as easily as this by everything, how on earth is she going to

get through?"

Then, as the Munich days passed, May found, to her own delight, Rachel's

keen sense of humour. Munich afforded enough food for it, and finally

one discovered that Rachel smiled more readily than she trembled, but

she hid her smile because, as yet, she was not sure of it.

"All she wants," May Eversley concluded, "is to be told things."

Nobody in the world could be better adapted to give out these

revelations. London, to May Eversley, was an open book; moreover, the

most stormy of battle-fields on which the combatants fought, were

wounded, were slain, were gloriously victorious.

She told Rachel a great deal--a great deal about people, a great deal

about sets and parties, a great deal about likes and dislikes. She had

on her side one burning curiosity to know about Rachel's Duchess. "Is

she as terrible, so tremendous as people say? Has she such a brain even

now? Old Lady Grandon, who was a great friend when they were both girls,

says that she wasn't clever then a bit--rather stupid and shy--but you

never know. Jealousy on old Grandon's part, I expect. They say she's

wonderful still."

Questions of taste never worried May Eversley, and it did not worry her

now that Rachel might dislike so penetrating an inquisition. But at

least May got nothing for her trouble. Rachel told her nothing.

May's final word was, "You care too much about it all--care whether it's

going to hurt, whether it's going to be frightening or not. My advice to

you is, just dash in, snatch what you can, and dash out again. It

doesn't matter a hair-pin what anyone says. Everyone says everything in

London, and nobody minds. They've all got the shortest memories."

Rachel, sitting now in her little room and thinking of Munich wondered

how completely her own discovery of London would coincide with May's.

May's idea of it was certainly not Aunt Adela's. Aunt Adela, Rachel

thought, was far too dried and brittle to risk any sharp contact with

anything. None of her uncles, she further reflected, liked sharp

contacts, and yet, how continually grandmother provided them!

How comfortable all of them--Aunt Adela and the uncles--would be without

their mother, and yet how proud they were of having her! For herself,

Rachel faced her approaching deliverance with a tightening of all the

muscles of her body. "I won't care. It shall be as May says--and there

are sure to be some comfortable people about, some people who want to

make it pleasant for one."

Then there was a tap at the door and Uncle John came in. Uncle John

often came in about half-past five. It was a convenient time for him to

come, but also, perhaps, he recognized that that approaching half-hour

that Rachel was to have with his mother demanded, beforehand, some kind

of easy, amiable prologue.

To-day, however, there was more in his comfortable smiling countenance

than merely paying a visit warranted. He stood for a moment at the door

looking over at her, rather fat but not very, his white hair, his pearl

pin, his white spats all gleaming, a rosiness and a cleanliness always

about him so that he seemed, at any moment of the day, to have come

straight from his tub, having jumped, in his eagerness to see you, into

his beautiful clothes, and hurried, all in a glow, to get to you.

"They're all chattering downstairs--chattering like anything. There's

Roddy Seddon, old Lady Carloes and Crewner and some young ass Crewner's

brought with him and your Uncle Dick looking bored and your Aunt Adela

looking nothing at all--and so out of it I came."

He came over and sat on the broad, fat arm of her chair and looked out,

in his contented, amiable way, over the light, salmon-coloured and pale,

that now had persuaded Portland Place into silence. His eyes seemed to

say: "Now this is how I like things--all pink and quiet and

comfortable."

Rachel leant a little against his shoulder, and put her hand on his

knee--

"You've had tea down there?"

"Yes, thank you--all I wanted. What have you been doing all the

afternoon?"

He put his own hand down upon hers.

"Oh! Aunt Adela and I went to look at grandmother's portrait."

"Well?"

"It's as clever as it can be. To anyone who doesn't know her, it's the

most wonderful likeness. It's what grandmother would like herself."

He caught the note in her voice that threatened the pink security of

Portland Place. He held her hand a little tighter.

"In what way?"

"Oh, it's got the dragons and the tapestry and the purple carpet. All

the coloured things that grandmother like so much and that help her so.

Why, imagine her for a second in an ordinary room, in an old arm-chair

with a worn-out carpet and everlastings on the mantelpiece; what _would_

she do? The young man, whoever he is, has helped her all he can."

Rachel felt his grasp of her hand slacken a little.

"Yes, I know it's wrong of me to talk like that. But it's all so sham.

It's like someone in one of those absurd fantastic novels that people

write nowadays when half the characters are out of Dickens only put into

a real background. I'm frightened of grandmother--you know I always have

been--but sometimes I wonder whether----"

She paused.

"Whether there's anything really to be frightened of. And yet the relief

when I can get off this half-hour every evening--the relief even now

when I'm even grown up--oh! it's absurd!"

"Well, my dear, you're coming out, you're going to break away from all

of us--you'll have your own life now to make what you like of."

"Yes, that's all very well. But I've been brought up all wrong. Most

girls begin to come out when they're about ten and go on, more and more,

until, when the time actually comes, well, there's simply nothing in it.

I've never known anyone intimately except May, and now at the thought of

crowds and crowds of people, at one moment I'd like to fly into a

convent somewhere, and at the next I want to go and be rude to the lot

of them--to get in quickly you know, lest they should be rude to me

first."

Now that she had begun, it came out in a flood. "Oh! I shall make such a

mess of it all. What on earth am I to talk about to these people? What

do they want with me or I with them? What have I ever to say to anybody

except you and Dr. Chris, and even with you I'm as cross as possible

most of the time. Grandmother always thought me a complete fool, and so

I suppose I am. If people aren't kind I can't say a word, and if they

are I say far too much and blush afterwards for all the nonsense I've

poured out. It doesn't matter with you and Dr. Chris because you know

me, but the others! And always behind me there'd be grandmother! She

knows I'm going to be a failure, and she wants me to be--but just to

prove to her, just to prove!"

She jumped up, and standing in front of the window, met, furiously, a

hostile world. Her hands were clenched, her face white, her eyes

desperate.

"--Just to prove I'll be a success--I'll marry the most magnificent

husband, I'll be the most magnificent person--I'll bring it off----"

Suddenly her agitation was gone--she was laughing, looking down on her

uncle half humorously, half tenderly.

"Just because I love you and Dr. Chris, I'll do my best not to shame

you. I'll be the most decorous and amiable of Beaminsters.--No one shall

have a word to say----"

She bent down, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Then she sat

down on the edge of the arm-chair with her hands clasped over his knee.

Uncle John would not have loved her so dearly had he not been, on so

many occasions, frightened of her. She was often hostile in the most

curious way--so militant that he could only console himself by thinking

that her mother had been Russian, and from Russia one might expect

anything. And then, in a moment, the hostility would break into a

tenderness, an affection that touched him to the heart and made the

tears come into his eyes. But for one who loved comfort above everything

Rachel was an agitating person.

Now as he felt the pressure of her hands on his knees, he knew that he

would do anything, anything for her.

"That's all right, Rachel dear," was all that he could say. "You hold on

to me and Christopher. We'll see you through."

The little silver clock struck six. She got up from the chair and smiled

down at him. "If I hadn't got you and Dr. Chris--well--I just don't

know what would happen to me."

Meanwhile Uncle John had remembered what it was that he had come to say.

His expression was now one of puzzled distress as though he wondered how

people could be so provoking and inconsiderate.

He looked up at her. "By the way," he said, "it's doubtful whether

mother will see you this evening. You'd better go and ask, but I

expect----"

"What's happened?"

"I may as well tell you. You're bound to hear sooner or later. Your

cousin Francis is back in London. He's written a most insulting letter

to your grandmother. It's upset her very much."

"Cousin Frank?"

"Yes. He's living apparently quite near here--in some cheap rooms."

May Eversley had, long before, supplied Rachel with all details as to

that family scandal.

Rachel now only said: "Well, I'll go and see whether she would like me

to come."

For a moment she hesitated, then turned back and flung her arms again

about her uncle's neck.

"Whatever happens, Uncle John, whatever happens, we'll stick together."

"Whatever happens," he repeated, "we'll stick together."

His eyes, as they followed her, were full of tenderness--but behind the

tenderness there lurked a shadow of alarm.

CHAPTER III

LADY ADELA

"At first it seemed a little speck,

And then it seemed a mist;

It moved and moved, and took at last

A certain shape, I wist."

_The Ancient Mariner._

I

Lady Adela had returned from that visit to her mother's portrait with a

confused mind. She was not used to confused minds and resented them;

whenever so great an infliction came upon her she solved the confusion

by dismissing it, by leaving her mind a blank until it should take upon

itself to be clear again. To obtain that blank an interval of reflection

was necessary, and now, to-day, that had been impossible. On returning,

she had been instantly confronted by a number of people who required to

be given tea and conversation, and no time had been allowed her in which

she might resolve that her mind should be cleared.

Her confusion was that the portrait of her mother was precisely like, a

most brilliant affair, and yet wasn't like in the least. Further than

that, in some completely muddled way, it was in the back of her mind

that her mother, suddenly, this afternoon, presented herself to her as

not entirely living up to the portrait, as being less sharp, less

terrible, less magnificent. Horror lest she should in any way be

doubting her mother's terror and magnificence--both proved every day of

the week--lay, like a dark cloud, at the back of her confusion.

She could not, however, extract anything definite from the little

cluster of discomforts; old Lady Carloes and Lord Crewner, a young thing

that Lord Crewner had brought with him, and her brother Richard were

all waiting for tea, and floods of conversation instantly covered Lady

Adela's poor mind and drowned it.

The Long Drawing-room, where they now were, was long and narrow, with

two large open fireplaces, a great deal of old furniture rather faded

and very handsome, silver that gleamed against the dark wall-paper, one

big portrait of the Duchess, painted by Sargent twenty years ago, and

high windows shut off now by heavy dark green curtains.

The Duchess, it was understood, did not approve of electric light and

the house therefore disdained it. Parts of the room were lighted by

candles placed in heavy old silver candlesticks. Round the fireplace at

the farther end of the light shone and glittered; there the tea-tables

stood, and round about them the company was gathered.

The rest of the room, hung in dark shadow, stretched into black depths,

lit only now and again by the gleam of silver or glass as the light of

the more distant fire flashed and fell.

The voices, the clatter of the tea-things, these sounds seemed to be

echoed by the darker depths of the farther stretches of the room.

Lady Carlos was eighty, extremely vigorous, and believed in bright

colours. She was dressed now in purple, and wore a hat with a large

white feather. Her figure was bunched into a kind of bundle, so that her

waist was too near her bosom and her bosom too near her chin and her

chin too near her forehead.

It was as though some spiteful person had pressed all of her too closely

together. But this very shapelessness added to her undoubted amiability;

her face was fat and smiling, her hair white and untidy, and she

maintained her dignity in spite of her figure. Nobody knew anything with

certainty as to her income, but she was charitable, and ran a little

house in Charles Street with a great deal of ceremony and hospitality.

Her husband had long been dead and her two daughters had long been

married, so that she was happy and independent. Many people considered

her tiresome because her curiosity was insatiable and her discretion

open to question, yet she was a staunch Beaminster adherent, an old

friend of the Duchess, and saw both this world and the next in the

proper Beaminster light.

Lady Adela depended on her a good deal, at certain times: she had

forseen that the old lady would come to-day; she had heard of course of

Frank Breton's arrival in town, she would demand every detail; Lady

Adela knew that the account that she gave to Lady Carloes would be the

account that the town would receive.

By the fire Lord Richard, Lord Crewner and the nondescript young man

were talking together. Lady Adela caught fragments. "But of course

Dilchester is incautious--when was he anything else? What these fellows

need----"

That was her brother.

And then Lord Crewner, who believed that the windows of White's and

Brook's were the only courts of Ultimate Judgment. "That's all very

well, Beaminster, but I assure you, they were saying last night at the

club----"

As far as all that was concerned Lady Adela flung it aside. She must

attend to Lady Carloes, she must give to her the version of Frank

Breton's arrival that her mother would wish her to give. But what _was_

that version? And _was_ her mother really to be depended upon?

At so terrible a flash of disloyalty Lady Adela coloured.--Why were

things so difficult this afternoon? And why had she ever gone to that

picture-gallery?

Lady Carloes had, however, not yet arrived at Frank Breton. She never

paid a visit anywhere without tabulating carefully in her mind the

things that she must know before leaving the house. Her theory was that

she was really very old indeed, and couldn't possibly live much longer,

and that no moment therefore must be wasted. The more news that she

could give and receive before her ultimate departure, the more value

would her life have in retrospect.

She never went definitely into the exact worth that all the gossip that

she collected might have for anybody or anything; as with any other

collection it was pursuit rather than acquisition that fired the blood.

At the back of her old mind was a perfect lumber-room of muddle and

confusion--dusty gossip, cobwebs of scandal, windows thick with grime

and tightly closed. There was no time left now to do anything to that.

Meanwhile every day something was purchased or exchanged; muddle there

might be, but, thank God, nobody knew it.

"You must be very busy about the ball, my dear."

"Yes--it means a great deal of work. It's so long since we've had

anything here, but Norris is invaluable. You don't find servants like

that nowadays."

"No, my dear, you don't. But, of course, it will go off splendidly.

We're all so anxious that Rachel shall have a good time. It's the least

we can do for your mother."

At the mention of Rachel Lady Adela's thoughts straightened for a

second; _that_ was where the confusion lay. It had been Rachel's

attitude to the portrait that had caused Lady Adela's own momentary

disloyalty. Of course Rachel hated her grandmother. Lady Adela made a

little sound with her fingers, a sound like the clicking of needles.

"As far as Rachel is concerned nobody can tell possibly how she's going

to take it all. I don't pretend to understand her."

Lady Carloes found this interesting--she bent forward a little. "We're

all greatly excited about her. You've kept her away from all of us and

one hears such different accounts of her. And of course her success is

most important--as things are just now."

Lady Adela answered, "I can tell you nothing. She isn't in the least

like any of us, and I don't suppose for a moment that she'll listen to

anybody. She made a friend of May Eversley in Munich, and I don't think

that was the best thing for her. But you know--I've talked about this to

you before."

Not only had Lady Adela talked; all of them had done so. In the

Beaminster camp this appearance that Rachel was about to make was of the

last importance. There were enemies, redoubtable enemies, in the field.

Rachel Beaminster's bow to the world was for the very reason that all

the world was watching, a responsibility for them all.

But there were many rumours. Rachel was not to be relied upon--she hated

her grandmother, she was strange and foreign and morose. Lady Carloes

was not happy about it, and Lady Adela's attitude now was anything but

reassuring.

John Beaminster came in. Lady Carloes liked him because he was

good-tempered and injudicious. He told her a number of things that

nobody else ever told her, and he had so simple a mind that extracting

news from it was as easy as taking plums from a pudding. He did not come

over to them at once, but stood laughing with Lord Crewner and his

brother. He would come, however, in a moment, so Lady Carloes made a

last hurried plunge at her friend.

"What's this I hear, my dear, about Frank Breton?"

"Yes, it's perfectly true. He's come back, and has taken rooms quite

near here. He wrote to mother----"

Lady Carloes took this in with a gulp of delight. "My dear Adela! What

did he say?"

"Oh! a very rude letter. He told mother that he knew that she would like

him to be near at hand and that they ought to let bygones be bygones,

and that he was sure that she would be glad to hear that he was a

reformed character. Of course he hates all of us."

"What will you all do?"

"Oh! Nothing, of course. We gave him up long ago. By a tiresome

coincidence he's taken rooms in the same house as my secretary, Miss

Rand. I would send her away if she weren't simply invaluable. But it

gives him a kind of a link with us."

"Monty Carfax saw him yesterday. He's lost his left arm, Monty says, and

looks more of an adventurer than ever. So tiresome for your mother, my

dear."

Then, as Lord John began to break away from the group at the fireplace

and move towards them----

"Roddy Seddon told me he might look in this afternoon.... Your mother's

so devoted to him. He seems to understand her so well."

The two ladies faced one another. Their eyes crossed. Lady Carloes

murmured, "Such a splendid fellow!" then, as Lord John's cheerful laugh

broke upon them----

"Isn't Rachel coming down?" she asked.

II

Lady Adela left her brother and Lady Carloes together and crossed over

to the group at the fireplace. Of all her brothers, she liked Richard

best. He seemed to her to be precisely all that a Beaminster should be:

she liked his appearance--his fine domed forehead, his grey hair, his

long rather melancholy face, his austere and orderly figure.

He had to perfection that reserve, that kind benignancy that a

Beaminster ought to have; whenever Lady Adela questioned the foundations

upon which the stability of her life depended he reassured her. Without

saying anything at all, he gravely comforted her. That is what a

Beaminster ought to do.

She knew, as she saw him standing there by the fire, that _he_ would

never doubt his mother. To him she would always be splendid and

magnificent, and with what determination would he expel from him any

base attacks on that loyalty! Lady Adela thought that power to expel

resolutely and firmly everything that attacked the settled assurance of

one's mind the finest thing in the world.

Lord Crewner was a thin, handsome man of any age at all over forty and

under sixty. He was polished and brushed and scrubbed to such an extent

that he looked like an advertisement of some fine old English firm that

produced, at great cost and with wonderful completeness, Fine old

English gentlemen. He believed in not thinking about things very much,

because thinking let in Radicals and diseases and the poor, and made one

uncomfortable. He loved the London that he knew, a London bounded by

Sloane Square, the Marble Arch, Trafalgar Square and Westminster.

He was a bachelor, but might have married Lady Adela had the Duchess not

refused to hear of Lady Adela leaving her; he adored the Duchess,

although he was scarcely ever allowed to see her because he bored her.

He always lowered his voice a little when talking to women, and

heightened it a little when talking to men; to his valet he spoke in the

voice that Nature had given him.

Lady Adela was reassured as she came towards them. Although she did not

especially desire to marry Lord Crewner, the thought that he might, had

affairs been differently arranged, have asked her, placed him, in her

eyes, apart from other men. At any rate these two were comfortable to

her, and, for a moment, she was able to dismiss Rachel and Frank Breton

from her mind.

They talked easily beside the fireplace. The voices of Lady Carloes and

Lord John, the pleasant murmur of the fire, the ticking clocks, all

helped that lazy swaying of time and space about one, that happy

reassurance that as the world had been so would it continue ever to be,

and that the old emotions and the old experiences and the old opinions

would always hold their own against all invasion and decay.

Lord Richard talked of Chippendale and some wonderful Lowestoft, Lord

Crewner talked of Madeira and Lady Masters' new house; Lady Adela

listened and was soothed.

Upon them all broke a voice:

"Sir Roderick Seddon, my lady."

There stood in the doorway the freshest, the most beaming of young men.

He was tall and broad; his face was of a red-brick colour, and his dark

London clothes, although they were well cut and handsome enough, were

obviously only worn to please a necessary convention. His hair was light

brown and cut close to his head, and his body had the healthy sturdiness

of someone whose every muscle was in proper training.

He came forward to the group at the fireplace with the walk of a man

accustomed to space and air and freedom; his smiling face was so genial

and good-humoured that the whole room seemed to break away a little from

its decorous and shining propriety. They were all pleased to see him.

Lady Carloes and Lord John came over and joined the group, and they

stood all about him talking and laughing.

Roddy Seddon was the only young man whom the Duchess permitted, and

people said that that was because he was the only young man who had

never shown any fear of her. The knowledge of this fact gave him in Lady

Adela's eyes a curious interest. She beheld him always rather as she

would have beheld anyone who had learnt an abstruse language that no one

else had ever mastered or some traveller who was reputed to have said or

done the most extraordinary things in some savage country. How _could_

he? What talisman had he discovered that protected him? And then,

swiftly on that, came the curious thought that she herself was glad that

she had her terror, that she was proud, in some strange, inverted way,

that any Beaminster could have the effect upon anyone that her mother

had upon her.

But Roddy Seddon had another especial interest for her, for it was

Roddy, all the Beaminsters had decided, who was to marry Rachel. Roddy

was, in every way, the right person; not very wealthy, perhaps, but he

had one nice place in Sussex, and Rachel would not, herself, be a

pauper.

Roddy would never let the Beaminsters down; he hated all these new

invaders as strongly as any Beaminster could. He hated this mixing of

the classes, this perpetual urging of the working man to think.

"Lots of our fellows," Lady Adela had heard him say, "get along without

thinkin'--why not the other fellers?"

She felt now that a conversation with Roddy would complete the soothing

process that Lord Crewner and her brother had begun. He would finally

reassure her.

She had no difficulty in securing him. Lady Carloes sat by the fire and

talked to Lord Crewner, and the nondescript, and the two brothers

departed.

When Roddy had drunk his tea, she led him away to the farther part of

the long dim room, and there by that more distant fireplace the two of

them sat, shadowy against the leaping light, their faces and their hands

white and sharp and definite.

"Who else is dinin' on Thursday?"

She gave him names. "The Prince and Princess are coming, you know, but

they aren't alarming. They've been often to see mother when they've been

over here before. They're getting old enough now to be comfortable. He

dances like anything still."

"I always like dinin' in the place you're dancin' at. You don't get that

shivery feeling comin' up the stairs and puttin' your gloves on. You're

one up on the others if you've been dinin'."

Lady Adela looked at him, and sighed a little impatiently. He was

incredibly young and might, after all, let them down.

He was thirty now, but he looked not a day more than nineteen, and he

always talked and behaved as though he were still in his last year at

Eton. She opposed him, in her mind's eye, to that figure of Frank Breton

that had been before her all day. How could a mere boy stand up against

a scoundrel like that?

Moreover, she had heard stories about Roddy. Women had terrible power

over him, she had been told, and then, with a glance at him, sighed

again at the thought that her own time had gone by for having power

over anybody, even Lord Crewner.

Well, after all, her mother knew the boy better than anyone did and her

mother loved him--better than everyone else put together her mother

loved him.

"How's Rachel takin' it?"

"How does Rachel take anything? She never says anything, and one never

knows. She seems to have no curiosity, or eagerness."

"I was talkin' to May Eversley about her the other night. May says

she'll be splendid."

"I don't like May Eversley"--Lady Adela nervously moved her hands on her

lap. "I wish Rachel hadn't made such friends with her in Munich."

"Oh, May's all right." Roddy's blue eyes were smiling. "Took her down to

Hurlingham yesterday and we had no end of a time."

It was a pity, Lady Adela reflected, that Roddy was so absolutely on his

own.

His mother had died at his birth, and his father had been dead for five

years now, and here it seemed to Lady Adela a curious coincidence that

both Rachel and Roddy were orphans--and both so young.

She leant forward towards him--

"You can do a lot for Rachel, Roddy. You can help her to understand her

grandmother, you can reconcile her to all of us."

"Oh! I say," Roddy laughed. "Perhaps she won't have anythin' to say to

me, you know. My seein' your mother so often is quite enough----"

"No. She likes cheerful people--Dr. Christopher and John. You're in the

same line of country, Roddy. She doesn't like me, and I haven't got the

things in me to draw affection out of her. I'm not that kind of woman."

As a rule Lady Adela betrayed no emotion of any kind, but now, this

afternoon, both to Lady Carloes and Roddy she had made some vague,

indefinite appeal. Perhaps the news of Breton's arrival had alarmed her,

perhaps her visit to the gallery with Rachel had really disturbed her.

She seemed to beg for assistance.

Roddy analysed neither his own emotions nor those of his friends, but,

this afternoon, Lady Adela did appear to him a little more human than

before. He was suddenly sorry for her.

"Rachel'll be all right," he assured her. "Wait a bit. By the way, I met

that little feller Brun yesterday--said he was comin' on Thursday. He's

wild about your mother's picture----"

"Yes--we saw him at the gallery this afternoon. Rachel and I were

there."

"Rachel! What did she think of it?"

"Seemed to take no interest in it at all. We were there only a few

minutes----"

Silence fell between them, a silence filled with meaning. Lady Adela had

intended to speak about Breton--now, suddenly, she could say nothing.

The mention of the picture-gallery had brought back all her earlier

discomfort--she saw the picture, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the

white pinched cheeks. Then she saw the great bedroom upstairs, the high

white bed, the little shrivelled figure.

Had Rachel pointed this contrast? Had Breton? Was it something that

Roddy had discovered already, something that had made his courage so

easy for him? What, what was going to be done with her if she were no

longer afraid? Why, on that terror, on that trembling service, were

built the foundations of all her life. How could she face that picture

that the world had of a splendid, historic, dominating figure if she

herself saw only a sick, miserable old woman tumbling to pieces, passing

to decay?

The minutes had passed, and she had said nothing. Roddy must be

wondering at her silence. To her relief Lady Carloes came towards her to

say good-bye.

Roddy's eyes were puzzled. For what had she carried him off if she had

nothing to say to him?

III

When they were all gone she went up to her mother. Before the door she

paused. The house was very still, and her heart was furiously beating.

She opened the door, and at the sight of the room was instantly

reassured.

Dorchester met her. "Her Grace went to bed early to-night. But she will

see you, my lady."

Lady Adela stepped softly to the farther door. All was well. About her,

around her, within her, was that same splendid terror, that same

knowledge that she was approaching some great presence that had been

with her all her life----

As she opened the bedroom door and saw the high white bed she knew that

her mother was more magnificent, more wonderful than any painted picture

could possibly make her.

CHAPTER IV

THE POOL

I

On that same afternoon in another part of the house Miss Rand, Lady

Adela's secretary, finished her work for the day, and prepared to go

home.

It was about a quarter-past six, and the May evening was sending through

the windows its pale glow suggesting soft blue skies and fading lights.

Miss Rand's room told you at once everything about Miss Rand. For

efficiency and neatness, for discipline and restraint, it could not be

beaten. Miss Rand herself was all these things, efficient and neat,

disciplined and restrained.

Her room had against one white and shining wall a black and shining

typewriter. Against another wall was a table, and on this table were so

many contrivances for keeping letters and papers decent and docketed

that it made every other table the observer could remember seem untidy

and littered. There was nothing in the room superfluous or unnecessary,

and even some carnations in a green bowl near the window looked as

though they were numbered and ticketed.

Miss Rand was a little woman who appeared thirty-five when she was busy,

and twenty-five when someone was pleasant to her. When she was at work

the broad dark belt that she wore at her waist was her most

characteristic feature. Then, in keeping with this, was her dark hair,

beautiful hair perhaps if it had been allowed some freedom, but now

ordered and sternly disciplined; she wore no ornaments, and about her

there was nothing out of place nor extravagant.

Her face was full of light and colour and her eyes were beautiful, but

no one considered them: it was impossible to look beyond that stern

shining belt--one felt that Miss Rand herself would resent appreciation.

From ten o'clock in the morning until five o'clock in the evening the

huge Portland Place house absorbed her energies. She saw it sometimes in

her dreams, as a great unwieldy machine kept in place by her hand, but

leaping, did she leave it for an instant, trembling, soaring, carrying

destruction with it into the heart of the city.

Meanwhile her hand was upon it. From Norris the butler, from Dorchester

the guardian of the Duchess's apartments, down to the smallest, most

insignificant kitchen-maid, Miss Rand knew them all. There was, of

course, Mrs. Newton, the most splendid and elevating of housekeepers,

but when matters below stairs went beyond her control Miss Rand could

always arrange them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that, in the

way of managing her fellow-creatures, Miss Rand could not do.

But it was because Miss Rand never occurred to any single creature in

the Portland Place house as a sentient breathing human being that she

succeeded as she did. She had no prejudices, no angers, no rebellions,

no rejoicings. She was the little engine at the heart of the house that

sent everything into motion. "One can't imagine her eating her meals,

Mrs. Newton," Mr. Norris once said. "And as to her sleeping like you or

me----"

To see her now as she put the final touches to her room before leaving

it, arranging a paper here and a paper there, going to the bookshelf and

pushing back a book that jutted in front of the others, setting a chair

against the wall, placing the blotting-pad exactly in the middle of the

table, finally taking her hat and coat and putting them on with the same

careful and almost automatic distinction--this sufficiently revealed

her. She seemed, as she looked for the last time about the room with her

bright eyes, like some sharp little bird, perched on a window-sill,

looking beyond closed windows for new adventure.

It was one of the striking points in her that her eyes always seemed to

be searching for some disorder in some place outside her immediate

vision.

She closed the door behind her. As she stepped into the passage someone

was coming down the staircase to her right, and looking up she saw that

it was Rachel Beaminster. Rachel was on her way from her grandmother's

room, and before she saw Miss Rand standing there, waiting to let her

pass, her face was grave and, in that half-light, strangely white. Then,

as she saw Miss Rand, she smiled--

"Good evening, Miss Rand."

"Good evening, Miss Beaminster."

"I'm afraid that this ball is giving you a lot of trouble."

"I think that everything is arranged now, Miss Beaminster. I hope that

it will be a great success."

Rachel sighed and then laughed.

"Don't I wish the whole stupid thing was over. And I expect you do too!"

Miss Rand smiled a very little. "It's good for the servants," she said.

"They're always happy when they're really busy."

For a moment they stood there smiling. It occurred to Rachel that Miss

Rand must be rather nice. She had never thought of her before as

anything but Aunt Adela's secretary.

"Good night, Miss Rand."

"Good night, Miss Beaminster."

II

In Portland Place Miss Rand drew a little breath and paused. So many

times during the last five years had she walked from Portland Place to

Saxton Square, and from Saxton Square to Portland Place, that the

streets and houses encountered by her had become individual, alive,

always offering to her some fresh adventure or romance. Portland Place

itself was no bad beginning, with its high white colour, its air, and

its dark mysterious park hovering at the edge of it.

If one had not known, Miss Rand thought, one might have supposed that

just beyond it lay the sea, so fresh and full of breezes was the air.

The light was yellow now and the houses black and sharp against the

faint sky. In another half-hour the lamps would be lit.

It was pleasant and fitting that the end of Portland Place should be

guarded by the Round Church and the Queen's Hall. "Leave that calm and

chaste society behind you," those places said, "but before you plunge

into the wicked careless world (that is Oxford Circus) choose from us.

Here you have religion or music, both if you will, but here at any rate

we are, the very best of our kind."

The Queen's Hall looked shabby in the evening light, but Miss Rand liked

that; it heightened her sense of the splendour within--Beethoven and

Wagner and Brahms needed no illumination--it was your musical comedy

demanded that.

Miss Rand liked good music.

Then there was the Polytechnic with wonderful offers in the windows

enticing you to see Rome for eleven guineas, and Paris for three, and

there was a hat shop with three glorious hats wickedly dangling on

poles, and there was a pastry-cook's, a tobacconist's, and a theatre

agency: all this variety paving the way between music and religion and

the whirling, tossing, heaving melodrama of Oxford Circus.

Miss Rand loved Oxford Circus. It was like the sea in that it was never

from one moment to another the same. Miss Rand knew the way that it had

of piling the melodrama up and up, faster and faster, wilder and wilder,

bursting into a frantio climax and then sinking back, for hours perhaps,

into comparative silence. She knew all its moods, from its broom and

milkman mood in the early morning, to its soiled and slinking mood

somewhere between midnight and one o'clock.

Just now it was getting ready for the evening. Up Regent Street the cabs

and buses were straining, the flower women with their baskets were

bunched in splashes of colour against the distant outline of the Round

Church. Out of every door people were pouring, and in the middle of the

Circus three of the four lines of traffic were turned suddenly into

something sleepy and indifferent by the hand of a policeman. For an

instant the restless movement seemed to be crystallized--the hansoms,

the bicycles, the omnibuses, the carts were all held, then at a sign the

flow and interflow had begun once more; life was hurled in and hurled

out again, stirred and tossed and turned, as though some giant cook were

up in the heavens busy over a giant pudding.

And the light faded and the lamps came out, and Miss Rand, walking

through two streets that were as dark and secret as though they were

spying on the Circus and were going to give all its secrets away very

shortly, passed into Saxton Square.

To-night Miss Rand had more to think about than Oxford Circus. She was

tired after all the work that there had been during the last few days,

and she always noticed that it was when she was tired that she was ready

to imagine things. She had been imagining things all day and had found

it really difficult to keep steadily to her proper work, but out and

beyond her imaginations there was, before her, this definite, tremendous

fact--namely, that she would find, this evening, on entering her little

drawing-room, that Mr. Francis Breton was being entertained at tea by

her sister and mother.

It was a quarter to seven now, so perhaps he had gone, but at any rate

there would be a great deal that her mother and sister would wish to

tell her about him. A week ago Mr. Francis Breton had come to live on

the second floor in 24 Saxton Square, had put there his own furniture,

had brought with him his own man-servant (a most sinister-looking man).

These matters might have remained (although, of course, Miss Lizzie

Rand's connection with the Beaminster family made his arrival of the

most dramatic interest) had not Miss Daisy Rand (Miss Lizzie Rand's

prettier and younger sister) happened, one evening, to run into Mr.

Breton in the dark hall; she screamed aloud because she thought him a

burglar, became very shaky about the knees, and needed Mr. Breton's

assistance as far as the Rand drawing-room. Here, of course, there

followed conversation; finally Mr. Breton was asked to tea and accepted

the invitation.

On this very afternoon must this tea-party have taken place. Lizzie Rand

knew her mother and sister very well, and she had, long ago, learnt that

their motto was, "Let everything go for the sake of adventure." That was

well enough, but when your income was very small indeed, and you wished

to do no work at all and yet to have your home pleasant and your life

adventurous, certainly someone must suffer. Everything had always fallen

upon Lizzie.

Mrs. Rand's husband had been a colonel and they had lived at Eastbourne;

on his death it was discovered that he had debts and obligations to a

lady in the chorus of a light opera then popular in London. The debts

and the lady Mrs. Rand had covered with romance, because she considered

that they were due to the Colonel's insatiable appetite for

Adventure--but, romance or no, there was now very little to live upon.

They moved to London. Daisy was obviously so pretty that it would be

absurd to expect her to work, and "she would be married in a minute," so

Lizzie had, during the last five years, kept the family. It would be

impossible to give any clear idea of the effect on Mrs. Rand that

Lizzie's connection with the Beaminster family had. Mrs. Rand loved

anything that was great and solemn and ceremonious; she loved Royalties,

bands and soldiers gave her a choke in her throat, the "Society News" in

the _Daily Mail_ was like a fine picture or a splendid play. She was no

snob; it was simply that she saw life as a background to slow stately

figures gorgeously attired.

In all England there was no one like the Duchess of Wrexe; in all

England there was no family like the Beaminster family.

Even Royalty had not quite their glow and glitter; Royalty you might see

any day, driving, bowing, smiling. The Queen had a smile for everyone

and was at home in the merest cottage; but the Duchess, the Duchess--no

one, not even Lizzie, on whose shoulders the whole fortunes of the

Beaministers rested, ever saw.

There was nothing about the Beaminsters that Mrs. Rand did not know, and

so of course she knew all about the unhappy past history of Francis

Breton. That any Beaminster should have behaved rather as her own dead

colonel had once behaved gave one a link at once.

Mrs. Rand's mind was, at the best of times, a confused one, and, in the

dead of night, she could imagine a scene in which the wonderful Duchess

would send for her, give her tea, press her hands and say, "Ah! Dear

Mrs. Rand, our men-folk--your husband and my grandson--what trouble they

give us, but we love them nevertheless."

So romantic was Mrs. Rand's mind that she saw nothing extraordinary in

the coincidence of Mr. Breton's arrival at their very doors. Of course

he would arrive there! Where else could he arrive? And of course he

would fall in love with Daisy, would reform for her sake; there would be

a splendid marriage; the Duchess would thank Mrs. Rand for having saved

her grandson.

Yes, Mrs. Rand had an incurably romantic mind.

Lizzie knew all about her mother's mind, and Daisy's mind. She dealt

with them very much as she dealt with Lady Adela's mind or Lord John's

mind. They were all muddled people together, and the clear-headed people

had the advantage over them.

So with regard to her mother and sister Lizzie had developed a

protective feeling; she wished to save them from the inroads of the

clear-headed people who might so rob and devour them.

She saw also that her connection with the Beaminster family was a very

bad thing for her mother and sister because it encouraged them to be

romantic and muddled and idle. But, at present, at any rate, there was

nothing to be done.

As she turned into the grey silence of little Saxton Square she did hope

that her mother and sister would not behave too outrageously about Mr.

Breton. She was interested, she would like to see him; his whole

possible relation to the Duchess, to Lady Adela, to Miss Beaminster set

her own imagination working. She did hope that her mother and sister

would not behave so disgracefully that they would frighten Mr. Breton

away so that he would never come near them again.

And then, as she reached the door of No. 24, she thought for a moment of

Rachel Beaminster.

"I like her," she thought, "I'd like to know her. She's never spoken to

me like that before."

III

No. 24 had three floors: the ground floor was occupied by the Rands, the

first floor by Breton and the second floor by an old decrepit invalid

called Caesar and his son, who was a bank clerk.

Down in the basement lived Mr. and Mrs. Tweed, owners of the whole

house; he had been a butler and she a housekeeper, and exceedingly

respectable they were. Every floor had its own kitchen and every lodger

found his own servants, but the hall was common for all the three

floors, and if young Mr. Caesar came in at two in the morning and banged

the front door everybody knew about it.

It must have been a fine old house in its day, No. 24, and there were

still fine carvings, good fireplaces and ceilings, high broad windows

and thick solid walls. Mrs. Rand liked to think that her drawing-room

had once seen fine eighteenth-century ladies reflected in its mirrors,

heard the tapping of high-heeled shoes on its polished floors. The

thought of those glorious days gave her own rather faded furniture a

colour and a touch of poetry. Sometimes, Lizzie thought with a sigh, if

her mother had inhabited a plain nineteenth-century house living within

a small income would have been easier for her.

Lizzie, entering the drawing-room, knew at once that Mr. Breton was

still there. She saw that he was tall and spare, that he had no left

arm, that he had a rather small pointed brown beard and eyes that struck

her as fierce and protesting. She did not know whether it were the beard

or the eyes or the absence of the arm, but at her first vision of him

she said to herself: "He's too dramatic; it's not quite real," and her

second thought was: "He's just what mother will like him to be!"

He was standing against the window, and he wore a black suit, a little

faded. The blinds had not been drawn, and the square beyond the window

was elephant grey, with the lamps at each corner a dim yellow; there was

a thin rather ragged garden in the middle of the square, and in the

garden was a statue of a nymph, old and deserted, and some trees now

faintly green. Over it all was a sky so pale that it was more nearly

white than blue.

Although the curtains had not been drawn a lamp in the middle of the

room was lit and the fire burnt merrily. The furniture had once been

good and was now respectable. There were several photographs, a copy of

"The Fighting Temeraire," and a water-colour sketch of "Lodore Falls."

There was a book-case with the works of Tennyson, Longfellow, and Miss

Braddon, and on one of the tables two French novels, one by Gyp and one

by Zola.

Mrs. Rand would have been handsome had her grey hair been less untidy

and her clothes more uniform in design and colour. Her blouse was cut

too low and she wore too many rings; her eyes always wore a

lying-in-wait expression, as though she might be called on to be excited

at any moment and didn't wish to miss the opportunity.

Daisy Rand was pretty and pink with light fluffy hair. All her clothes

looked as though their chief purpose were to reveal other clothes. The

impression that she left on a casual observer was that she must be cold

in such thin things.

Lizzie, looking at Frank Breton, could not tell what impression her

sister and mother had made upon him. "At any rate," she thought, "he's

stayed a long time. That looks as though he had been entertained." She

was introduced to him and liked the cool, firm grasp of his hand. She

saw that her mother and Daisy were quiet and subdued--that was a good

thing. She caught, before she sat down, his instinctive look of

surprise. She knew that he had not expected her to be like that.

"We've been telling Mr. Breton, Lizzie," said Mrs. Rand, "all about the

theatres. He's been away so long that he's quite out of touch with

things."

Lizzie always knew when her mother was finding conversation difficult by

the amount of enthusiasm and surprise that she put into her sentences.

"So terrible it must be to have missed so many splendid things."

"I assure you, Mrs. Rand," said Breton, "that I've been seeing other

splendid things in other countries. Now I'm ready for this one again."

Mrs. Rand was silent and at a loss. Lizzie knew the explanation of this.

Her mother had been trying to venture on to the subject of Breton's

family and had found unexpected difficulty. Perhaps there had been

something in Breton's attitude that had warned her.

They talked for a little while, but disjointedly. Then suddenly there

was a knock at the door, and young Mr. Caesar, a bony youth with a high

collar and an unsuccessful moustache, came in. He had not very much to

say, but the result of his coming was that Lizzie found herself standing

at the window with Breton; they looked at the square now sinking into

dusk.

He spoke; his voice was lowered: "I understand that you are secretary to

my aunt, Miss Rand?"

"Yes," she said.

"They haven't heard of my return with any great delight, I'm afraid?"

She noticed that he was trying to steady his voice, but that it shook a

little in spite of his efforts.

"I don't know," she said, looking up and smiling. "I'm far too busy to

think of things that are not my concern."

"They are giving a ball to-morrow night for my cousin?"

"Yes."

"Do you see much of her?"

"No--nothing at all. She's been abroad, you know."

"Yes, so I heard. But I saw her driving yesterday. She looks different

from the rest of them."

All this time, as he spoke to her, she was conscious of his eyes; if

only she could have been sure that the protest in them was genuine she

would have been moved by them.

She did not help him in any way, and perhaps her silence made him feel

that he had done wrong to speak to her about his affairs. They looked at

the square for a little time in silence. At last, speaking without any

implied fierceness, he said:

"You know, Miss Rand, I'm a wanderer by nature, and sometimes I find

cities very hard to bear. Do you know what I do?"

"No," she said.

"Turn them into other things. Now here in London, do you never think of

streets as waterways? Portland Place, for instance, is like ever so many

rivers I've seen, broad and shining. And some of those high thin streets

beside it are like canals; Oxford Circus is a whirlpool, and so on----"

He laughed. "I get no end of relief from thinking of things like that."

"You hate cities?" she asked him.

"No--not really. But it depends how they receive you. If they're

hostile----" He shrugged his shoulders.

"And this square?" she said. "What's this square?"

"A pool. All the houses hang over it as though they were hiding it. It's

restful like a pool. There's no noise----"

The statue of the nymph had disappeared. The trees were a black splash

against the lamp-lit walls. Lights were in the windows.

He seemed suddenly conscious that it was late. When he had gone Lizzie

stood, for some time, looking into the square and thinking how right he

had been.

All that evening Daisy was out of temper.

CHAPTER V

SHE COMES OUT

I

Downstairs the dinner-party was at its height. Mrs. Newton, the

housekeeper, went softly down the passages to give one last glimpse at

the ballroom. There it lay, like a great golden shell, empty, expectant.

The walls were white, the ceilings gold; on the white walls hung the

Lelys, the Van Dycks, and at the farther end of the room Sargent's

portrait of Her Grace, brought up, for this especial occasion, from the

Long Drawing-room. There was the gleaming, shining floor, there the

golden chairs with their backs against the wall, and there before each

picture a little globe of golden flame ministering to its beauties,

throwing the proud pale faces of the old Beaminsters into scornful

relief, and none of them so scornful as that Duchess in the far

distance, frowning from her golden frame.

Mrs. Newton was plump and important. She worshipped the Beaminster

family, and it yielded her now intense satisfaction to see these rooms,

that were used so seldom, given to their proper glory and ceremony. For

a moment as she stood there and felt the fine reflection of all that

light upon the shining floor, absorbed the silence and the space and the

colour, she was uplifted with pride, and thanked her God that she was

not as other women were, but had been permitted by Him to assist in no

small measure in the glories and splendours of this great family.

Then, with a little sigh of satisfied approval, she softly walked away

again.

II

Two hours later Rachel Beaminster, standing a little behind her aunt,

saw the people pressing up the stairs. To those who watched her, she

seemed perfectly composed, her flushed cheeks, her white dress, her dark

hair and eyes gave her distinction against the colour and movement of

the room.

Her eyes were a little stern, and her body was held proudly, but her

hands moved with sharp spasmodic movements against her dress.

As she stood there men were brought up to her in constant succession and

introduced. They wrote their names on her programme, bowed and went

away. She smiled at each one of them. Before dinner she had been

introduced to the Prince--German, fat and cheerful--and the second dance

of the evening was to be with him. Some of the men who had been dining

in the house she already knew--Lord Crewner, Roddy Seddon, Lord

Massiter, and others--and once or twice now the faces that were led up

to her were familiar to her.

The great ballroom seemed to be already filled with people, and still

they came pressing up the stairs.

Rachel was miserably unhappy. For one moment before she had left her

room, where her maid had stood admiringly beside her, when she herself

had seen the reflection of the white dress and the dark hair and the

flushed cheeks in the long mirror, for one great moment she had been

filled with exaltation. This ball, this agitation, this excitement was

all for her. The world was at her feet. The locked doors were at last

rolling open before her and all life was to be revealed.

Pearls that Uncle John had given her were her only ornament. They

laughed at her from the mirror, laughed and promised her success,

conquest, glory. Life at that instant was very precious.

But, alas! the dinner had been a terrible failure. She had sat between

Lord Crewner and Lord Massiter, and had no word to say to either of

them. Lord Massiter was middle-aged and hearty and kind, and he had done

his best for her, but she had been paralysed. They had talked to her

about the opera, the theatres, hunting, books, Munich; she had had a

great deal to say about all these things, and she had said nothing.

Always within her there seemed to be rivalry between the Beaminster

way of saying things and the other way. When Lord Crewner said to her,

"What I like in music is a real cheerful little piece that one can go to

after dinner, you know," there were a whole number of Beaminster

observations to make. But as soon as they rose to her mouth something

within her whispered, "You know that you don't mean that. That's at

second hand. Give him your opinion." And then that seemed presumption,

so she said nothing.

It was all wretched and quite endless. Uncle John sent her encouraging

smiles every now and again, but she felt that he must be disappointed at

her failure. The food choked her. The tears filled her eyes and it was

her pride only that saved her. Through it all she felt that her

grandmother upstairs in her bedroom was planning this.

Afterwards the Princess, seeing perhaps that she was unhappy, was kind

and motherly to her, and told her funny stories about her childhood in

Berlin. But all the time Rachel was saying to herself, "You're a fool.

You're a fool. You've got no self-control at all."

She had been dreading the introductions to so many young men, but she

found that that was easy enough. They were not young men; they were

simply numbers on her programme and they vanished as soon as they came.

Then the band in the distance began to play an extra, whilst the young

men wandered about and discovered their friends, and the sound of the

music cheered her. It amused her now to watch the people as they mounted

the stairs. She noticed that all the faces were grave and preoccupied

until a moment before the arrival at Aunt Adela, and then a smile was

tightly fastened on, held for a moment, and then dropped to give way to

the preoccupation again.

The room was so full now that it seemed that it would be quite

impossible for any dancing to take place. Uncle John was working very

hard at introducing people to one another, and as she saw his

good-natured face and his white hair her heart went out to him. If

everyone were as kind as Uncle John how nice the world would be!

Meanwhile her eyes anxiously watched the stairs, and as every woman

turned the corner at the bottom the question was--"Was this May

Eversley?"

There had been a battle about May. Aunt Adela did not like her,

disapproved of her, would not hear of inviting her. Very well, then,

Rachel would not come to the ball at all. They could give the ball for

somebody else. If May were not asked Rachel would not come.

So Lady Eversley and May had both been asked, and of course they had

accepted.

Rachel waited and gazed and was continually disappointed. The extra was

over and soon the first dance would begin; with the second dance would

arrive the Prince and Rachel would have no talk with May at all. It was

too bad of May to be late. She had promised so faithfully--Ah! there she

was with her air of one confidently conducting a most difficult

campaign. She mounted the stairs like a general, gave Lady Adela the

tiniest of smiles, and was at Rachel's side.

That clasp of May's hand filled Rachel's body with confident happiness.

May's hardy self-control, her discipline derived from some stern old

Puritans, dim centuries away, was all waiting there at Rachel's service.

"How late you are!"

"Mother was such a time. And then we couldn't get a cab. How are you,

Rachel?"

"Dinner was terrible--all wrong. I hadn't a word to say to anyone. I'm

better now that you've come."

"Is the Prince here?"

"Yes. I'm dancing the next dance with him. The Princess was very kind

after dinner. Oh! May, dinner was a disaster, an absolute disaster!"

"Not nearly so bad as you thought, you may be sure. Things always seem

so much worse."

And now May had been discovered. Gentlemen young and old dangled their

programmes in front of her, were received, were dismissed. May had the

air of a general, sitting fiercely in his tent and receiving reports

from his officers as to the progress in the field. Confident young men

were instantly timid before her.

The first dance was over. Against the white splendour vivid colours were

flung and withdrawn. Threads and patterns crossed and recrossed, and

then presently the glittering floor was waste and deserted; on its

surface was reflected dark gold from the shining walls.

The second dance came, and with it the Prince. Rachel had now lost all

sense of the ball having been given in any way for herself. The dancing,

it comforted her to see, was not of the very best, and at once she found

that she had herself nothing to fear. The Prince danced well, and soon

she was lost to all sense of everything save the immediate joy of rhythm

and balance, and the perfect spontaneity of the music and her body's

acknowledgment of it.

When it came to an end, and they were sitting in a corner, somewhere, he

was a fat middle-aged man again, and she Rachel Beaminster, but she knew

now for what life was intended.

After that, for a long period, her dancers did not concern her. They

were there simply to supply her with that ecstasy of rhythm and

movement. Sometimes they could not supply her because they were bad

dancers, and one of her partners was indeed so bad that she ruthlessly

suggested, after one turn round the room, that they should sit out. Then

she sat in a room near at hand, irritated by the sound of that glorious

music, and paying very scant attention to the young man's stammered

apologies, his information about his experiences of Paris and the way

that he shot birds in Scotland.

She was to go down to supper with Roddy Seddon, and she was waiting that

experience with some curiosity. If her grandmother were so fond of him,

then he must be a disagreeable young man, and yet his appearance was not

disagreeable.

He looked as though, like Uncle John and Dr. Chris, he were one of the

comfortable people. Dr. Chris, by the way, had not arrived. He had told

her that he might not be able to escape until late hours.

And so, as the evening advanced, her happiness grew; impossible now to

understand that speechlessness at dinner, impossible to find reasons for

that earlier misery. She danced now both with Lord Massiter and with

Lord Crewner, and said exactly what she thought to both of them;

impossible now to imagine anything but that the world was an enchanting,

thrilling place especially invented for the happiness of Miss Rachel

Beaminster.

III

Uncle John had been promised a dance; his moment arrived. He had watched

her during the early part of the evening, and had been afraid that she

was not at all happy.

She was so unlike other girls, and that first miserable hour seemed to

him the most tragic omen of her future career.

"How is she _ever_ to get on if she takes things as badly as this? I

wish I could help her. I know so exactly how she must be feeling."

But imagine him now confronted with a figure that shone with happiness,

with success, with splendour!

She caught his arm--"Come, Uncle John, we won't dance. We'll talk. Up

here--There's no one in this room."

She ran ahead of him, found a corner for them both, and then, pushing

him on to a sofa, twisted round in front of him, turning on her toes,

flashing laughter at him, sitting down at last beside him, and then

kissing him.

"Oh, my dear! I'm so glad," he said. "I thought you were miserable."

"So I was--at first--perfectly wretched. Now it's all

splendid--glorious!"

This was to him an entirely new Rachel. In her movement, her excitement,

her immediate glad acceptance of the life that an hour ago she had

feared with such alarm, he perceived an element that was indeed foreign

to all things Beaminster. And this new attitude reminded him with

renewed sharpness that he could not now hope to hold the old Rachel with

the intimate affection that had been his before. She was slipping from

him--slipping ... even as he watched her, she was going.

She laid her hand upon his arm: "Uncle John, I'm a success! I am really.

I can dance, dance beautifully! I can put these young men in their

places. They're frightened!... really frightened."

"Of course--you're lovely--the biggest success there's ever been. But

what was the matter with you at dinner?"

"Yes. Wasn't that dreadful? Everything went wrong, and the only thing I

could think of was how glad grandmamma would be. I had a kind of

paralysis."

Uncle John nodded his head. "I know exactly what it's like."

"Well, I shall never let myself be so stupid again--never! I swear it!"

They sat in silence for some time, she, restless, straining towards the

music, he a little overcome by her happiness.

There was a pause between the dances and then the band began once more.

"Have you danced with Roddy Seddon yet?"

"No. What's he like?"

"Oh! he's nice--you'll like him."

"I don't expect to. He's a friend of grandmamma's. Hark! There's the

band again!... Come along, back we go!"

Smiling, radiant, she hung upon his arm. Afterwards, standing in a

doorway, he watched her.

He sighed. "What a selfish old pig I am!... But she'll never be mine

again."

IV

Uncle John held only for a moment Rachel's attention. No single person

now, but rather a gorgeous pattern that the whole evening was weaving

about her. She saw the lights, she heard the music, she felt the

movement of her body, she gathered through a haze of happiness the faces

of her uncles and Aunt Adela and others whom she knew, but now for the

first time in her life she knew what happiness, happiness without

thought, or doubt, or foreboding could be.

Thus it was that she came to Roddy Seddon, who was certainly enjoying

himself: this, however, was not the first ball of his life nor even, if

all the truth were known, his best. He had expected it to be solemn and

sedate--you could not hope to find here the jolly kind of dance that

they had had at the Menets', for instance, last week; that would not be

possible in a Beaminster household.

It was all, to be honest, a little old-fashioned. Things were moving a

bit faster nowadays. Waltzes and Lancers were all very well, but one

might have had a cotillon, something unexpected! However, May Eversley

and one or two other girls had had the right kind of go about them. He

smiled a little and tugged at his short bristling yellow moustache, and

then discovered that it was time to take Rachel Beaminster down to

supper.

This event was of more than ordinary interest to him. He was perfectly

aware that most of his friends and relatives thought that it would be a

very good thing for him to marry Rachel Beaminster. He was, himself, not

scornful of this idea.

He was thirty-two, and it was time that Seddon Court in Sussex had a

mistress; his life had been varied and exciting and it was right now

that he should make some ties. There were a number of other reasons in

favour of his marrying.

As to Rachel Beaminster, she was not pretty, but she was interesting.

She was unusual; moreover she was a Beaminster, and an alliance with

that ancient family would be, past dispute, a magnificent alliance. But

the element in it all that intrigued him most was the fact that nobody

could tell him anything about Rachel, even May Eversley who knew her so

well was not sure about her. "You'll go on being surprised," she had

said.

Surprise, indeed, was waiting for him this evening. On the few occasions

that he had seen Rachel he had seen her grave, shy, a little awkward,

most reserved. Now she met him as though she had known him for years,

glowing, almost pretty, so burning were her eyes. At supper she laughed,

called across the room to May, agreed with everything that everybody

said, and with it all was younger than any girl that he had ever known.

The girls who were Roddy's friends talked about life at times more

boldly than he would have talked with his men friends, and were, at all

events, for ever hinting at the things that they knew.

Rachel hinted at nothing; she kept nothing back, she allowed him no

disguises.

"Oh! don't I wish," she cried, "that this night could go on for ever

just like this"--and he, taking the compliment to himself, agreed with

her. He had expected to find someone haughty and cold, a young Aunt

Adela with a dash of foreign temper.

He found someone entirely delightful. Afterwards, when they sat out on a

balcony overlooking Portland Place, he was encouraged to talk about

himself.

"I like all this, you know," he said, waving his hand at the grey

mysterious street that the pale lamps so mournfully guarded. "I like

this air comin' along from the park. I'm all for the open, Miss

Beaminster--horses and dogs and rushin' along with the wind at your

back. It's a rippin' little place I've got down in Sussex. I hope you'll

see it one day--old as anything, with jolly Roman roads and such hangin'

around, and the most spiffin' lot of gees. Look, the sun will be gettin'

above the houses soon. I've seen some sunrises in my day. You ought to

be on the Downs at night, Miss Beaminster."

Roddy was surprised at himself at the way that he was talking, but she

really looked quite beautiful there in the window with her dark hair and

her eyes and white dress.

"I can't tell you," she said, when it was time for them to part, "how

much all you say interests me. I love horses too, and I adore dogs----"

"I've got a dog I'd like you to have," he began. "It's a----"

"Oh no," she answered. "Aunt Adela would never let me keep one here.

Thank you all the same. But you'll let me come down to Seddon Court one

day, won't you?"

"Let you!" Roddy could find no words.

She flung one glance at the square, where the dawn was beginning, and

then was back in the ballroom again, dancing, dancing, dancing....

The sky was all pink above the roofs, and the birds were making a whirl

of chattering, when her bedroom received her again.

Her maid was sleepy but proud.

"They all say it's been a great success, Miss Rachel."

"Success!" She stood for a moment in the middle of the room with her

arms extended. "Oh! It's been glorious, glorious. I've never----"

She paused. Her arms fell to her sides--"Oh! Dr. Chris! Dr. Chris! He

never came--he said that he mightn't be able. It was the only thing that

was wrong"--Then more slowly, as she moved to her dressing-table--"And

all the last part I never missed him."

"Well, I dare say," said Lucy, standing behind Rachel's chair and

staring at the white face in the mirror, "that with his patients and the

rest he couldn't get away----"

"Oh! But I ought to have missed him," said Rachel, and afterwards, lying

in bed, sleepless with excitement, it was Dr. Christopher's face that

she saw.

CHAPTER VI

FANS

"Il est doux de sommeiller a l'ombre chaude, sur le tiede

oreiller d'un mal epicurisme et d'une intelligence ironique,

tres simple, assez curieuse, et prodigieusement indifferente,

au fond."

Romain Rolland.

I

On the afternoon that followed the ball Lady Adela took Rachel to tea

with Lord Richard.

It was a superb May afternoon; white clouds, bolster-shaped, were piled

in the heavens and made, so rounded were they, the blue sky seem an

infinite distance away. It was a day of sparkling dazzling gaiety--the

air seemed electric with the happiness of the world, and, as they drove

down to Grosvenor Street, Rachel felt that the little breeze that just

touched the hats and coats of the people on the omnibuses was created

simply by the joy of the beautiful weather.

As they moved slowly down Bond Street Rachel looked at the world and

thought of last night. She looked at the men with their shining hats and

shining boots; at the messenger boys and the young women with parcels

and the young women without; at the old men who thought themselves young

and the young men who thought themselves old; at the fish shops and the

picture galleries, at the jewellers' and the book shops, at the place

where they taught you Swedish exercises and the place where there was a

palmist with a Japanese name, and it was all splendid and magnificent

and simply carried on the glories of the night before. Before the

turning into Grosvenor Street there was a great crush of carriages and a

long pause. In the carriage next to Rachel there was a very stout, very

richly coloured lady with a strong scent and a pug dog. A little farther

away there were two young gentlemen in a smart little carriage, and

their hats were so large and their expression so haughty and the top of

their canes so golden that it seemed absurd that they should have to

wait for anybody, and near them was a small boy on a little butcher's

cart and near him an omnibus with a red-faced driver and any number of

interested ladies, and all these incongruities seemed only to add to the

haphazard happiness of this shining afternoon.

Rachel had many things to consider as she sat there. Aunt Adela did not

interfere with her thoughts, because she never talked when she was in a

carriage, but always sat up and looked wearily at the people about her.

She had never very much to say, but the open air made her feel stupid.

Rachel was aware that last night had altered her point of view for all

time. She was aware, as she sat there in sunshine, of a new world. By

one glance at Aunt Adela was this new world made apparent. Aunt Adela

had hitherto been important--Aunt Adela was now unimportant.

Had this afternoon been wet and gloomy, then Rachel might have doubted

that passionate discovery of the world that she now felt was hers, but

here with this blazing sun and sky the note was sustained. Surely never

again would Rachel be afraid of her grandmother, surely never again

would she be afraid of anyone. Holding herself very proudly in a dress

that was a soft primrose colour and in a hat that was dark and shady,

Rachel looked round about her on the world.

"There's Lady Massiter!" Lady Adela smiled lightly and bowed a very

little--"Monty Carfax is with her."

Rachel thought of Lord Massiter, and wondered again at last night's

dinner--"How could I have been like that? How _could_ I?"

There passed them a very handsome carriage with a little dark handsome

lady who looked happily round about her, all alone in her magnificence.

Rachel did not know whether her aunt had seen or no: here was the

Beaminster arch-enemy, Mrs. Bronson, a young American widow, incredibly

rich, incredibly fascinating, incredibly bold. Mrs. Bronson had been in

London only a year, had snapped her jewelled fingers at the Beaminsters

and everything that they stood for, had laughed at snubs and threats,

was intending, so it was said, to have London at her feet in a season or

two.

Rachel considered her. She was like some jewelled bird of paradise. She

was--one must admit it--better suited to this glorious day than was Aunt

Adela.

Why need Aunt Adela refuse to be glad because the sun was shining? Why

could not Aunt Adela have said something pleasant about last night's

dance? Why must this absurd outward dignity be so carefully maintained?

Why when one was looking attractive in a primrose dress could one's aunt

not say so?

That reminded her of Roddy Seddon.

She liked him. He might be a real friend like Dr. Christopher. The

thought of him made her, as she sat there in the sun, feel doubly

certain that the world was a comfortable, reassuring place and that that

vision of cold spaces and dark forests that had been so often with her

was now to be banished like an evil dream never to return.

At the end of Grosvenor Street the trees were so green that they might

have been painted, and here they were at Uncle Richard's house.

II

But, with the closing of Uncle Richard's doors the sun was taken from

the world. Uncle Richard's house was always soft and dim, like one of

those little jewel cases, all wadding and dark wood. Uncle Richard's

carpets were so thick and soft that everyone seemed to walk on tip-toe,

and the wonderful old prints in the hall and the beautiful dark carving

on the staircase and the sudden swiftness of the doors as they closed

behind you only helped to increase the impression that everything here,

yourself included, was in for a beautiful exhibition, and that light

might hurt the exhibits.

Uncle Richard's study, where they always had tea, was lined from roof to

ceiling with book-cases, and behind the shining glass there gleamed the

backs of the haughtiest and proudest books in the world. For, were they

old and dingy, then they were first editions of transcendent value, and

were they new and shining, then were they "Editions de luxe," or some of

Uncle Richard's favourites bound in the most intricate and precious of

bindings.

Some china on the mantelpiece was so valuable that housemaids must

surely have a sleepless time because of it, and all the furniture was so

conscious of its rich and ancient glories that to sit down on the chairs

or to lean on the tables was to offer them terrible insults.

Two Conders and a Corot shone from the grey walls.

In the midst of this was Uncle Richard, elaborately, ironically

indifferent to all emotions. "I have governed the country, yes--but

really, my friends, scarcely a job for a fine spirit nowadays. I have

collected these few things--yes, but after all what does it come to?

Don't many pawn-brokers do the same?"

Rachel, as she stood in the room, felt that her newly found independence

was slipping away from her. With the departure of the sun had fled also

that consciousness of last night's splendours. About her again was

creeping that atmosphere that was always with her in this room,

something that made her feel that she was a wretched, ignorant

Beaminster, and that even if she did learn the value of all these

precious things, why then that knowledge was of little enough use to

her.

Uncle Richard with his high white forehead, his long dark trousers, his

grey spats and his great collar that bent back, in humble deference,

before the nobility of his neck and chin, Uncle Richard required a great

deal of courage.

"Well, dear, I hope you enjoyed your dance."

"Yes, Uncle Richard, thank you."

"I left early, but everything seemed to be going very well."

"Yes, I think it was all right."

How different this from the fashion in which she had intended to fling

her enthusiasm upon him. What, she wondered, would have been the effect

had she done so? How would he have taken it? Could she have pierced that

melancholy ironical armour that always kept the real man from her?

Meanwhile she was now back again in the old, old world; tea was brought,

the footman and butler moved softly about the room. Aunt Adela said a

little, Uncle Richard said a little ... the lid was down upon the world.

Meanwhile, impossible to imagine that only a quarter of an hour ago

there had been that gay confusion in Bond Street, impossible to believe

Mrs. Bronson in her carriage anything but common and vulgar, impossible

to prefer that dazzling sun to this cloistered quiet.

A wonderful lacquered clock ticked the minutes away. "I'm in a cage--I'm

in a cage--and I want to get out," someone in Rachel Beaminster was

crying, and someone else replied, "Thank God that you are allowed to be

in such a cage at all. There's no other cage so splendid."

Her primrose gown was forgotten; when Uncle Richard asked her questions

she answered "Yes," or "No." Her old terrors had returned.

Upon the three of them, sitting thus, Roddy Seddon was announced. Roddy

had assaulted and conquered Lord Richard in as masterly a fashion as he

had subdued the Duchess and Lady Adela. He had done it simply by

presenting so boisterous and honest an allegiance to the Beaminster

standard. Lord Richard's irony had been useless against Roddy's

ingenuous appeal. Moreover, there was the Duchess's advocacy--young

Seddon was the hope of the party.

Roddy brought to view no evidence of last night's energies; he was as

fresh, as highly coloured, as browned and bronzed and clear as any

pastoral shepherd, his skin was so finely coloured that clothes always

seemed, with him, a pity. Lord Richard's melancholy cynicism had poor

chance against such vigour.

His eyes, as they fastened upon Rachel, brightened. She gave that dim

room such fresh pleasure, sitting there in her primrose frock with her

serious eyes and long hands. No, she was not beautiful; he knew that his

last night's impression had been the true one; but she was unusual, she

would make, he was sure, a most unusual companion. "You wouldn't think

it," May Eversley had said, "but there's any amount of fun in

Rachel--you'll find it when you know her."

He was not sure but that he saw it now, lurking in her eyes, her mouth,

as she sat there, so gravely, opposite to her uncle and aunt.

"How d'ye do, Lady Adela? How d'ye do, Miss Beaminster? How are you,

sir? Thanks--I will have some tea. Pretty gorgeous day, ain't it?

Rippin' dance of yours last night, Lady Adela."

Meanwhile, Rachel knew that she had nothing to say to him. Out there in

the sunlight she might, perhaps, have maintained that relationship that

had been begun between them the night before, but in here, with Aunt

Adela and Uncle Richard so consciously an audience, with the air so dim

and the walls so grey, Roddy Seddon seemed the most strident of

strangers.

She sat, silently, whilst he talked to Aunt Adela. "I've never had so

toppin' a dance as last night--'pon my soul, no. Young Milhaven, whom I

tumbled on at Brook's at luncheon, said the same. Band first-rate, and

floor spiffin'."

"I'm glad you liked it, Roddy," said Lady Adela, with a dry little

smile. "I must confess to being glad that it's over."

Roddy glanced a little shyly at Rachel. "I suppose you're goin' hard at

it now, Miss Beaminster?"

She looked across the tea-table at him. "There's Lady Grode's and Lady

Massiter's, and Lady Carloes is giving one for her niece----"

"The Massiter thing ought to be a good one. Always do it well," said

Roddy. "'Pon my word, on a day like this makes one hot to think of

dancing."

He was perplexed. He had instantly perceived that he had here a Rachel

Beaminster very different from last night's heroine. She was now beyond

all contemplated intimacy. He had heard others speak of that aloofness

that came like a cloud about her. He now saw it for himself.

After a time he came across to her whilst Lady Adela and her brother

talked as though the world consisted of one Beaminster railed round by

high palings over which a host of foolish people were trying to climb.

He stood beside her smiling in that slightly embarrassed manner of his,

a manner that caused those who did not know him to say that they liked

Roddy Seddon because he was so modest.

"Such a day it seems a shame to be in town."

"Yes--isn't it lovely?"

"The opera's pretty hot in the evenin' just now. Have you been yet?"

"I've been in Munich often. I've never been here."

"My word! Haven't you really? Wish I could say the same. I'm always

bein' dragged----"

"Why do you go if you don't care about it?"

"Can't think--always askin' myself. Why do half the Johnnies go? And yet

in a way I like some sorts o' music."

"_What_ kind of music?"

"Sittin' in the dark, in a room, with someone just strokin' the piano up

and down--just strokin' it--not hammerin' it. I don't care what the old

tune is----"

Rachel laughed a little, but said nothing. Of course, she thought him

the most thundering kind of fool, and this made him eager to display to

her his wisdom and common sense.

But he could say nothing. There followed the most awkward silence. She

did not try to help him, but sat there quietly looking in front of her.

Suddenly she said: "Uncle Richard, I want to see your fans again. I

haven't seen them for a long time. I know you've added some lately. Sir

Roderick, have you ever seen my uncle's fans?"

"No," he said. "I'd be delighted----"

Lord Richard's eyes lifted. The lines of his mouth grew softer.

Rachel watched him. "Now he'll pretend," she said, "that he doesn't

care. He'll pretend that they're nothing to him at all."

He went, in his solemn guarded manner, to a place in the room where a

large cabinet was let into the wall. He drew this cabinet forward, and

then, out of it, moving his hands almost pontifically, he pulled trays,

and on these trays lay the fans.

The others had gathered around him. There were nearly five hundred

fans--fans Dutch and Italian and French and Chinese and Japanese; fans

of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, of the eighteenth and of the

Empire--modern Japanese heavy with iron spokes, others light as

gossamer, with spokes of ivory or tortoise shell. There were French

fans, painted only on one side, with pictures of fantastic shepherds and

shepherdesses; there were Chinese fans with bridges and mandarins and

towers; Empire fans perforated with tinsel and such lovely shades of

colour that they seemed to change as one gazed.

There they all lay in that rich solemn room, quietly, proudly conscious

of their beauty, needing no word of praise, catching all the colour and

the daintiness and fragrance that had ever been in the world.

Rachel drank in their splendour and then looked about her.

Uncle Richard's eyes were flaming and his hands trembling against the

case.

Then she looked at Roddy Seddon. His head was flung back; with eyes and

mouth, with every vein, and fibre of his body he was drinking in their

glory.

His eyes were suddenly caught away. He was staring at her before she

looked away--Her eyes said to him, "Why! Do you care like _that_? Do

those things mean _that_ to you?"

She smiled across at him. They were in communion again as they had been

last night.

He was surprised that he should be so glad.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE HEART OF THE HOUSE

"Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things

The honest thief, the tender murderer,

The superstitious atheist, demirep,

That loves and saves her soul in new French books--

We watch while these in equilibrium keep

The giddy line midway: one step aside,

They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line--"

BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S Apology.

I

The Duchess could but dimly guess at the splendour of that fine May

afternoon.

It had been her complaint lately that she was always cold and now the

blinds and curtains were closely drawn and a huge fire was blazing. Her

chair was close to the flame: she sat there looking, in the fierce

light, small and shrivelled; she was reading intently and made no

movement except now and again when she turned a page. Dorchester was the

only other person there and she sat a little in the shadow, busily

sewing.

From where she sat she could see her mistress's face, and behind her

carved chair there were the blue china dragons and the deep heavy red

curtains and a black oak table covered with little golden trays and

glass jars and silver boxes.

Neither heat nor cold nor youth nor age had any effect upon Dorchester.

No one knew how old she was, nor how long she had been with her

mistress, nor her opinions or sentiments concerning anything in the

world.

She was tall and gaunt and snapped her words as she might snap a piece

of thread.

From Mrs. Newton and Norris downwards the servants were afraid of her.

She made a confidant of no one, was supposed to have no emotions of any

kind, absurd and fantastic stories were told of her; she was certainly

not popular in the servants' hall and yet at a word from her anything

that she requested was done.

With Miss Rand only was it understood that she had a certain friendly

relationship; it was said that she liked Miss Rand.

Dorchester had witnessed the whole of the Duchess's career.

As she sat now in the shadow every now and again she looked up and

glanced at that sharp white face and those thin hands. What a little

body it was to have done so much, to have battled its way through such a

career, to have fought and to have won so many conflicts! It seemed to

Dorchester only yesterday that splendid time, when the Duchess had been

queen of London. Dorchester also had been young then and had had an

energy as enduring, a will as finely tempered as had her mistress.

What a character it had been then with its furies and its disciplines,

its indulgences and its amazing restrictions, its sympathies and cold

clodded cruelties, its tremendous sense of the dramatic moment so that

again and again a position that had been nearly surrendered was held and

saved. She had never been beautiful, always little and sharp and

sometimes even wizened. But she gained her effects one way or another

and beat beautiful and wise and wonderful women off the field.

And then sweeping down upon her had come disease. At first it had been

fought and magnificently fought. But it was the horror of its unexpected

ravages that had been so difficult to combat. She had never known when

the pain would be upon her--it might seize her at any public moment and

her retreat be compelled before the whole world. There had been doctors

and doctors and doctors, and then operation after operation, but no one

had done any good until Dr. Christopher had come to her, and now, for

years, he had been keeping her alive.

Out of that very necessity of disease, however, had she dragged her

drama. She had retired from the world, not as an old woman beaten by

pain, but as a priestess might withdraw within her sanctuary or some

great queen demand her privacy.

And it had its effect. Very, very carefully were chosen to see her only

those who might convey to the world the right impression. The world was

given to understand that the Duchess was now more wonderful than she had

ever been, and it was so long since the world at large had seen her that

every sort of story was abroad.

Certain old ladies like Lady Carloes who played bridge with her gained

most of their public importance from their intimacy with her. It was

rumoured that at any moment she might return and take her place again in

the world, old though she was.

All this was known to Dorchester and she smiled grimly as she thought of

it. The real Duchess! Perhaps she and Dr. Christopher alone in all the

world knew the intricacies, the inconsistencies of that amazing figure.

From the moment that illness had come every peculiarity had grown. Her

self-indulgences, her temper, her pride, her egotism--now knew, in

private, no restraint. And yet when her friends were there or anyone at

all from the outside world she displayed the old dignity, the old grand

air, the old imperious quiet that belonged to no one else alive.

But what, during these last years, Lady Adela had suffered! Dorchester

herself had had many moments when it had seemed that she had more to

control than her strength could maintain, but long custom, an entire

absence of the nervous system, and a comforting sense that she was,

after all, paid well for her trouble, sustained her endurance.

But Lady Adela had nothing.

The Duchess had always hated her children, but had used them,

magnificently, for her purposes. They had all been fools, but they were

just the kind of fools that the Beaminster tradition demanded.

Lady Adela had from the first been more of a fool than the others. She

had never had the gift of words and before her mother was, as a rule,

speechless, and it had been only by her changing colour that an onlooker

could have told that her mother's furies moved her.

Often Dorchester had attempted interference, but had found at last that

it was better to allow the fury to spend its force. Then also Dorchester

had noticed a curious thing. The Duke, Lord Richard, Lord John, Lady

Adela were proud of these prides and tempers. They were proud of

everything that their mother did; they might suffer, their backs might

wince under the blows, but it was part of the tradition that their

mother should thus behave.

Dorchester fancied that sometimes there was flashed upon them a sudden

suspicion that their mother was in these days only an old, ailing,

broken woman--no great figure now, no magnificent tyrant, no mysterious

queen of society. And then Dorchester fancied that she had noticed that

when such a suspicion had come upon them they had put it hastily aside

and locked it up and abused themselves for such baseness.

Curious people, these Beaminsters!

Well, it was no business of hers. And, perhaps, after all she had

herself some touch of that feeling, some fierce impatient pride in those

very tempests and rebellion. After all, was there anyone in the world

like this mistress of hers? Was there another woman who would bear so

bravely the pain that she bore? And was not that fierce clutch on life,

that energy with which she tried still to play her part in the great

game, grand in its own fashion?

Would not Dorchester also fight when her time came?

She looked across the firelight at her mistress. When would arrive the

inevitable moment of surrender? How imminent that moment when in the

eyes of all those about her the old woman would see that all that was

now hers was a quiet abandonment to death!

Well, there would be some fine, savage struggling when that crisis

struck into their midst. Dorchester smiled grimly, and then, in spite of

herself, sighed a little.

They were all growing old together.

II

At five o'clock came Dr. Christopher, and Dorchester moved into the

other room and left the two together. With his large limbs and cheerful

smile he made the Duchess seem slighter and more fragile than ever, and

she herself felt always with his coming some addition of warmth and

strength; each visit, so she might have expressed it, gave her life for

at least another tiny span.

That he, knowing so much of the follies and catastrophes of life, should

yet be an optimist, would have proved him in her opinion a fool had she

not known, by constant proof, that he was anything but that. "Well, one

day he will discover his mistake," she would say, and yet, perversely,

would cling to him for the sake of this very illusion. He helped her

courage, he helped her battle with her pain, he gave her, sometimes,

some shadowy sense of shame for her passions and rebellions, but, more

than all this, he yielded her a reassurance that life, precious,

adorable, wonderful life, was yet for a little time to be hers.

He knew well enough the influence that he possessed, and when, as on

this afternoon, he felt it his duty to avail himself of it, he could not

pretend that he faced his task with any exultation.

That he should rouse her fury, as he had one or twice already roused it,

meant humiliation for him as well as for herself, and afterwards

embarrassment for them both as they saw those scenes in retrospect.

She glanced up at him carefully as he came in and knew him well enough

to realize that there was something that he must say to her. There had

been other such occasions, she remembered them all. Sometimes she

herself had been the subject of them, something that was injuring her

health, some indulgence that he could not allow her. Sometimes the

battle had been about others; she had fought him and on occasions it had

seemed that their relationship was broken once and for all, that nothing

could cover the words that had been spoken--but always through

everything she had admired his courage.

The way had always been to stand up to her.

For a little time they talked about her health, and then there fell a

pause. She, leaning back in her chair with her thin, sharp hands on her

lap, watched him grimly as he sat on the other side of the fireplace,

leaning forward a little, looking into the fire.

"Well," she said at last. "What is it?" Her voice was deep, but every

word was clear-cut, resonant.

"There _is_ something--two things," he answered her slowly. "You can

dismiss me for an interfering old fool, you know. You often have been

tempted to do it before, I dare say."

"I have," she said. "Go on."

But as she spoke she drew her hands a little more closely together. She

was not quite so ready for these battles as she had once been. She was

afraid a little now. A new sensation for her; she hated that restricting

awkwardness that would remain between them for days afterwards.

She looked at his red, cheerful face and wondered impatiently why he

must always be meddling in other people's affairs. She hated Quixotes.

"Your Grace," he began again, "has only got to stop me and I'll say no

more."

"Oh yes, you will," she said impatiently. "I know you. Say what you

please."

"I want to speak about Francis Breton----" He paused, but she said

nothing, only for an instant her whole face flashed into stone. The

firelight seemed for an instant to hold it there, then, as the flame

fell, she was once again indifferent.

Christopher had grasped his courage now. He went on gravely:

"I must speak about him. I know how unpleasant the whole subject is to

you. We've had our discussions before and I've fought his battles with

all the world more times than I can count. You must remember that I've

known Frank all his life--I knew his unhappy father. I've known them

both long enough to realize that the boy's been heavily handicapped from

the beginning----"

"Must you," she said, looking him now full in the face, "must it be

this? Have we not thrashed it out thoroughly enough already? I don't

change, you know."

He understood that she was appealing to his regard for their own

especial relationship. But there was a note of control in her voice; he

knew that now she would listen:

"I've cared for Frank during a number of years. I know he's weak,

impulsive, incredibly foolish. He's always been his own worst enemy. I

know that the other day he wrote a most foolish letter----"

"It was a letter beyond forgiveness," she said, her voice trembling.

"Yes, I would give anything to have prevented it. I know that when he

was in England before I pleaded for him, as I am doing now, and that by

a thousand foolhardy actions he negatived anything that I could say for

him.

"I'm urging no defence for the things that he did, the shady,

disreputable things. But he has come back now, I do verily believe,

ready, even eager, to turn over a new leaf. I----"

She interrupted him, smiling.

"Yes. That letter----"

"Oh, I know. But isn't it a very proof of what I say--would anyone but a

foolhardy boy have done such a thing? Sheer bravado, hoping behind it

all to be taken back to the fold--eager, at any rate, not to show a poor

spirit, cowardice."

"Over thirty now--old for a boy----"

"In years, yes. But younger, oh! ages younger than that in spirit, in

knowledge of the world, in everything that matters--I know," he went on

more slowly, smiling a little, "that you've called me sentimentalist

times without number--but really here I'm not urging you to anything

from sentimental reasons. I'm not asking you to take him back and kill

the fatted calf for him.

"I'm asking nothing absurd--only that you, his relations, all that he

has of kith and kin, should not be his enemies, should not drive him to

desperation--and worse."

"If you imagine," she said steadily, "that his fate is of the smallest

concern to me you know me very little. I care nothing of what becomes of

him. He and I have been enemies for many years now and a few words from

you cannot change that."

"I'm only asking you," he replied, "to give him a chance. See what you

can make of him, instead of sending him into the other camp--use him

even if you cannot care for him. There's fine stuff there in spite of

his follies. The day might come, even now, when you will own yourself

proud of him----"

But she had caught him up, leaning forward a little, her voice now of a

sharper turn. "The other camp? What other camp?"

He caught the note of danger. "I only mean," he said, choosing now his

words with the greatest care, "that if you turn Frank definitely, once

and for all, from your doors, there may be others ready to receive

him----"

"His men and his women," she broke in scornfully; "don't I know them?

I've not lived these years without knowing the raffish tenth-rate lot

that failures like Frank Breton affect----"

"No--there are others," Christopher said firmly, "Mrs. Bronson, for

instance----"

At that name she broke in.

"Yes--exactly. Mrs. Bronson. Oh! I know the kind of crowd that Mrs.

Bronson and her like can gather. They are welcome to Francis and he to

them."--She paused. He saw that she was controlling herself with a great

effort. For a little while there was silence and then she went on, more

quietly:

"There, now you have it. That is why there can never be any truce

between Francis and myself. It is more than Francis--it is all the

things that he stands for, all the things that will soon make England a

rubbish heap for every dirty foreigner to dump his filth on to. Hate

him? Why, I'll fight him and all that he stands for so long as there's

breath in my body----"

"But Frank is with you," Christopher urged eagerly, "if you'll let him

be. He's only in need of your hand and back he'll come. He's waiting

there now--longing, in spite of his defiance, for a word. Give him it

and in the end I know as surely as I sit here that he'll be worth your

while----"

"What can he do for me?"

"Ah! He'll show you. After all, he is one of the family; he's miserable

there in his exile. He's got your own spirit--he'd die rather than own

to defeat--but he'll repay you if you have him."

He saw then, as she turned towards him, that he had done no good.

"Listen," she said, "I've heard you fairly. Let us leave this now, once

and for all. I tell you finally no word that God Almighty could speak on

this business could change me one atom. Francis Breton and I are foes

for all time. I hate not only himself and the miserable mess that he's

made of his life, I hate all this new generation that he stands for.

"I hate these new opinions, I hate this indulgence now towards

everything that any fool in the country may choose to think or say. In

my day we knew how to use the fools. Took advantage of their muddle, ran

the world on it. I loathe this tendency to make everyone as intelligent

as they can be! Why! in God's name! Give me two intelligent men and a

dozen fools and you'll get something done. Take a wastrel like Frank and

turn him out. Take muddlers like my family and keep 'em muddled. Richard

ran the country well enough for a time or two, and he's been a muddler

from his childhood.

"All this cry to educate the people, to be kind to thieves and

murderers! to help the fools--my God! If I still had my say--Whilst

there's breath in me I'll fight the lot of them."

She leant back in her chair, waited for breath, and then went on more

mildly:

"You may like all this noise and clamour, Doctor. You may like your Mrs.

Bronson and the rest--common, vulgar, brainless--ruling the world. Every

decent law that held society together is being broken and nobody cares.

"Frank Breton may find his place in this new world. He has no place in

mine."

Then she added: "So much for that--what's the other thing?"

But he hesitated. Her voice was tired, even tremulous, and he was aware

as he looked across at her that her emotions now treated her more

severely than they had once done. At the same time he was aware that

giving free play to her temper always did her good.

"Well--perhaps--another day----"

"No--now. I may as well take my scoldings together--it saves time!"

He stood up and, leaning on the mantelpiece with one arm, looked down

upon her.

"Here," he said, "I'm afraid I may seem doubly impertinent, but it's a

matter that is closer to me than anything in the world. You know that

I'm a lonely old bachelor and that all those sentiments that you accuse

me of must find some vent somewhere. I'm fonder of Rachel, I think, than

I am of anyone in the world, and it's only that affection and the

feeling that, in some ways, I know her better than any of you do that

give me courage to speak."

He could see that now she was reaching the limits of her patience.

"Well--what of Rachel?"

"I understand--I know--that you--that all of you intend that she shall

marry young Seddon----"

"Well?"

"I know that it is impertinent of me, but, as I have said, I think I

know Rachel differently from anyone else in the world. She is

strange--curiously ignorant of life in many ways, curiously wise in

others. Her simplicity--the things that she takes on trust--there is no

end to it. The things, too, that she cannot forgive--she doesn't know

how often, later on, she will have to forgive them--

"But the first man who breaks her trust----"

"Thank you for this interesting light on Rachel's character. What does

it mean?"

"It means," he said abruptly, "that she mustn't be hurt. Your Grace may

turn me out of the house here and now if you will, but Seddon is the

wrong man for her to marry----"

"What are his crimes?" Her voice was rising, and her hand tapped

impatiently on her dress.

"I know him only slightly, but common repute--anyone who is in the

London world at all will tell you--his reputation is bad. I've nothing

against him myself, but his affairs with women have been many. He is no

worse, I dare say, than a thousand others. At least he's young--and I

myself, God knows, am no moralist. But to marry him to Rachel will be a

crime."

He knew as he heard his own voice drop that the scene that he dreaded

was upon him. The air was charged with it. In the strangest way

everything in the room seemed to be changed because of it. The

furniture, the dragons, the tables, the very trifles of gold and silver,

seemed to withdraw, leaving the air weighted with passion.

She was trembling from head to foot. Her voice was very low.

"You've gone too far. What business is this of yours? How dare you come

to me with these tales? How dare you? You've taken too much on your

shoulders. See to your own house, Doctor----"

He stepped back from the fireplace.

"Please--to-morrow----"

"No. Here and now." Her words flashed at him. "You've begun to think

yourself indispensable. Because I've shown you that I rely upon

you--Because, at times, I've seemed to need your aid--therefore you've

interfered in matters that are no concern of yours."

"They are concerns of mine," he answered firmly, "in so far as this

affair is connected with my friend."

"Your friend and my granddaughter," she retorted. "But it is not only

that. I will return you your own words. You say that your friend is in

danger--what of mine? You have dared to attack someone who is more to me

than you and all the rest of the world put together. Someone whom I care

for as I have never cared for my own sons. It was bold of you, Dr.

Christopher, and I shall not forget it."

He took it without flinching. "Very well," he said. "But my word to the

end is the same. If you marry Seddon to your granddaughter you do your

own sense of justice wrong."

At that the last vestige of restraint left her. Leaning forward in her

chair she poured her words upon him in a torrent of anger. Her voice was

not raised, but her words cut the air, and now and again she raised her

hands in a movement of furious protest.

She spared him nothing, dragged forward old incidents, old passages

between them that he had thought long ago forgotten, reminded him of

occasions when he had been mistaken or over-certain, accused him of

crimes that would have caused him to leave the country had there been a

vestige of truth in her words; at last, beaten for breath, gasped out:

"Sir Roderick Seddon shall know of what you accuse him. He shall deal

with you----"

"I have nothing," Christopher answered gravely, "against Seddon--nothing

except that he should not marry Rachel!"

"You have attacked him!" she gasped out. "He--shall--answer."

But her rage had exhausted her. She lay back against her chair, heaving,

clutching at the arms for support.

He summoned Dorchester, but when he approached the Duchess feebly

motioned him away.

"I've--done--with you--never again," she murmured.

She seemed then most desperately old. Her dress was in disorder, her

face wizened with deep lines beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks.

Christopher waited while Dorchester helped her mistress into the farther

room. For some time there was silence. The room was stifling, and,

impatiently, he pulled back the heavy red curtains.

He sat, waiting, eyeing the stupid dragons, every now and again glancing

at his watch.

Even now the room seemed to vibrate with her voice, and he could imagine

that the French novel, fallen from her lap on to the carpet, winked at

him as much as to say:

"Oh, we're up to her tempers, aren't we? We know what they're worth.

_We_ don't care!"

At last Dorchester appeared.

"Her Grace is in bed and will see you, sir," she said.

Her face was grave and without expression.

After another glance at his watch he passed into the bedroom.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TIGER

"For every Manne there lurketh

hys Wilde Beast."

SARDUS AQUINAS (1512).

I

Brun, meeting Christopher one day, had asked him to tea in his flat, and

then, remembering his interest in the Beaminster history, invited him to

bring Breton with him.

"I haven't seen him for years. I'd like to see him again."

Christopher had accepted this invitation, and now on a sultry afternoon

in June found himself sitting in Brun's rooms. Brun's sitting-room had a

glazed and mathematical appearance as though, from cushions to ceiling,

it had been purchased at a handsome price from a handsome warehouse. It

was not comfortable, it was very hot.... The narrow street squeezed

between Portland Square and Great Portland Street lay on its back, the

little windows of its mean houses gasping like mouths for air, the hard

sun pouring pitilessly down.

No weather nor atmosphere ever affected Brun. His clothes as well as his

body had that definite appearance of something outside change or

disorder. He might have been, one would allow, something else at earlier

stages before this final result had been achieved (as a painting is

presented to the observer before its completion), but surely now nothing

would ever be done to him again. Surveying him, he appeared less a man

with a history, origins, destinies about him than an opinion or a

criticism. He was designed exactly by Nature for cynical observation,

and was intended to play no other part in life.

"Well, Christopher?" said Brun. "Hot, isn't it?"

"My word--yes. Breton's coming along presently."

"Good. I've asked Arkwright the explorer. Nice fellow." They sat in

silence for a little. Then Brun said:

"Interested in writers, Christopher?"

"Not very much. Why?"

"Just been lunching with a young novelist, Westcott. What he said

interested me. Of course, he's very young, got no humour, takes himself

dreadfully seriously, but he asked my advice--and it is as a sign of the

times over here that I mention it."

"Go ahead."

"He tells me that a number of young novelists are going to band

themselves into a kind of Artists' Young Liberty movement--artists,

poets, novelists, some thirty altogether--going to have a magazine, do

all kinds of things. Some of the older men will scoff. At the same

time----"

"Well?" said Christopher.

"They'd asked him to join. He wanted my opinion."

"What did you say?"

"He interested me--he was a kind of test case. It would mean that,

commercially, from the popular point of view, it would put him back for

years. Those young men will all be put down as conceited cranks. They

will tilt at the successful popular men like Lawson and the others, will

worship at the feet of the unsuccessful 'Great' men like Lester and

Cotton. The papers will hate 'em, the public will be indifferent. The

result will be that, in the end, they may do a big thing--at any rate

they'll have done a fine thing, but they'll all die on the way, I

expect."

Brun spoke with enthusiasm unusual for him.

"How was this a test of Westcott?" asked Christopher.

"Well--would he go or no? He's at the kind of parting of the ways. I

believe success is coming to him, if he wants it; but he'll have to

build another wall in front of his Tiger either before the success or

after. If he joins this crowd of men, there'll be no walls for him ever

again."

Christopher knew that when Brun had some idea that he was pleasantly

pursuing and had secured an audience nothing would stay or hinder him.

He pushed a chair towards him.

"What do you mean by your Tiger?" he asked.

"My Tiger is what every man has within him--I don't mean, you know, a

nasty habit or a degrading passion or anything of necessity

vicious--only my theory is that every man is given at the outset of life

a Beast in the finest, noblest sense with whom through life he has got

to settle. It may be an Ambition, or a Passion, or a Temptation, or a

Virtue, what you will, but with that Beast he's got to live. Now it's

according to his dealings with the Beast that the man's great or no. If

he faces the Beast--and the Beast is generally something that a man

knows about himself that nobody else knows--the Beast can be used,

magnificently used. If he's afraid, pretends the Tiger isn't there,

builds up walls, hides in cities, does what you will, then he must be

prepared for a life of incessant alarm, and he may be sure that at some

moment or another the Tiger will make his spring--then there'll be a

crisis!

"Over here in England you're hiding your Tigers all the time. That's why

you're muddled--about Art, Literature, Government, everything that

matters--and an old woman like the Duchess of Wrexe--sharp enough

herself, mind you--uses all of you.

"No Beaminster has ever faced his or her Tiger yet, and they're down,

like knives, on everyone who does and everything that shows the Tiger's

bright eyes----

"But I see--oh, Lord! I see--a time coming, yes, here in England, when

the Individual, the great man, is coming through, when the Duchess will

be dead and the Beaminster driven from power and every man with his

Tiger there in front of him, faced and trained, will have his chance--

"More brain, more courage, no muddle--God help the day!"

"You see things moving--everywhere?"

"Everywhere. These fellows, Randall and the rest, are bringing their

Tigers with 'em. They're going to put them there for all the world to

see. It's only another party out against the Duchess, _she_ wants all

the Tigers hidden--only herself to know about them--then she can do her

work. She'll hate these fellows until they've made their stand and then

she'll try to adopt them in order to muzzle them the better in the end.

"If Westcott hides his Tiger, forgets he's there, his way's plain

enough. He'll make money, the Duchess will ask him to tea. Let him join

these fellows and his Tiger may tear all his present self to pieces."

"What about yourself, Brun?"

"Oh, I'm nothing! I'm the one great exception. No Tiger thinks me worth

while. I merely observe, I don't feel--and you have to feel to keep your

Tiger alive."

Brun's little lecture was over. He suddenly drew his body together,

clapped his mental hands to dismiss the whole thing and was drawing

Westcott to the door.

"But I talk--how I talk! You bear with me, Christopher, because I must

go on, you know. It means nothing--absolutely nothing. But they will

have arrived now, so down we go. I go on in my sleep, exactly the same.

And now tea--and I will talk less because Breton talks a great deal and

so does Arkwright, and so do you...."

II

Arkwright came, and after a little, Breton. But the meeting was not a

success. Arkwright had heard a good deal about Breton's reputation, and

although, on the whole, he was tolerant of any backsliding in women, he

made what he called his liking for "clean men" an excuse for much

narrow-mindedness.

It is quite a mistake to suppose that living in solitude and danger

makes a human being tolerant. It has the precisely opposite effect.

Arkwright was more frightened of a man who was not "quite right with

society" than of any number of enraged natives. With natives one knew

where one was. Whereas with a man like this ...

Breton, anxious to please, made the mistake of showing his anxiety.

Seeing an enemy round every corner he was a little theatrical, too

demonstrative, too foreign. Arkwright disliked his beard and the

movement of his hands. "He wouldn't have come, had he known...."

Breton had, of course, at once perceived this man's hostility. Returning

to England had involved, as he had known that it must, a life of

battles, skirmishes, retreats, wounds, and every kind of hostility.

People did not forget and even had they desired to do so, his

relationship family history prevented Breton's oblivion.

He was ready for discourtesy, however eager he may have been for

friendship. But what the Devil, he thought, is this fellow doing here at

all? If Brun brought him in he must have told him just whom he was to

meet, and if he came with that knowledge about him, why then should he

not behave like a gentleman? Breton's half timid advance towards

friendliness now yielded to curt hostility.

Brun maintained his silence and only watched the two men with an

amusement just concealed. Conversation at last ceased and the heat beat,

in waves, through the open windows and the air seemed now to be

stiffened into bronze. Beyond the room all the city lay waiting for the

cool of the evening.

Christopher liked Arkwright and Arkwright liked Christopher.

Christopher had read one of Arkwright's books and spoke of it with

praise and also intelligence, and nothing goes to an author's heart like

intelligent appreciation from an unbiassed critic. But Breton was not to

be won over. He sat deep in his chair and replied in sulky monosyllables

whenever he was addressed.

Christopher soon gave him up and the three men talked amongst

themselves.

The heat of the afternoon passed and a little breeze danced into the

room, and the hard brightness of the sky changed to a pale primrose that

had still some echo of the blue in its faint colour.

The city had uttered no sound through the heat of the day, but now

voices came up to the windows: the distant crying of papers, the call of

some man with flowers, then the bells of the Round Church began to ring

for evensong.

Breton sat there, wrapped in sulky discontent. In his heart he was

wretched. Christopher had deserted him; these men would have nothing to

do with him. As was his nature everything about him was exaggerated. He

had come to Brun's rooms that afternoon, feeling that men had taken him

back to their citizenship again. Now he was more urgently assured of his

ostracism than before. Who were these men to give themselves these airs?

Because he had made one slip were they to constitute themselves his

judges? These Beaminster virtues again--the trail of his family at every

step, that same damnable hypocrisy, that same priggish assumption of the

right to judge. Better to die in the society of those friends of his who

had suffered as he had done, from the judgment of the world--no scorn of

sinners there, no failure in all sense of true proportion.

Christopher got up to go. He gave Arkwright his card. "Come in and dine

one night and tell me all you're doing----"

"Of course I'll come," Arkwright said. "Only you're much too busy----"

"Indeed no," said Christopher. "One day next week you'll hear from

me----"

Breton got up. "I'll come with you," he said to Christopher.

The two men went away together.

When they were gone Arkwright said to Brun, "Now that's the kind of man

I like----"

"Yes," said Brun, laughing. "Better than the other fellow, eh?"

Arkwright smiled. "More my sort, I must confess."

III

Christopher and Breton did not speak until they reached Oxford Circus.

Here everything, flower-women, omnibuses, grey buildings, grimy men and

women--was drowned in purple shadow. It might be only a moment's beauty,

but now beneath the evening star, frosted silver and alone in a blue

heaven, sound advanced and receded with the quiet rhythm of water over

sand. For an instant a black figure of an omnibus stood against the blue

and held all the swell, the glow, the stir at a fixed point--then life

was once more distributed.

Here, as they turned down Oxford Street Christopher broke silence. He

put his arm through Breton's:

"Well, Frank? Sulks not over yet?"

Breton broke away. "It's all very well, but I suppose I'm to pretend

that I like being insulted by any kind of fool who happens to turn up.

Good God, Chris, you'd think I was a child by the way you talk to me."

"And so you are a child," said Christopher impatiently, "and a thankless

child too. Sometimes I wonder why I keep on bothering with you."

Christopher was, like other Scotchmen, a curious mixture of amiability

and irascibility; his temper came from his pride and Breton had learnt,

many years ago, to fear it. In fact, of all the things in life that he

disliked doing, quarrelling with Christopher was the most agreeable.

Then there were stubbornness and tenacity that were hard indeed to deal

with. But to-day he was reckless; the heat of the afternoon and now the

beauty of the evening had both, in their different ways, contributed to

his ill-temper. He knew, even now, that afterwards he would regret every

word that he uttered, but he let his temper go.

"I wonder that you do bother," he said. "Let me alone and let me find my

own way."

"Don't be a fool," Christopher answered. "There's nothing in the world

for us to quarrel about, only I can't bear to see you giving such a

wrong impression of yourself to strangers--sulking there as though you

were five years old----"

"All very well," retorted Breton; "you didn't hear the way that fellow

insulted me. I'll wring his neck if I meet him again. I'll----"

"Now, enough of that!" Christopher's voice was stern. "You know quite

well, Frank, that you're hardly in a position to wring anyone's neck.

You remember the account I gave you of my little dispute with your

grandmother----"

"Thank you," said Breton fiercely. "You remind me rather frequently of

the kind things you do for me."

And all the time something in him was whispering to him, "_What_ a fool

you are to talk like this!"

Christopher's voice now was cold: "That's hardly fair of you. I'm

turning up here----" They paused. Breton looked away from him up into

the quiet blue recesses of the side street. Christopher went on: "I only

mean that if I were you I should drop hanging on to the skirts of a

family who don't want you. I should set about and get some work to do,

cut all those rotten people you go about with, and behave decently to

strangers when you meet them. That's all. Good night."

And Christopher was gone.

Breton stood there, for a moment, with the tide of his misery full upon

him. Then he turned down Oxford Street and drove his way through the

crowds of people who were coming up towards the Circus. He was alone,

utterly alone in all the world. Everyone else had a home to go to, he

alone had nowhere.

Only a few weeks ago he had come back to England, with money enough to

keep him alive and a fine burning passion of revenge. That family of his

should lament the day of his birth, that old woman should be down on her

knees, begging his mercy. Now how cold and wasted was that revenge! What

a fool was he wincing at the ill-manners of a stranger, quarrelling with

the best friend man ever had.

How evilly could Life desert a man and kill him with loneliness.

And then his mood changed; if Christopher and the rest intended to cast

him off, let them. There were his old friends--men and women who had

been ostracized by the world as he had been--they would know how to

treat him.

He turned into the silence and peace of Saxton Square and there met Miss

Rand, who was also walking home. The statue was wrapped in blue mist,

the trees were fading into grey and the evening star seemed to have

taken Saxton Square under its special protection.

"Good evening, Miss Rand."

"Good evening, Mr. Breton."

"Isn't it a lovely evening?"

"Yes. But _hasn't_ it been hot?"

Miss Rand did not look as though she could ever, under any possible

circumstances, be hot, so neat and cool was she, but she said yes it had

been.

"Isn't it odd the way that as soon as it's fine people begin to complain

just as they do when it's wet?"

"It gives them something to talk about--just as it's giving us something

now," said Miss Rand, laughing.

Breton looked at her and liked her. She seemed so strong and wise and

safe. She would surely always give one the kind of sensible

encouragement that one needed. She would be a good person in whom to

confide.

They were on the top doorstep now.

"No. I've got a key." He let her pass him.

They stood for a moment in the hall together.

He spoke, as he always did, on the instant's inspiration:

"Miss Rand?"

"Yes."

"I'm alone such a lot--in my evenings I mean. I wonder--might I come

down sometimes and just talk a little? You don't know how bad thinking

too much is for me, and if I might----"

"Why, of course, Mr. Breton--whenever you like."

Seeing her now, he thought, just now, with her sudden colour she looked

quite pretty.

"I expect you could advise me--help me in lots of ways----"

"If there's anything mother or I can do, Mr. Breton, you've only got to

ask--Good night----"

The door closed behind her.

He went up to his room, a less miserable man.

CHAPTER IX

THE GOLDEN CAGE

"She gives away because she overflows. She has her own feelings,

her own standards; she doesn't keep remembering that she must be

proud."--_The Lesson of the Master._

I

Those weeks were, to Rachel, a golden time. She did not pretend to deny

or examine their golden quality--they were far, far better than she had

imagined anything could ever be, and that was enough. She had never,

very definitely, imagined to herself this "coming out," but it had been,

at any rate, behind its possible glories, a period of terror. "All those

people" was the way that, with frightened eyes, she had contemplated it.

And now the kindness that there had been! All the London world had

surely nothing to do but to pay her compliments, to surround her with

courtesies, to flatter her every wish. Even Aunt Adela had under the

general enthusiasm, blossomed a little into good-will, even Uncle

Richard had remembered to wish her well, even the Duke had cracked

applause, and as for Uncle John! ... he was like an amiable conjurer

whose best (and also most difficult) trick had achieved an absolute

triumph.

And behind all this there was more. May, June and the early part of July

showered such weather upon London as had surely never been showered

before, and these brilliant days dressed, for Rachel, her brilliant

success in cloth of gold and emblazoned robes. She felt the presence of

London for the first time, as the hot weather came beating up the

streets and the brilliant whites and blues and greens and reds flung

back to the burning blue their contrast and splendour.

She felt, for the first time, her own especial London, and now the grey

cool cluster of buildings at one end of blazing Portland Place and the

dark green of the hovering park at the other end had a new meaning for

her, as though she had only just come to live here and was seeing it all

for the first time. In the streets that hung about Portland Place she

noticed little shops--little bakers and little shoemakers and little

tailors and little sweetshops--and they were all furtive and dark and

shabby.

And these little shops led to the growth in her mind of an especial

picture of her square of London life, Portland Place white and shining

in the middle, with the Circus like a fair at one end of it, the park

like a mystery at the other end of it, and, on either side, little

secret shops and little dim squares hanging about it, and Harley Street

sinister and ominous by its side.

Every element of Life and Death was there, the whole History of Man's

Journey Through This World to the Next.

Behind all the joy and overflowing happiness of these weeks this sudden

setting of London about her was consciously present.

II

Since that meeting with Miss Rand on the day before the ball Rachel had

often spoken to her. They met at first by accident and then Rachel had

gone to Lizzie's neat little sitting-room to ask for something and,

after that, had looked in for five minutes or so, and they had talked

very pleasantly about the hot weather and the theatres and the ways of

the world.

Behind all the splendour there was, for Rachel, the dark shadow of

suspense. Was it going to last? What was to follow it? When would those

awkward uncertainties that had once kept her company return to her? Now

whatever else might be doubtful about Miss Rand, one thing was certain,

that she _would_ last, would remain to the end the same clean, reliable,

honest person that she was now.

Imagine Lizzie Rand unreliable and she vanishes altogether! Rachel

welcomed this and she also admired the wonderful manner in which Miss

Rand accomplished her gigantic task. To run a house like this one and at

the end of it all to remain as composed and safe as though nothing had

been done!

Rachel herself might carry off a difficult situation by riding

desperately at it, stringing her resources to their highest pitch, but

afterwards reaction would claim its penalty.

The penalties were never claimed from Miss Rand.

So, gradually, without any definite words or events, almost without

active consciousness, they became friends.

Rachel, suddenly, on one afternoon early in July, determined to go and

pay Lizzie Rand a visit in her house.

That house in Saxton Square had acquired a new romantic interest since

Rachel had learnt that the abandoned, abominable cousin, who defied

Grandmamma and whose name one was never to mention, lived there. Rachel

had considered this cousin more than once during these last months. She

had resented, from the first, the fact that he was to be given, by the

family, no chance of redemption. However bad he had been (and he had

apparently been very bad indeed) his opportunity should have been

offered to him. His life, she knew, had been hard, he was, like herself,

an orphan, and he hated, as she did, her grandmother. Of course, then,

he interested her.

She did not now say to herself that if this romantic cousin had not been

staying in that house she would not have contemplated a visit to Lizzie.

The Beaminster in her had just now the upper hand, and the Beaminster

simply said that Saxton Square would be a nice place in which Uncle

John, who was, this afternoon, taking her out for a drive, might leave

her whilst he went to the club; later he could pick her up and take her

home.

The Beaminster part of her did not acknowledge the cousin.

Quite casually she said to Uncle John, "I want you to leave me at Miss

Rand's for half an hour this afternoon--she is helping me about some

clothes."

Now Uncle John had during these last weeks continually congratulated

himself on the disappearance of Rachel's irritable, unsettled self.

Always lately one had been presented with her delightful young eager

self and always she had been anxious to agree with Uncle John's

proposals. The world had been going smoothly for him in other ways of

late, and no one had been disagreeable. How pleasant to keep the world

in this amiable condition and how dangerous to risk anyone's

displeasure!

He had moreover almost (not quite) forgotten that his rascal of a nephew

was living in the same house as Miss Rand, and, even if he did remember

it, well, it was quite another part of the house, and in all probability

Miss Rand had never spoken to Frank Breton, nor so much as said good day

to him.

Finally it was so sumptuous a day, and Rachel was clothed in so radiant

a happiness and so fluttering and billowing and chuckling a dress of

white and blue, and he himself was looking so handsome in the most

shining of top-hats, the broadest of black bow ties, the most elegant of

pepper-and-salt trousers and the whitest of white spats, that

complaining or arguing or disputing was utterly out of the question.

"Miss Rand's, my dear? What's the address?... Right you are--" so off

they went.

She arrived to find Miss Rand, a round chubby lady in bright pink, and a

stranger having tea together. The chubby lady was Mrs. Rand and the

stranger was Francis Breton. She had not expected that her arrival would

cause such a disturbance, nor that she herself would discover the right

and easy words so difficult to say. The little room seemed to be crowded

with furniture and tea-things, and she, quite deliberately, put off any

consideration of her cousin until the atmosphere had been allowed, a

little, to settle around them.

Miss Rand looked at her almost sternly and was, plainly, at a loss. Mrs.

Rand was excited, and so nervous that her tea-cup rattled in her saucer

and she stayed for quite a long time with her finger in the tea under

the delusion that she was using a teaspoon.

Mrs. Rand's absence of mind was generally due to the fact that she read

one novel a day all the year round and that her thoughts, her hopes, her

despairs were always centred in the book of the day, although when

to-morrow came she could not tell you the author nor the title nor any

of the incidents. Had she been to a play, then, for twenty-four hours

following, it was the drama that held the field.

She spent her life in an amiable desire to remember, for the sake of her

friends, the plays and books of the past. But she was never successful.

As she said, "The attempt to keep up with the literature and drama of

the day, although praise-worthy, demands all one's time and energy."

The Beaminster family alone of all other interests in the wide world

might be calculated to draw her out of the realms of the imagination,

and Rachel's entrance scattered all plots to the four winds.

Rachel sat down and, for a little while, Mrs. Rand held the field. She

told them all that this visit of Miss Beaminster was the most wonderful

and unexpected thing, that it was like a novel, and that she would never

forget it. "But I always do say, Miss Beaminster, that it's the

unexpected that happens. Life's stranger than fiction is my opinion, and

I don't care who contradicts me I shall still hold it."

At length Rachel had leisure to consider her cousin and then was,

instantly, convinced that she had met him before. She also knew that she

could not have met him before.

In the strangest way he was connected with those early dream years

which, now, she struggled so sternly to forget. The snow, the bleak sky,

the silence, the sleigh-bells, some strange voice speaking high in air

as though from a distant summit, and all this coming to her with a

poignancy that, even now, brought the tears to her heart and filled it

to overflowing.

As she saw his thin body, his eyes, his head and the attitude of the boy

in all his movements and gestures she knew that, for her, he belonged to

that earlier world. She knew it so certainly that, although he had not

yet spoken, she could be sure of the exact quality that his voice would

have.

And confused with this recognition of him was the alarm that she always

felt when her early life returned to her.

Also she was young enough to be pleased at the agitation into which her

coming had thrown him. It meant, plainly, so much to him; although he

was silent he leant forward in his chair, with his eyes fixed upon her,

waiting for his opportunity.

Miss Rand, watching him, saw how tremendously this meeting with one of

the family excited him, and, seeing him, her heart filled with pity.

"He's so young. It is hard. He does want someone to look after him."

Rachel's happiness had, now, returned to her. She liked them all so

much, it was all so cosy, it was so good of them to wish to see her. She

talked with Mrs. Rand about the theatre and the opera.

"We're going to the opera to-night--the _Meistersinger_. I've heard it

in Munich twice, but never with Van Rooy, who's singing to-night. I

believe that's an experience one never forgets----"

Mrs. Rand did not really care about opera; everything in opera happened

so slowly, except in _Carmen_, and even that was better simply as a

play. She liked musical comedy because there you could laugh, or plays

like _The Mikado_, for instance.

She was vague as to the _Meistersinger_ and she had never heard of Van

Rooy, but she said, "I agree with you, Miss Beaminster. There's nobody

like him."

At that Breton struck in with something about music that he had heard in

strange places abroad, and then Rachel, looking in his face for the

first time, asked him about his travels.

As their eyes and voices met she was again overwhelmed with the vivid

consciousness of their earlier meeting. She thought, "If I were to ask

him whether he remembered that same snow and silence he would say yes--I

know he would say yes."

Miss Rand, with eyes that were kind but very, very sharp, watched them.

She noticed the eagerness of Breton and wished that he did not seem

quite so anxious to please. "But that's because he's young," she thought

again.

And, now that he had begun, the words poured from him. With

gesticulation that was faintly foreign, ever so little dramatic, he

unpacked his adventures. He spoke as though this were, beyond all time,

_the_ moment when he must make his effect.

He did it well, a born teller of tales. And yet Miss Rand wished that he

had not had to do it at all, that there had been more reserve, less

drama, less volubility.

Mrs. Rand, an older Desdemona, listened spellbound. This was as good as

getting a circulating library without paying a subscription. As she said

to her daughter afterwards: "He really was as good as those novels by

what's his name--you know who I mean--those delightful stories about

those foreign places--and the sea."

He spoke of the first time that he had actually been conscious of the

jungle. "Of course I'd been into it dozens of times--often and often.

But there was a day--I remember as though it were yesterday--when we

went up in a boat--some river or another--That river was the most secret

and sleepy green, and the place all closed about it as though we'd gone

into a box, and they'd closed the lid. Nothing but the green river and

all the forest getting closer and closer and darker and darker, all

blacker than you can imagine, and worse still when it was lighter--a

kind of twilight--and you could see enough to make you shiver--no sound

but the animals, and the branches and the great plants and brilliant

flowers all creeping and crawling--Suddenly--all in a flash--I wanted a

lamp-post and a public house, a wet night shining on streets, the

rattle of a hansom--I was suddenly ghastly frightened, and we got deeper

and deeper into it, and human beings further and further behind, and

only the beastly monkeys and the alligators and the hideous flowers. I

can feel it still----"

Rachel was enthralled. He called up, on every side about her, that stern

life of hers. He knew and she knew--they alone out of all the world. All

her gaiety, her happiness, her interest of the last weeks went now for

nothing beside this experience. He was not now related to the

Beaminsters--to Grandmother, to Aunt Adela, to Uncle John--but to _her_

and to that part of her that had nothing to do with the Beaminsters at

all. The room, the commonplace furniture, the pictures of "Lodore Falls"

and "The Fighting Temeraire," the little glimpses of the square beyond

the window, these things shared in the mystery.

Miss Rand had seen her caught and held. "_She's_ very young too," she

said to herself a little grimly and a little tenderly also--"All too

sensational to be true," she thought. "There's a little bit of unreality

in him all the way through."

Mrs. Rand said: "What do you think of alligators, Miss Beaminster? Don't

you agree with me that they must be most unpleasant to meet? I always

dislike their sluggish ways when I see them in the Zoological Gardens."

Then upon them all broke the little maid with a husky "Miss Beaminster's

carriage, please, mem."

Rachel, as she said good-bye, was aware of him again as "her scandalous

cousin." He too was now awkward and embarrassed. They said good-bye

hurriedly and there was between them both a consciousness that no word

of the family or their relationship had been mentioned.

"Well," said Mrs. Rand, when the door was closed, "no one in the world

could have been pleasanter...."

III

They did not arrive at the opera that night until the beginning of the

second act. It was Lady Carloes' box and she and Uncle John and Roddy

Seddon were Rachel's companions.

All the way home in the carriage Rachel had been silent and Lord John,

perceiving uneasily that some of the old Rachel was back again, had said

very little.

Her mind was confused. At one moment she felt that she did not want to

see him again, that he disturbed her peace and worried her with memories

that were better forgotten. At another moment she could have returned,

then and there, to ask him questions, to know whether he felt this or

that: had he ever pictured such a place? Had he...?

And then sharply she dismissed such thoughts. She would think of him no

more--and yet he did not look a villain. How delightful to persuade the

family to take him back. Why should she not help towards a

reconciliation? She was herself so happy now that she could not bear

that anyone should feel outcast or lonely--they were all very hard upon

him.

It was not until she heard the voices of the apprentices that thought of

her cousin left her. As she groped her way in the dark box and heard

Lady Carloes' stuffy whisper (she had the voice of a cracknel biscuit),

"You sit there, my dear--Lord John here. That's right--I knew you'd be

late because ..." she was gloriously aware that quite close to her the

music that she loved best in all the world was transforming existence.

She touched Roddy's hand and then surrendered herself.

She had been to Covent Garden now on four or five occasions and from the

first the shabby building with its old red and gold, its air of

belonging to any period earlier than the one it was just then amusing,

its attitude, above all, of indifference to its aspect--all this had

attracted her and won her affection. London, she discovered, was always

best when it was shabbiest and one could not praise it more highly than

by declaring, with perfect truth, that it was the shabbiest city in the

world. Now, feeling instinctively that English apprentices (she had had

already some taste of the Covent Garden chorus) would act too much or

too little, she closed her eyes.

Now, as the music reached her, the old red and gold seemed a cage,

swinging, swinging higher and ever higher with old Lady Carloes and

Roddy Seddon and all the brilliant people in the stalls, and all the

enthusiastic people in the gallery, swinging, swinging inside it. She

could feel the lift of it, the rise and fall, and almost the clearer air

about her as it rose into the stars.

Then there came to her the voice for which she had surely all her days

been waiting. It enwrapped her round and comforted her, consoled her for

all her sorrows, reassured her for all her fears. It filled the cage and

the air beyond the cage, it was of earth and of heaven, and of all

things good and beautiful in this world and the next.

For the second time to-day her early years came back to her; the voice

had in it all those hours when someone's tenderness had made Life worth

living. "Life is immortal," it cried. "And I am immortal, for I am Love

and Charity, and, whatever the wise ones may tell you, I cannot die."

She felt again the space and the silence and the snow, but now with no

alarm, only utter reassurance. And the cage swung up and up and there

were now only the stars and the wind around and about them.

Then, in an instant of time, the cage, with a crash, was upon the

ground. Across her world had cut Lady Carloes' voice--"Oh yes, and

there's Lord Crewner--no, not in that row--the one behind--next that

woman with the silver thing in her hair--four from the end----"

And Roddy Seddon's voice--"Yes, I see him. Who's he got with him?"

Lady Carloes again: "I can't quite see--Miss Mendle as likely as

not.... You know, old Aggie Mendle's daughter...."

Rachel felt in that moment that murder was assuredly no crime. Her hands

shook on her lap and one of those passions, that she had not known for

many months, caught her so that she could have torn Lardy Carloes' hair

from her head had the chairs been happily arranged.

Fortunately the interruption had been accompanied by Beckmesser's

entrance: that other voice was, for the moment, still. Then, as Sachs

caught up Beckmesser's serenade, there came again:

"Well, of course if you can't go that week-end I dare say she'll give

you another. Only I know she's settling her dates now."

"Yes, but it's a bore havin' to fix up such a long way ahead and you

don't know what old stumers you mayn't be boxed up with----"

Oh! It was abominable! She had been seeing a great deal of Roddy during

these last weeks, and ever since that visit to Uncle Richard she had

been conscious of an intimacy that she had certainly not resented.

But any favour that he may have had with her was certainly now

forfeited. His voice was again superior to Beckmesser:

"And so of course I said that if they _would_ go to such shockin' rot I

wasn't goin' to waste my evenin's----"

She pushed her chair back against his knees: "Beg pardon, Miss

Beaminster, afraid I jolted you----"

"Oh! Keep quiet! Keep quiet!"

Her whisper was so urgent, so packed with irritation that instantly

there was, in the box, the deepest of silences.

She sat forward again, anger choking her: she could not recover any

illusion. She hated him, _hated_ him! The crowd came on with a whirl.

Then there was that last moment when the old watchman cries to the

genial moon and the silvered roofs.

Then the curtain fell.

Without a word, her face white, her hands still trembling, she rose to

leave the box. She passed out into the passage and found that Roddy was

by her side.

"I say, Miss Beaminster, I am most awfully sorry, most awfully. I hadn't

any idea, really, that I was kickin' up that row. I could have hit

myself."

She walked down the passage and he followed her. She was superb, she was

indeed, with her head up, that neck, those hands, those flashing eyes.

He had never seen anyone so fine. She ought always to be enraged. That

instant decided him. She was the woman for a man to have for his own,

someone who could look like someone at the head of your table, someone

with the right blood in her veins, someone....

"I could _beat_ myself," he said again.

"How dared you----" she broke out at last. They were, by good luck,

alone in the passage. "How could you? What do you come for if you care

nothing for music at all? If you can hear a voice like that and then

talk about your own silly little affairs.... And the selfishness of it!

Of course you think of nobody but yourself!"

"Upon my word, Miss Beaminster!"

"No, I've no patience with you. Go to your musical comedy if you like,

but leave music like this for people who can appreciate it!"

Oh! she was superb! Entirely superb! She ought to be like this every day

of her life! To think that he should have the chance of winning such a

prize!

Nevertheless she would not speak to him again and they went back to the

box. She would not speak to Lady Carloes nor to her uncle.

Then as the loveliest music in all opera flooded the building her anger

began to melt.

He had looked so charmingly repentant and, after all, the

_Meistersinger_ was long for anyone who did not really care for

music--and then they all did talk. It was only in the gallery that one

found the proper reverence.

Her anger cooled and then descended upon her the quintet, and she was

once again swept, in her cage, to the stars.

Now she and all live things seemed to be opening their hearts together

to God--no shame now to speak of one's deepest and most sacred thoughts.

No fear now of God nor the Archangels nor all the long spaces of

Immortality. The cage had ascended to the highest of all the Heavens,

and there, for a moment, one might stand, worshipping, with bowed head.

The quintet ceased and Rachel felt that she could never be angry with

anyone again. She wished to tell him so.

At last, the revels were over, the "Prieslied" had won its praises,

Sachs had been acclaimed by his world, and they were all in the lobby,

waiting for carriages, talking, laughing, hurrying to the restaurants.

Her face was lighted now with happiness. She touched his arm.

"I didn't mean to be angry--like that. It was silly and rude of me.

Forgive me, please----"

He turned, stuttering. "Forgive you!" He took her hand--"I ought to have

been shot--Yes, I'll never forgive myself. You--you----" And then he

could say no more, but suddenly, raising his hat, bolted away.

As the door swung behind him Lady Carloes turned a perplexed face--

"Why! he said good night! And now I shall never find----"

But Lord John appeared just then and all was well.

Going back, in the dark brougham, Rachel put her head on her uncle's

shoulder and, exhausted with excitement and happiness and something more

than either of them, cried her eyes away.

CHAPTER X

LIZZIE AND BRETON

"What of Adam cast out of Eden?

(And O the Bower and the hour!)

Lo! with care like a shadow shaken

He kills the hard earth whence he was taken."

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

I

To the ordinary observer Lizzie Rand was, during that hot July, as she

had ever been.

The servants in 104 Portland Place could detect no change, but then they

did not search for one, having long regarded Miss Rand as a piece of

machinery, symbolized by that broad shining belt of hers, happily

calculated to fit, precisely, the duties for which it was required.

But Miss Rand herself knew that there was a sharp, accurate, shrewd

piece of machinery named Miss Rand, and a breathing, emotional,

uncertain human being called Lizzie. There had always been those two,

but since the inadequacy of her mother and sister had been confronted

with the stern necessity of making two ends meet, Miss Rand had been in

constant demand and Lizzie had only, by her occasional obtrusion, made

life complicated and disturbing.

Miss Rand had told herself that Lizzie was now almost an anachronism,

that the emotions in life that aroused her were bad cheap emotions, and

that this was an age that demanded increasingly of women a hard

practical efficiency without sentiments or enthusiasms.

These forcible arguments had for a time kept Lizzie in a darkened

background; it was some years since Miss Rand had been disturbed. But

now in the warm weather of 1898 Lizzie had not only reappeared, but had

leapt, an insistent, shining presence, into urgent life. Miss Rand

faced her--what had created her? A little, the weather, the beauty of

those brazen days--A little, Rachel's coming out into the world, an

adventure that had stirred the whole house into a new and sympathetic

excitement--a little, these things. But chiefly, and no pretence nor

shame could conceal the fact, did this new Lizzie owe her creation to

the appearance of Francis Breton.

Lizzie Rand had had, from her birth, a romantic heart; she had had also

a prosaic practical exterior, and a mind as hard and clear, if

necessary, as her own most lucent typewriter.

The romantic heart had, throughout these years, been there, and now this

romantic, scandalous, youthful, engaging unfortunate had called it out.

She was never so warmly attracted as by someone lacking, most obviously,

in those qualities with which she herself abounded. That people should

be foolish, impetuous, careless, haphazard commended them straight to

her keeping. "Poor dears" had their instant claim upon her. Her mother

and sister were "poor dears" and she had suffered from them now during

many years. Francis Breton was most assuredly a "poor dear!"

Here the Duchess a little flung her shadow and confused the mind.

Although Lizzie had never seen that splendid figure she was,

nevertheless, acutely conscious of her. She was conscious of her through

her own imagination, through her mother, finally through Lady Adela.

Her imagination painted the old lady, the room, the furniture fantastic,

strangely coloured, always with dramatic effect. Her picture was never

precisely defined, but in its very vagueness lay its terrors and its

omens.

Miss Rand, the most practical and collected of young women, could never

pass the Duchess's door without a "creep."

Through her mother the Duchess came to her as the head of society.

Society had never troubled Lizzie's visions of Life. She had, in her

years with the Beaminsters, seen it pass before her with all its comedy

and pathos, and the figures that had been concerned in that procession

had seemed to her exactly like the figures in any other procession

except that they were dressed for their especial "subject." But oddly

enough when, through her own observation, this life, seen accurately at

first hand, amounted only to any other life, seen through the eyes of

her mother, it achieved another size.

She knew that her mother was a foolish woman, that her mother's opinions

on life were absurd and untrue, and yet that dim, great figure that the

Duchess assumed in her mother's eyes, in some odd way impressed her.

Lastly, and most strikingly of all, came Lady Adela's conception to her.

Lady Adela was in terror of her mother; everyone knew it, friends,

relations, servants. Lizzie herself saw it in a thousand different

ways--saw it when Lady Adela spoke of her, saw it in the way that Lady

Adela addressed Dorchester when that grim woman was interviewed by her,

saw it when Lady Adela was suddenly summoned to that room upstairs.

Lizzie, during the hours when she was writing from Lady Adela's

dictation or working with her, found her dry, stupid, sometimes kind,

never emotional. It was to her, therefore, the most convincing proof of

the Duchess's power, this emotion, this alarm drawn from so dry a heart.

Now the influence that the Duchess had upon Lizzie was always a confused

one. Persuasion from this source followed lines of reasoning that were

false and led to some conclusions that were muddled and untrue.

Through such minds as her mother's and Lady Adela's no clear truth could

come, and yet it was through such minds as these that the Duchess's

influence descended upon Lizzie.

It descended now with regard to Francis Breton. It told Lizzie that

Breton had been proved by society to be a scoundrel, that he should be

no worthy man's friend, that he belonged to that world, the world of

shadows and past misadventures, that no proper soul might, with honesty,

investigate.

This was what the Duchess told to Lizzie and perhaps by so doing

increased her sympathy with the sinner.

II

It must not be supposed that Mrs. Rand had not, at first, been unsettled

by scruples.

The fact that Breton was, in the eyes of the Beaminster family, a

ne'er-do-well who had brought disgrace upon the family name had, for a

time, distressed her, but the romantic hope of being herself the agent

of his restoration to his grandmother, and the delightful manners of the

scoundrel when he appeared, killed her alarm. Mrs. Rand's mind was a

dark misty place except when the candles of romance were lit; when

_they_ flamed, blown by the wind though they might be, there was, around

the candlesticks at any rate, a real and even splendid blaze.

One afternoon, towards the end of July, Mrs. Rand meeting Breton on

their doorstep was moved to ask him whether he would come in and spend

the evening with them, if he had nothing better to do. They had only a

simple little meal, and would he please not bother to dress? Breton said

that he would be delighted.

Mrs. Rand had been, that afternoon, to a romantic comedy in which ladies

and gentlemen with French accents had made love and escaped together and

been caught together and been married together. Mrs. Rand had gone quite

alone into the pit and had returned with tears in her eyes and affection

for all the world.

So she had asked Mr. Breton to dinner.

After a while, however, she was a little uncertain. Daisy was away in

the country with friends. How would Lizzie then like this unexpected

visitor? Mrs. Rand was, quite frankly, frightened of Lizzie and

complained of her a good many times a week to Daisy. Lizzie was for

ever interfering with innocent pleasures; Lizzie was mean and unromantic

and unimaginative; Lizzie was thoroughly tiresome.

The fact that Lizzie worked incessantly for her mother and her sister

never occurred to Mrs. Rand at all.

Lizzie objected to all innocent amusement and she would, in all

likelihood, object now.

However, when Mrs. Rand with a fearful mind said, "Oh, Lizzie dear, I've

had such a delightful afternoon. I went to _Love and the King_ and

it was too charming--you ought to go, really--and Mr. Breton's coming to

dinner to-night," Lizzie only smiled a little and asked whether there

was food enough. Lizzie was _so_ strange....

Alone in her bedroom Lizzie wondered at her excitement. She looked at

her trim, neat figure in the glass, with the hair so gravely brushed,

with her collar and her cuffs, with her compact businesslike air: what

had she to do with excitement because a young man was coming to dinner?

"It must be because I'm tired--this heat," she said to the mirror. And

the mirror replied, "You know that you are glad because your sister

Daisy is away."

And to that she had no answer.

When he arrived he was grave and seemed sad and tired, she thought.

Dinner was a serious affair and Mrs. Rand, who disliked people when they

refused to respond to her moods, wished, at first, that she had not

asked him, and felt sure that there was much truth in what people said

about his wickedness.

Then, when dinner was nearly over, he brightened up and told stories and

was entertaining. Mrs. Rand noticed that he drank much claret, but this

was, after all, a compliment to her housekeeping. By the end of dinner

Mrs. Rand almost loved him and wished that Daisy had been here to

entertain him.

Of course it must be dull for a man with only a plain cut-and-dried girl

like Lizzie for company.

Lizzie, meanwhile, knew that he was waiting for an opportunity of

speech. She had read an appeal in his eyes when he had first entered the

room, and now she sat there, curiously, ironically amused at her own

agitation. "Lizzie Rand," she said to herself, "you're only, after all,

the kind of fool that you despise other people for being. What are you

after in this _galere_?"

Nevertheless even now, in retrospect, how arid and sterile seemed all

those other active useful days. One moment's little grain of sentiment

and a life's hard work goes for nothing in comparison.

After dinner, when the lamp burnt brightly and the furniture seemed to

be less anxious to fill every possible space and the windows were opened

into the square with its stars and grey shadows, the room seemed, of a

sudden, comfortable, and Mrs. Rand, sitting in an arm-chair, with a

novel on her lap and spectacles on her nose, was almost cosy. She had

left, before going to her matinee, _Just a Heroine_ at one of its most

thrilling crises, and Lizzie knew that the talk with Breton depended for

its very existence on the relative strength of the play and the novel.

If _Love and the King_ were the more powerful, then would Mrs. Rand make

a discursive third. But no, for a moment there was a pause, then,

indecisively, Mrs. Rand took up her book. For a while she talked to

Breton over its pages, then the light of excitement stole into her eyes,

her soul was netted by the snarer, Breton was forgotten as though he had

never been.

Their chairs were by the open window and a very little breeze came and

played around them. In the square there was that sense of some imminent

occurrence, a breathless suggestion of suspense, that a hot evening

sometimes carries with it. The stars blazed in a purple sky and a moon

was full rounded, a plate of gold; beneath such splendour the square was

cool and dim.

"You mustn't think mother rude," Lizzie said with a little smile. "If

she once gets deep into a book nothing can tear her from it."

He said something, but she could see that he was not thinking of Mrs.

Rand. It was always in the evening, she thought, when uncertain colours

and shadows filled the air, that he looked his best. He touched, now, as

he had touched on that day of their first meeting, a note of something

fine and strange--someone, very young and perhaps very foolish and

impetuous, but someone armoured in courage and set apart for some great

purpose.

He sat back in his chair, flinging, every now and again, little restless

glances beyond the window, pulling sometimes at his beard, answering her

absent-mindedly. Then suddenly he began, fiercely, looking away from

her--

"Miss Rand, I've got an apology to make to you----"

His voice was so low that she could only catch the words by leaning

forward--"To me?"

"Yes--I've been wanting to speak all these weeks. It seemed right enough

before, but since I've known you I've felt ashamed of it--as though I'd

done something wrong."

"What is it, Mr. Breton?" Her clear grave eyes encouraged him.

"Why--I came to this house, took my rooms, simply because I knew that

you were here----"

"That I was here?"

"Yes. I was looking about in this part of the world for rooms. I wanted

to be--near Portland Place, you know. I came here and old Mrs. Tweed

talked a lot and then, after a time, I said something--about my

grandmother. And then she told me that someone who lived here did

secretarial work for my aunt----"

He stopped abruptly.

"Well?" said Lizzie, laughing. "All this is not very terrible."

"Then, you see, I determined to stay. I was full of absurd ideas just

at the time, thought that I was going to take some great revenge--I was

quite melodramatic. And so I thought that I'd use you, get to know you

and then, through you--do something or another."

Lizzie eyed him with merriment. "Upon my word, what were you going to

make me do? Carry bombs into your aunt's bedroom or set fire to the

Portland Place house? Tell me, I should like to know----"

"Ah," he said, "it's all very well for you to laugh. It's very kind of

you to take it that way, but lots of women wouldn't have liked it.

They'd have thought it another of the things I'm always accused of

doing, I suppose."

"_No_," said Lizzie gravely, "it was all perfectly natural. I

understand. I should have done just the same kind of thing, I expect, if

I'd been in your place."

The fierceness of his voice showed her that he had been brooding for

weeks, and that life was, just now, harder than he could endure.

"You can trust me a great deal farther than that, Mr. Breton," she said.

"The other night," he began, "you said that I might talk to you. I've

been pretty lonely lately--and it would help me if----"

"Anything you like," she assured him.

"Besides, there's more than that," he went on. "You've heard--of course

you must have heard all kinds of things against me. You're in the

enemy's camp and I don't suppose they measure their words. I don't know

why you've been so decent to me as you have after what you must have

heard----"

"Don't worry your head about that," she said. "We all have our enemies."

"No, but now that we're friends I'd like you to know my side of it all.

I don't want to make myself out a hero or blacken all the other people,

but there _is_ something to be said for me--there _is_--there _is_----"

He muttered these last words with the deepest intensity. He seemed to

fling them through the window into the square, as though he were

standing out there, on his defence, before all those listening lighted

windows.

"I've been a fool--a thousand times. I've done silly things often and

once or twice bad, rotten things, but all these others--these virtuous

people who are so ready to judge me, have they been any better?"

"My father was a scoundrel, although I loved him and would love him now

if he came back--but he was just as bad as they make 'em and there's no

use in denying it. He'd tell you so himself if he were here. He broke my

poor mother's heart and killed her. I don't remember her--I was no age

at all when she died--but I've got an old picture of her, kept it always

with me; she must have been rather like my cousin Rachel, who was here

the other day----"

_Lizzie_ watched his face. There had left him now all that hint of

insincerity, of exaggeration that she had noticed when he had talked

before. She knew that he was telling her now absolutely the truth as he

saw it.

"She died and after that I was taken about Europe with my father. We

lived in almost every capital in Europe--Berlin, Paris, Rome, Vienna,

everywhere. Sometimes we were rich, sometimes poor. Sometimes we knew

the very best people, sometimes the very worst. Sometimes I'd go to

school for a little, then I'd suddenly be taken away. My father was

splendid to me then; the best-looking man you ever saw, tall, broad,

carried himself magnificently--the finest man in Europe. I only knew,

bit by bit, the things that he used to do. It was cards most of the

time, and he taught me to play, of course, as he taught me to do

everything else.

"When I was eighteen my eyes were opened--I tried to leave him--But I

loved him and I verily believe that I was the only human being in the

world that he cared for. Anyway, he died of fever and general

dissipation when I had just come of age, and I came home to England

with a little money and great hopes of putting myself right with the

world."

As he had talked to her he had gathered confidence; her silence was, in

some way to him, reassuring and comforting. Some people have the gift of

listening without words so warmly, with such eloquence that they

reassure and console as no speech could ever do. This was Lizzie's gift,

and Breton, depending, more than most human beings, upon the protection

of his fellows, gathered courage.

"My father had always taught me to hate my grandmother. He painted her

to me as I have since found her--remorseless, eaten up with pride,

cruel. I came home to England, meaning to lead a new life, to be

decent--as I'd always wanted to be.

"Well, they wouldn't have me, not one of them. They pretended to at

first; and my Uncle John at least was sincere, I think, and was kind for

a time, but was afraid of my grandmother as they all were.

Christopher--you know him of course--was a real friend to me. He'd stood

up for my father before and he stood up for me now. But what was the

use? I was wild when I saw that my grandmother was against me and was

going to do her best to ruin me. I just didn't care then--what was the

good of it all? Other people encouraged me. The set in London that hated

my people would have done something with me, but I wouldn't be held by

anyone.

"I'm not excusing myself," he said quietly, looking away from the window

and suddenly taking his judgment from her eyes.

"I know you're not," she said, smiling back to him.

"Cards finished me. I'd always loved gambling--I love it still--my

father had given me a good education in it. There were plenty of fellows

in town to take one on and--Oh! it's all such an old story now, not

worth digging up. But there was a house and a table and a young fool who

lost all he possessed and--well, did for himself. It had all been

square as far as I was concerned, but somebody had to be a scapegoat and

two or three of us were named. It was hushed up for the sake of the

young fellow's people, but everyone knew. Of course they all said, as

far as I was concerned, 'Like father like son,' and I think I minded

that more than anything----"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lizzie said.

"I give you my word of honour that it had all been straight as far as I

was concerned--gambling just as anyone might. That's what made me so

mad, to think of the rest of them--all so virtuous and good--and then

going off to Monte Carlo and losing or winning their little bit--just as

I'd done.

"I tried to brazen it out for a bit, but it was no good. Christopher

still stuck by me--otherwise it was--well, the Under Ten, you

know----"

"The Under Ten?"

"Yes--all the men and women who've done something--once--done one of the

things that you mustn't do. It mayn't have been very bad, not half so

bad as the things--the cruel, mean things--that most people do every day

of their lives, but, once it's there, you're down, you're under. There's

a regular colony of them here in London; their life's amusing. There

they are, hanging on here, keeping up some pretence of gaiety, some kind

of decency, waiting, hoping that the day will come when they'll be taken

back again, when everything will be forgotten. They pretend, bravely

enough, not to mind their snubs, not to notice the kind people, once

their friends, who cut them now. Every now and again they make a spring

like fish to the top of the water, see the sun, hope that the light and

air are to be theirs again, after all--and then back they are pushed,

down into the dark, their element now, they are told. Oh! there's comedy

there, Miss Rand, if you care to look for it."

She said nothing; the fierce bitterness in his voice had made him seem

older suddenly, as though, in this portion of his journey, be had spent

many, many years.

"I must cut it short--you'll have had enough of this. I couldn't stand

it. I left London and went abroad. After that, what didn't I do? I was

everywhere, I did everything. Sometimes I was straight, sometimes I

wasn't. I was always bitter, wild with fury when I thought of that old

woman--of her complacency, sitting there and striking down all the poor

devils that had been less fortunate than she. All those years abroad I

nourished that anger and, at last, when I thought that I'd been abroad

long enough, that people would have forgotten, perhaps, and forgiven, I

came back. I came back to be revenged on my grandmother and to

re-establish myself. I'd got some money, enough for a little annuity, and

I was careful now--I wasn't going to make any mistakes this time." He

laughed bitterly. "One doesn't learn much with age. What a fool I was!

I've got the reputation I had before, whether I'm good or bad. It would

all be hopeless--utterly hopeless--if it weren't for one thing----"

She looked up, and as she glanced at him, could feel the furious beating

of her heart.

"I'd go back at once--I've almost gone back already--not abroad, that

never again for long--but back to my friends, the unfortunates--" He

laughed. "They're anxious to have me. They'll welcome me. I can have my

cards and the rest then, with no one to object or to lecture--and I'll

be done for quite nicely, completely done for."

Then he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders. "But one thing

keeps me," he said. "Something's happened in the last few weeks--I've

met somebody----"

"Yes," she said almost in a whisper.

"Somebody who's made it worth while for me to fight on a bit." She could

feel his agitation: his voice, although he tried very hard to control

it, was shaking. Then he laughed, raised his voice and caught and held

her eyes with his.

"But there, Miss Rand. I've talked a fearful lot, only I wanted to tell

you--I had to tell you. And now--if you feel--that you'd rather not

know me, you've only got to say so."

She laughed a little unsteadily.

"Thank you for taking me into your confidence. You shall never regret

it. I'm glad you're going to hold on, and, after all, we're all doing

that more or less."

"It's done me a world of good talking like this. It's what I've been

wanting for months."

She quieted her emotion. Looking out into the stars she knew that she

believed every word that he had said. She thought that she valued Truth

above every other quality; the directness that there was in Truth; its

honesty and clarity. He might not always be honest with her, but she

would never forget that he had, on this night, at least, spoken no

falsehood.

Life--her work, her surroundings, Portland Place, her home--this was

full of falsehood and deceit and muddle.

Here, this evening, at last, was honesty.

They said no more, but sat there silently and listened to the echo of

dance music from some house.

Mrs. Rand, whom their conversation had lured into oblivion of them, was

roused now by their silence.

She looked up. "It's quite splendid," she said, "you must read it,

Lizzie. The part about the Riviera is lovely." Then, slowly remembering,

"Really, Mr. Breton, I'm afraid you must consider me very rude."

He came towards her, assuring her that his evening had been delightful.

Lizzie was happy, happier than she could ever remember to have been

before. She felt her cheeks burn. She leant out of the window to cool

them. She flung back, over her shoulder:

"By the way, Mr. Breton--a piece of gossip. Your cousin is to marry Sir

Roderick Seddon!"

She could not see him. He said nothing. Mrs. Rand said:

"Really, Lizzie! How interesting! How long's that been announced?"

"Oh! it isn't announced. I don't believe that he's even asked her, but

all the house knows it. It's settled. I believe she likes him immensely

and, of course, the Duchess is devoted to him."

Anything would do to talk about. What did it matter? Only that she

should keep on talking so that they should not see how happy she

was--how happy!

He said good night, rather sharply; his voice was constrained as though

he too were keeping in his emotion.

After he had gone Mrs. Rand said, "I don't like him, my dear. I can't

help it--you may laugh at me--but my impressions are always right. He

hardly spoke to me all the evening."

"Why, mother, you were reading. How could he?"

"That's all very well, but I don't like him. And I believe he's in love

with his cousin. He went quite white when you spoke about the

engagement."

"Mother--how absurd you are. He's only seen her once----"

"Well, my dear, that's a book you ought to read; really, I haven't

enjoyed anything so much for weeks. I simply----"

Up in her bedroom Lizzie flung wide her window and laughed at the golden

moon. Then she lay, for hours, staring at the pale light that it flung

upon her ceiling.

Oh! what a fool she was! But she was happy, happy, happy. And he needed

someone to look after him--he did, indeed!

CHAPTER XI

HER GRACE'S DAY

I

The Duchess had suffered, during the last five or six years, from

sleeplessness, and throughout these hot days and nights of June and July

sleep almost deserted her. Grimly she gave it no quarter, allowing to no

one that she was sleeping badly, pretending even to Christopher that all

was well.

Nevertheless those long dark hours began to tell upon her. She had known

many nights sleepless through pain, certain nights sleepless through

anxiety, but they, terrible though they had been, had not worn so stern

a look as these long black spaces of time when all rest and comfort

seemed to be drawn from her by some mysterious hand.

To herself now she admitted that she dreaded that moment when Dorchester

left her; she began to do what she had never in her life done before, to

fall asleep during the daytime. Small mercy to anyone who might attract

any attention to those little naps.

She fell asleep often towards six or seven and, therefore, without any

comment, Dorchester, seeing her fatigue, left her to sleep until late in

the morning. She had not for many years left her room before midday, but

she had been awake with her correspondence and the papers by half-past

seven at the latest. Now it was often eleven before she awoke.

She found that she did not awake with the energy and freshness that she

had always known before. About her there always hovered a great cloud of

fatigue--something not quite present, but threatening at any moment to

descend.

On a certain morning late in July she awoke after two or three hours'

restless sleep. As she woke she was conscious that those hours had not

removed from her that threatening cloud: she heard a clock strike

eleven. Dorchester was drawing back the curtains and from behind the

blinds there leapt upon her a blazing, torrid day.

Her bedroom carried on the touch of fantasy that her other room had

shown; she was lying in a red lacquer Japanese bed that mounted up

behind her like a throne. Her wall-paper was an embossed dull gold and

the chairs were carved Indian, of black ebony.

Lying in bed she appeared very old and ugly; the sharp nose was

exceedingly prominent and her white hair scattered about the pillow gave

her face the colour of dried parchment.

Dorchester brought her her chocolate and her letters and _The Times_ and

the _Morning Post_.

"Another terribly hot day, your Grace."

"Yes--I suppose so." As she took her letters she felt, for the first

time in her life, that it would perhaps be better to lie in bed for the

rest of her life and conduct the world from there.

She put the letters down and stared at the day--

"Draw the curtains again, Dorchester, and kindly ask Lady Adela if she

will be so good as to come and see me in a quarter of an hour's time."

When Dorchester had gone she lay back and closed her eyes and dozed

again, whilst the chocolate grew cold and the births and deaths and

marriages grew aged and stale. She did not care, she did not want to see

her daughter ... she did not want to see anyone, nor was there anything

now in the world worth her energy or trouble. Her body, being now at

ease, was called back to days, brighter days, days filled with thrilling

events and thrilling people, days when the world was a world and not a

dried-up cinder. Those were men ... those were women ... and then,

suddenly, she was conscious first that her daughter was speaking and

then that her daughter was a tiresome fool.

She sat up a little and her nightdress fell back showing a neck bony,

crinkled and yellow.

"I said a quarter of an hour," she snapped.

"It is a quarter of an hour, mother," said Lady Adela.

Lady Adela hated and dreaded these morning interviews. In the first

place she disliked the decorations of her mother's bedroom, thought them

almost indecent, and could never be comfortable in such surroundings.

She was also aware, by long experience, that her mother was always at

her worst at this hour in the morning and many were the storms of temper

that that absurd bed and those unpleasant black chairs had witnessed.

Thirdly she knew that she herself looked her worst and was her weakest

amongst these eccentricities and shadowed by this dim light.

She waited now whilst her mother fumbled her letters.

"There's your chocolate, mother," she said at last. "It'll be cold."

The Duchess was looking at her letters, but was absorbing only a little

of their contents. She was summoning all her will to her aid; she wanted

to order the blind to be pulled down, to command her daughter to avoid

her presence for at least a week, to scatter her correspondence to the

four corners of the earth, and to see none of it again; at the same time

she was driving into her brain the fact that before Adela, of all people

in the world, she must be alert and wise and wonderful; Adela, the

ugliest and most foolish of living women, must see no weakness.

"Shall I read your letters to you, mother?"

She did not answer; slowly, steadily at last, her will was flooding her

brain. She could feel the warmth and the colour and the strength of it

pervading again her body. The day did not now appear of so appalling a

heat and the weight of the things to be done was less heavy upon her.

Lady Adela, meanwhile, watching her mother was struck once again by that

chill dismay that had alarmed her first on that May evening, after the

visit to the picture gallery. In that half-light her mother did seem

very, very old and very, very feeble. Lady Adela had a dreadful

temptation to say in a brusque sharp voice, "What do you let your

chocolate get cold like that for? Why don't you get someone to read your

letters sensibly to you instead of groping through them like that?" and

at the mere horror of such a thought a shudder shook her and her heart

began wildly to beat. Let once such words as those cross her lips and an

edifice, a wonderful, towering temple raised by submissions and subduals

and self-denials, would tumble to the ground.

For some moments the struggle in Lady Adela's breast was sharp, then by

a tense dominion of her will she produced once again for herself the

Ceremonial, the Terror, the agitated, humble Submission.

"Julia Massiter," the Duchess said, "has asked Rachel for the last

week-end in July--She'll go of course----"

"Yes," said Lady Adela.

"Roddy Seddon is going----"

"Yes."

"Roddy is going to marry Rachel. He's coming to see me this afternoon."

Lady Adela was silent.

"A very suitable business. I'd intended it for a long time." Then, after

a pause--

"You may tell Dorchester I will dress now."

Lady Adela, conscious, as she left the room, of the relief of her

dismissal, joyfully yielded that relief as witness--

The Terror was still there, and she was glad.

II

Very different, however, at three in the afternoon. Now she sat in her

high black chair waiting for Roddy Seddon. Very difficult now to imagine

that early discourage of the morning. Magnificent now with her black

dress and flashing eyes and white hair, waiting for Roddy Seddon.

This that she had long planned was at length to come to pass. Roddy

Seddon was to be united to the Beaminster family, never again to be

separated from it.

Of Rachel she thought not at all. She had never liked Rachel; indeed it

was a more positive feeling than that. Alone of all the family was

Rachel still in rebellion; even the Duke, although he was so often

abroad or in the country (he hated London), was submissive enough when

he was with them. But Rachel the old woman knew that she had not

touched.

Frightened--yes. The girl hated that evening half-hour and would give a

great deal to avoid it, but the terror that she showed did not bring her

any closer to her grandmother's power; she stood outside and away.

The Duchess had attempted to influence the girl's brain, to catch some

trait, some preference, some dislike, that she could hold and use.

Still Rachel's soul was beyond her grasp, beyond even her guessing at.

But she knew Roddy Seddon--she knew Roddy Seddon as no one knew him. And

Roddy Seddon knew her.

Even when he was a boy he had known her as no one else knew her. He had

seen through all her embroideries and disguises, had known where she was

theatrical and why she was so, had discovered her plots and prides, her

defeats and victories--and together they two, Pagan to the very bone of

them, had laughed at a credulous, superstitious world.

The London that knew Roddy Seddon thought him a country bumpkin with

dissipated tastes and an amiable heart. But she knew him better than

that. He was not clever--no. He was amazingly innocent of books, he had

no intellectual attainments whatever--yet had he received any kind of

education, she knew that he might have had one of the finest brains in

the country.

He had preferred dogs and horses and the simple enjoyments of his

sensations.

Bowing to the outward rules and laws of the modern world he was less

modern than anyone she had ever known.

Pagan--root and branch Pagan. In his simplicities, in his complexities,

in his moralities and immoralities, in his kindnesses and

cruelties--Pagan.

When they were together it was astonishing the number of trappings that

they were able to discard. They were Pagan together.

But Rachel? Rachel?

Well, Rachel did not matter. It would be a rather good sight to see

Rachel suffer, to watch her proud spirit up against something that she

could not understand.

And meanwhile the Beaminster family was strengthened by a great addition

and the campaign against this new generation, that refused to be led,

that wished to lead, that thought itself so very, very brilliant, should

go victoriously forward....

"Sir Roderick Seddon, your Grace."

As she looked at the healthy and red-faced Roddy sitting opposite to

her, for an instant, some sharp warning, some foreordained consciousness

of trouble to come, bade her pause. She knew that a word from her, now,

would be enough to prevent the match. He would not prosecute it were she

against it. After all, ought Roddy to marry anybody? Could a girl, as

ignorant of the world as Rachel, put up any fight against Roddy's simple

complexities?

What, after all, did Roddy think of the girl? Did he imagine that he was

in love with her? Did he know her, understand her?

Then, looking at him, the affection that she had for him--the only

affection that she had for anyone in the world--swept over her. This

marriage would bind him to her, would give her another ally before the

world--yes, it should go on.

She smiled at him.

"Well, Roddy, have you no news for me, now?"

He had been silent, gazing before him, his brows puckered.

Now he smiled back at her.

"Well, there's been the usual doin's the last week or two. I've been

dancin' every night till I'm tired. 'Bout time for the country agen----"

"Have you been down to Seddon at all?"

"Yes. Two nights last week--all dried up--Place wants me a bit oftener

down there----"

"What's this I hear about young Olive Ormond marrying Besset Crewe's

daughter?"

"So they say--can't imagine it myself. The girl's about eighty-four and

a half and he's the most awful kid. Saw them at the opera the other

night----"

"What about Scotland this summer, Roddy? Are you going?"

"Don't think so. Depends----"

Then there was silence. The little conversation had been as stiff as it

was possible a conversation could be. The China dragons must have

wondered--never before so constrained a dialogue between these two!

Now another pause, then suddenly Roddy, his hands clutching one another,

his face redder than ever--

"I want--I wonder--dash it--have I your leave to ask your granddaughter

to marry me?"

She laughed.

"Really, my dear Roddy, you've been very long about it--coming out with

it, I mean. Didn't you know and didn't I know that that's what you came

for to-day?"

"Well then, may I?"

She paused and watched his anxiety. Between both of them there hung,

now, the recollection of so many things--conversations and deeds and

thoughts known to both of them, so many, many things that no others in

all the world could know. She waited for his eyes, caught them and held

them.

"Are you in love with her?"

"Yes--that is--she's splendid----"

"You haven't known her very long and you're a little impulsive, ain't

you, Roddy, about these things?"

"No--I don't know her now. But we've seen a lot of one another these

last months--a fearful lot. She's--oh! hang it! I never can say

things--but she's a brick."

"Do you think she'll accept you?"

"How can any feller tell? I think she likes me--she's odd----"

"Yes--she is--very. She's a mixture--she's very young--and she won't

understand you."

His eyes were suddenly troubled and, as she saw that trouble, she was

alarmed. He really _did_ care....

"Yes, I know--I don't understand myself. I'm wild sometimes--I wish I

weren't----"

"Marriage is going to make you a model character, Roddy. Of course I'm

glad--but it won't be easy, you know. And she won't be easy."

"I want her though. I've never thought of marriage before. I do want

her."

"My dear Roddy, you speak as though she were a sheep or a dog. It's only

her first season. Don't you think you'd better wait a little?"

"No. I want her now."

"Well, you're definite enough--" She paused and then, in a voice that

had, in spite of her, real emotion, "You have my consent. You've got

_my_ blessing."

He rose and came clumsily towards her.

"You don't know--I'm no use at words, but I'm dam' grateful--Rippin' of

you!"

For a second he touched her dried, withered hand--how cold it was! and

in this hot weather, too.

"You'll ask her at Julia Massiter's next week?"

"Expect so--I say you are----"

Then he sat down again. The room was relieved of an immense burden; once

more they were at ease together.

"The other night--" he said, bending forward and chuckling ever so

little.

III

Lady Carloes, Agnes Lady Farnet, and old Mrs. Brunning were coming to

play bridge with her. The ceremonial was ever the same! They arrived at

half-past nine and at half-past eleven supper for four was served in the

Duchess's little green room, behind her bedroom (a little room like a

box with a green wall-paper, a card-table and silver candlesticks). They

played, sometimes, until three or four o'clock in the morning; the

Duchess played an exceedingly good game and Mrs. Brunning (a bony little

woman like a plucked chicken) was the best bridge player in London. The

other two were moderate, but made mistakes which allowed the Duchess the

free use of her most caustic wit and satire.

Lord John came just before dinner as he always did for a few minutes

every evening. He stood there, fat and smiling and amiable and, as

always, a little nervous.

"Well, John?"

She liked John the best of her children, although he was, of course, the

most fearful fool, but she liked his big broad face and he was always

clean and healthy; moreover, she could use him more easily than any of

them.

"Bridge to-night, mother, isn't it?"

"Yes. Not so hot this evening. Just give me that book. Turn the lamp up

a little--no--not that one. The de Goncourt book. Yes. Thank you."

"Anything I can get for you, mother? Anyone I can send to you?"

He was thinking, as he smiled down at her, "She's old to-night--old and

tired. This hot weather...."

She looked up at him before she settled herself--

"Roddy Seddon came this afternoon----"

"Yes. I know."

Suddenly his heart began to beat. He had known, during all these last

weeks, of what the common talk had been. He knew, too, what his

conscience had told him, and he knew, too, how perpetually he had

silenced that same conscience.

"He asked me whether he had my permission to propose to Rachel----"

"Yes."

"Of course I gave it him. I thought it most suitable in every way."

Now was Lord John's moment. He knew, even as it descended upon him, what

was the right to do. He must protest--Roddy Seddon was not the right man

to marry Rachel, Rachel who was to him more than anyone in the world--

He must protest--

And then with that impulse went the old warning that because his mother

seemed to him older and feebler to-night than he had ever known her,

therefore if he spoke now, it would involve far more than the immediate

dispute. There was a sudden impulse in him to risk discomfort, to risk a

scene, to break, perhaps, in the new assertion of his authority, all the

old domination, to smash a tradition to pieces.

He glanced at his mother. She met his eyes. He knew that she was daring

him to speak. After all to-morrow would be a better time--she was tired

now--he would speak then. His eyes fell, and after a pause and a word

about some indifferent matter, he said good night and went.

IV

Once, in some early hour of the morning when the candles were burning

low, the thought of Rachel came to her.

Even as she noticed that her hand shone magnificently with hearts she

was conscious that the girl stood opposite to her, there against the

green wall, straight and fierce, all black and white, looking at her.

Christopher? John?...

For a second her brain was clouded. Might she not have attempted some

relationship with the girl? Given her some counsel and a little

kindness? She must have been lonely there in that great house without a

friend. She was going now into a very perilous business.

She pushed the weakness from her. Her eyes were again upon the cards.

"Hearts," she said. The odd trick this game and it was her rubber. The

dying flame rose in the silver sconces and the four old heads bobbed,

wildly, fantastically, upon the wall.

CHAPTER XII

DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER--I

I

Rachel sat in the train with Aunt Adela and Uncle John: they were on

their way to Trunton St. Perth, Lord Massiter's country house. It was a

July day softened with cool airs and watered colours; trees and fields

were mingled with sky and cloud; through the counties there was the echo

of running streams, only against an earth fading into sky and a sky

bending and embracing earth, sharp, with hard edges, the walls and

towers that man had piled together showed their outlines cut as with a

sword.

Over all the country in the pale blue of the afternoon sky a great moon

was burning and the corn ran in fine abundance to the summit of the

hills.

Rachel, as the train plunged with her into the heart of Sussex, was

gazing happily through the window, dreaming, almost dozing, feeling in

every part of her a warm and grateful content. Opposite to her Aunt

Adela, gaunt and with the expression that she always wore in trains as

of one whose person and property were in danger, at any instant, of

total destruction, read a life of a recently deceased general whose

widow she knew. Uncle John, with three illustrated papers, was

interested in photographs of people with one leg in the air and their

mouths wide open; every now and again he would say (to nobody in

particular), "There's old Reggie Cutler with that foreign woman--_you_

know"--or "Fancy Shorty Monmouth being at Cowes after all this year--you

know we heard----"

Rachel had been having a wonderful time--that was the great fact that

ran, up and down, through her dozing thoughts. Yes, a wonderful time. It

was surely, now, a century ago, that strange period when she had

dreaded, so terribly, her plunge.

That day, after her visit to the Bond Street gallery, when it had all

seemed simply more than she could possibly encounter, those talks with

May Eversley (who, by the way, had just announced herself as engaged to

a middle-aged baronet) when the world had frowned down from a vast,

incredible height upon a miserably terrified midget. Why! the absurdity

of it! It had all been as easy, simply as easy as though she had been

plunged in the very heart of it all her life.

Followed there swiftly upon that the knowledge that Roddy Seddon was to

be, for this same week-end, at Lady Massiter's. Rachel did not pretend

that, ever since that _Meistersinger_ night at the opera she had not

known of his attentions to her--impossible to avoid them had she wished,

impossible to pretend ignorance of the meaning that his inarticulate

sentences had, of late, conveyed, impossible to mistake the laughing

hints and suggestions of May and the others.

She did not know what answer she would give did he ask her to marry him.

At that concrete suggestion her doze left her and, sitting up, staring

out at the wonderful day into whose heart muffled lights were now

creeping, she asked herself what, indeed, was her real thought of him.

He was to her as were Uncle John and Dr. Christopher--safe, kind,

simple. He appealed to everything in her that longed for life to be

clear, comfortable, without danger. She loved his happiness in all

out-of-door things--horses and dogs and fields and his little place in

Sussex. Ever since that visit to Uncle Richard's fans she had suspected

him of other appreciations and enthusiasms, perhaps she might in time

encourage those hidden things in him.

Above all did she find him true, straight, honest. Lies, little

mannerisms, disguises, these were not in him, he was as clear to her as

a mirror, she would trust him beyond anyone she knew.

He did not touch in any part of him that other secret, wild, unreal

life of hers, and indeed that was, in him, the most reassuring thing of

all.

The Rachel who was in rebellion, to whom everything of her London life,

everything Beaminster, was hateful, whose sudden memories and instincts,

whose swift alarms and fore-warnings were so shattering to every

clinging security that life might offer--this Rachel knew nothing of

Roddy Seddon.

He was there to take her away from that, to drive it all into darkness,

to reassure her against its return, and marriage with him would mean

release, security, best of all freedom from her grandmother who knew, so

well, that life in her and loved to play with that knowledge. Her colour

rose and her eyes shone as she thought of what this so early escape from

the Portland Place house would mean to her. Already, in her first

season, to be free of it all--to be free of humbug and deception--Oh!

for that would she not surrender everything in the world?

Roddy, as she pictured him, with his clean life, his love of nature, his

kindliness, seemed, just then, the safest refuge that would ever be

offered to her.

And at that, without reason, she saw before her her cousin Francis

Breton. Several times she had met him since that first occasion at

Lizzie Rand's. Once again at Lizzie's and twice in Regent's Park when

she had been walking with May.

Yes--that was all. Thinking of it now the meetings appeared to her

almost infinite. Between each actual encounter intimacy seemed to leap

in its progress, and although, on at least two of them, he had only

walked with her for the shortest period, yet, always with them, she was

conscious of the number of things that, between them, did not need to be

said--knowledge that they shared.

In all this there was, with her, a confusion of motives and sensations

that, at present, refused to be disentangled. For one thing there was,

in all of this, a furtiveness, a secrecy, that she loathed. Against

that was the persuasion that it would be the finest thing in the world

for her to bring him back into the Beaminster fold, not, of course, that

he should remain there (he was far too strong and adventurous for that),

but that, accepted there, he could use it as a springing-off board for

success and fortune. Let her once, as the situation now was, say a word

to Uncle John or the others, and that of course was the end....

She knew, quite definitely, that now she wished that she had never met

him.

He had been, during these weeks, the only influence that had drawn that

other Rachel to the light. It was always that other Rachel that met

him--someone alarming, rebellious, conscious of unhappiness, and

apprehensive, above everything, that in some hidden manner she was being

untrue to her real self.

At such moments it was as though she had blinded some force within her,

muffled it, stifled it, because her way through the world was easier

with it so muffled, so stifled.

At some future time, what if there should leap out upon her that muffled

figure, bursting its bonds, refusing any longer to be silenced,

proclaiming the world no easy, comfortable place, but a battle, a

fierce, unresting war?

When she thought of Breton it was as though she knew herself for a

coward, as though he had threatened to expose her for one, and as though

(and this was the worst of all) something in her was eager that he

should--

Against this there was the peace, the security that Roddy could offer

her....

Beaminster security, perhaps--nevertheless....

They were at Trunton St. Perth. The little station glittered in the

evening air. It was all suddenly thrilling. Who would be there? What

might not happen before Monday?

II

In the high beautiful hall where they all stood about and had tea she

could see who they were. There was a girl whom she had met on several

occasions this season, Nita Raseley, there was a large florid cheerful

person who was, she discovered, Maurice Garden, the well-known and

popular novelist, there was his wife, there was a thin intellectual

cousin of Lady Massiter's, Miss Rawson, old and plain enough for her

cleverness to have turned to acidity, Roddy Seddon and, of course, Lord

and Lady Massiter.

Lord Massiter was large and florid like the novelist, and when they

stood together by the fireplace foreign customs and languages were

suddenly absurd, so English was the atmosphere. Lady Massiter was also

large, but she had the kind and warm placidity that makes some women the

type of all maternity. She would be, Rachel felt, a sure resource in all

time of trouble and she would also be entirely unsatisfactory as an

intimate personal friend. She would, like philanthropists and clergymen,

love people by the mass, never by the individual.

Nita Raseley was pink and white, with large blue eyes that confided in

everyone they looked at. Her laugh was a little shrill, her clothes very

beautiful, and men liked her.

So there they all were.

She had said good day to Roddy and then had moved away from him,

governed by some self-consciousness and the conviction that Nita

Raseley's blue eyes were upon her.

It was all very cheerful and very English as they stood talking there,

and the doors beyond the hall showed through their dark frames green

lawns and terraces soaked in evening light. It was all very, very

comfortable.

As she dressed for dinner Rachel had her windows open, so hot was the

night, and she could watch the evening star that shone with a wonderful

brilliance above a dark little wood that crowned a rise beyond the

gardens. She had a maid who was very young indeed; this was her first

place, but she had, during the three months, learnt with great quickness

and had attached herself to her mistress with the most burning devotion.

She was a silent, unusual girl and kept herself apart from the rest of

the servants.

Rachel as she sat before her dressing-table could see in that mirror the

dark reflection of the twilit garden.

"It's a lovely place, Lucy----"

"Yes, Miss Rachel."

"Are you glad to get away from London?"

"It has been hot there these last weeks."

Rachel met in the glass the girl's black eyes. They were searching

Rachel's face.

"Lucy, would you rather live in London or in the country?"

"I don't mind, Miss Rachel." Then after a little pause: "I hope I've

give satisfaction these last weeks?"

"Why, yes, of course."

"Then I hope, miss, that you'll allow me to stay with you whether--in

London or the country."

The colour mounted to Rachel's cheeks.

"I hope there'll be no need for any change," she said.

She found when she came down to the drawing-room that Monty Carfax had

arrived. Monty Carfax was the chief of the young men who were, just at

that time, entertaining London dinner-tables. About half a dozen of

God's creatures, under thirty and perfectly dressed, with faces like

tombstones and the laugh of the peacock, went from house to house in

London and mocked at the world.

They belonged, as the mediaeval jesters belonged, each to his own court,

and Monty Carfax, certainly the cleverest of them, was attached to the

Beaminster Court and served the Duchess by faith, if not by sight.

Rachel hated him and always, when she found herself next to him, wrapped

herself in her old farouche manner and behaved like an awkward

schoolgirl.

She was terribly disappointed at discovering that he was going to take

her into dinner to-night; he knew that she disliked him and felt it a

compliment that a raw creature fresh from the schoolroom should fail to

appreciate him; on this occasion he devoted himself to the elderly

Massiter cousin on his other side--throughout dinner they happily

undressed the world and found it sawdust.

Rachel meanwhile found Maurice Garden her other companion. He genially

enjoyed his dinner and talked in a loud voice and prepared the answers

that he always gave to ladies who asked him when he wrote, whether he

thought of his plots or his characters first, and "she did hope he

wouldn't mind her saying that of all his books the one----"

He frankly liked these questions and was taken by surprise when Rachel

said:

"I've never read any of your novels, Mr. Garden, so I won't pretend----"

He asked her what she did read.

"Have you ever read anything by an author called Peter Westcott?"

"Westcott? Westcott?... Let me see ... Westcott?... Well now--One of the

young men, isn't he?"

"Yes. He wrote a book called _Reuben Hallard_."

"Ah yes. I remember about _Reuben Hallard_--had quite a little success

as a first book. He's one of your high-brow young men, all for Art and

the rest of it. We all begin like that, Miss Beaminster. I was like that

myself once----"

She looked at him coolly.

"Why did you give it up?"

"Simply didn't pay, you know--not a penny in it. And why should there

be? People don't want to know what a young ass thinks about life if he

can't tell a story. All young men think the same--green leaves, moons

and stars and lots of symbols, you know--all good enough if they don't

expect people to pay for it."

"I think _Reuben Hallard's_ a fine book," she said, "and so are some of

the others. After all, everyone doesn't want only a plot in a book."

He looked at her with patronizing kindness. "Well, you see if your Mr.

Westcott doesn't change. Every writer wants an audience whatever he may

pretend, and the best way to get a audience is to give the audience what

it wants. It needs unusual courage to sit on a packing-case year after

year and shave in a broken looking-glass----"

She looked round the table. Everyone was happy. The butler was fat and

had the face of a Roman emperor, the food was very, very good, Nita

Raseley and Roddy laughed and laughed and laughed--

Suddenly Rachel's heart jumped in her body. Oh! she was glad; glad that

Roddy cared for her and would look after her, because otherwise she

didn't know what violence she might suddenly commit, what desperations

she might not engage upon, what rebels and outlaws she would not

support--

What Outlaws! And then, looking beyond the thickly curtained windows,

she could fancy that she could see one gravely standing out there on the

lawn, standing with his one arm and his pointed beard and his eyes

appealing to be let in.

Then there was an ice that was so good that Peter Westcott and Francis

Breton seemed more outcast than ever.

III

After dinner, when the men had come into the drawing-room, they all went

out into the gardens. It was such a night of stars as Rachel had never

seen, so dense an army that all earth was conscious of them; the sky was

sheeted silver, here fading into their clouded tracery, there, at fairy

points drawing the dark woods and fields up to its splendour with lines

of fire. The world throbbed with stars, was restless under the glory of

them--God walked in all gardens that night.

At first Nita Raseley, Monty Carfax, Rachel and Roddy went together,

then, turning up a little path into the little wood that rose above the

garden, Rachel and Roddy were alone.

They found the trunk of a tree and sat down--Behind them the trees were

thin enough to show the stars, below them in a dusk lit by that

glimmering lustre that starlight flings--a glow that would be flame were

it not dimmed by distance immeasurable--they could see the lawns and

hedges of the garden and across the dark now and again some white figure

showed for an instant and was gone. The house behind the shadows rose

sharp and black.

Roddy looked big and solid sitting there. Rachel sat, even now uncertain

that she did not see Francis Breton in front of her, looking down, as

she did, into the shadowy garden.

"I hope," she said abruptly, "that you don't like Monty Carfax."

"I've never thought about him," he said. "He's certainly no pal of

mine--why?"

"Because I hate him," she said fiercely. "What right has he got to

_exist_ on a night like this?"

"He's always supposed to be a very clever feller," Roddy said slowly.

"But I think him a silly sort of ass--knows nothin' about dogs or

horses, can't play any game, only talks clever to women----"

"I can't bear that sort of man and I don't like Mr. Garden either. He's

so fat and he loves his food."

"So do I," said Roddy quite simply. "I love it too. It was a jolly good

dinner to-night."

She said nothing and then, when he had waited a little, he said

anxiously:

"I say, Miss Beaminster, we've been such jolly good friends--all these

weeks. And yet--sometimes--I'm afraid you think me the most awful

fool----"

She laughed. "I think you are about some things, but then--so am I about

a good many things--most of your things----"

"Look here, Miss Beaminster--I wish you'd help me about things I'm an

ass in. You can, you know--I'd be most awfully glad."

"What," she said, turning round and facing him, "are the things you

really care about?"

"The things? ... care about?"

"Yes--really----"

"Well! Oh! animals and bein' out in the open and shootin' and ridin' and

fishin'--any old exercise--and comin' up to town for a buck every now

and again, and then goin' back and seein' no one, and my old place

and--oh! I don't know," he ended.

"You wouldn't tell anyone a lie, would you, about things you liked and

didn't like?"

"It wouldn't be much use if I did," he said, laughing. "They'd find me

out in a minute----"

"No, but would you? If you were with a number of people who thought art

the thing to care about and knew nothing about dogs and horses, would

you say you cared about art more than anything?"

"No," he said slowly. "No--but sometimes, you see, pictures and music

and such do please me--like anything--I can't put into words, but I

might suddenly be in any old mood--for pictures, or your uncle's fans,

or dogs or the Empire or these jolly old stars--Why, there, you see I

just let it go on--the mood, I mean, till it's over----" Then he added

with a great sigh, "But I am a dash fool at explainin'----"

"But I know you wouldn't be like Mr. Garden or Mr. Carfax--just

pretending not to like the thing because it's the thing not to. Or like

Aunt Adela, who picks up a phrase about a book or picture from some

clever man and then uses it everywhere."

"I should never remember it--a phrase or anythin'--I never can remember

what a feller says----"

"Oh! I know you'd always be honest about these things. I feel you

would--about everything. It's all these lies that are so impossible: I

think I've come to feel now after this first season that the only thing

that matters is being straight. It is the only thing--if a person just

gives you what they've got--what _they've_ got, not what someone else is

supposed to have. May Eversley used to say that people's minds are like

soup--thick or clear--but they're only thick because they let them get

thick with other people's opinions--you don't mind all this?" she said,

suddenly pausing, afraid lest he should be bored.

"It's most awfully interestin'," he said from the bottom of his heart.

"There are some men and women--I've met one or two--who're just made up

of Truth. You know it the minute you're with them. And they'll have

pluck too, of course--Courage goes with it. Our family," she ended, "are

of course the most terrible liars that have ever been--ever----"

"Oh! I say----" he began, protesting.

"Oh! but yes--they run everything on it. My uncle Richard ran through

Parliament beautifully because he never said what he meant. And Aunt

Adela--_and_ Uncle John, although he's a dear. But then my grandmother

brought them up to it. My grandmother would have about three clever

people and then muddle all the rest so that the three clever ones can

have everything in their hands----"

"Look here," he broke in, "I'm most awfully fond of your

grandmother--we're tremendous pals----"

"You may be--I hate her. Oh! I don't hate her with melodrama, I don't

want to strangle her or beat her face or burn her, but I'm frightened of

her and she's always making me do things I'm ashamed of. That's the best

reason for hating anyone there is."

"But she's such a sportsman. One of the old kind. One----."

"Oh! I know all that you can say. I've heard it so many times. But

she's all wrong. There isn't any good in her. She's just remorseless and

selfish and stubborn. She thinks she ran the world once and she wants to

do it still."

"That's all rather fine, _I_ think," said Roddy. "I agree with her a

bit. I think most people have _got_ to be run--they just can't run

themselves, so you have to put things into them."

"Well, that's just where we differ," she said sharply. "It isn't so.

That's where all the muddle comes in. If everyone were just himself

without anything _borrowed_--Oh! the brave world it'd be----"

Then she laughed. "But I'm all wrong myself, you know. I'm as muddled as

anyone. I've got all the true, real me there, but all the Beaminster

part has slurred it over. But I've got a horrid fear that Truth gets

tired of waiting too long. One day, when you're not expecting it, it

comes up and says--'Now you choose--your only chance. _Are_ you going to

use me or not? If not, I'm going'--How awful if one didn't realize the

moment was there, and missed it."

She was laughing, but in her heart that other woman in her was stirring.

For a startled, trembling second the wood seemed to flame, the gardens

to blaze with the challenge:

"Are you, for the sake of the comfort and safety of life, playing false?

Which way are you going?"

She burst into laughter, she caught Roddy by the arm. "Oh! I've talked

such nonsense--It's getting cold--we've got to go in. Don't think I talk

like that generally, Sir Roderick, because I don't--I----"

She was nervous, frightened. The stars were so many and it was so dark

and Roddy no longer seemed a protection.

"I know it's late--Look here, I'm going to run--Race me----"

She tore for her very life out of the little wood, felt him pounding

behind her, seized, with a gasp of relief, the lights and the voices--

She knew, with joy, that Roddy was closing the door behind her and that

the garden and the stars and the wood were shut into silence.

For a little while, in the drawing-room, she talked excitedly, laughed a

great deal, even at Monty Carfax's jokes.

She knew that they were all thinking that she was pleased because she

had been with Roddy. She did not care what their thoughts were.

At last in her room she cried to Lucy--"Pull the curtains

tight--Tighter--Tighter--Those stars--they'll get through anything."

When at last Lucy was gone she lit her candle and lay there, hearing the

clocks strike the hours, wondering when the day would come.

CHAPTER XIII

DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER--II

I

Roddy, dozing after a night of glorious sleep, lay on his back and swung

happily to and fro.

The footman who was valeting him had pulled up the blind and drawn aside

the curtains, and the garden came to him, not as on last evening,

weighed with its canopy of stars, but now asserting its own happiness

and colour and freshness.

The man said: "The bathroom is the last door down the passage on your

right, sir. Breakfast is at half-past nine. It has just gone eight. What

clothes, sir?"

Roddy stared at him and smiled. After a little time, the man enquired

again: "Which suit will you wear this morning, sir?"

"Dark blue." Roddy, still happily floating somewhere near the

ceiling--floating with delicious lightness--"Dark blue--Dark blue--Dark

blue----"

For a little while the man, a strange vague shape, pulled out drawers

and closed them and walked about the floor, like Agag, delicately.

Roddy, from the ceiling watched him and resented the fact that every

sharp click of a drawer pulled him nearer to the carpet.

The man's final shutting of the bedroom door plumped Roddy into his bed,

wide awake.

"Damn him! What a wonderful day!"

He lay back and watched how waves of light danced on the walls. A

fountain splashed in the gardens and the long mirror on the right of the

bed had in it the corner of the green lawn and the cool grey stones of

an old wall.

Roddy lay on his back and allowed his sensations to run up and down his

body. It was for moments such as this that his life was intended. He

lived, deliberately and without any selfishness in the matter, for the

emotions that the good old god Pan might choose to provide for him.

He did not know Pan by name except as a silly fancy dress that Monty

Carfax had once worn at a fancy-dress dance and as Someone alluded to

every now and again, vaguely, in the papers, but even though he did not

call him by name he, nevertheless, paid, without question, his daily

homage.

When, as on this beautiful morning, one had only to lie down and be

instantly conscious of a thousand things--sheep moving slowly across

hills, cattle browing in deep pools, those Downs that he loved rising,

slowly, like aged men, to greet a new day--then one questioned nothing,

one argued nothing, one needed no words, one was happy from the crown of

one's head to the toes of one's feet.

On this especial morning these delights were connected with the fact

that, during the day, he intended to propose marriage to Rachel

Beaminster. He thought of her, now, as she had looked last night,

sitting in that wood, in a pale blue dress, with the stars behind her,

staring, so seriously, down into the garden. She had been very beautiful

last night, and it had been a splendid moment--not more splendid than

other moments that he had had, but splendid enough to remember.

He was always prepared for the necessity of the short duration of his

sensations. He had discovered, when he was very young, that nothing

lasted and that the things that lasted the shortest time were generally

the best things, and therefore he had, quite unconsciously, trained

himself to store his memory with splendid moments; now, although he had

no memory at all for any sort of facts or books or histories, he could

recall precisely, in all their forms and colours, scenes, persons,

adventures that had, at any time, thrilled him.

He could remember days; once when, as a little boy, he had been

overtaken by night on the Downs and had sheltered in a deserted house,

black and evil, that had, he afterwards discovered, been, in the

eighteenth century, a private mad-house; once when the sea had been

green and purple, the sky black, and he had discovered a star-fish for

the first time (very young on that occasion); once when his horse had

run away with him and the danger had been exceeded by the glorious speed

through the air ... many, many others, all to be counted by him to their

very least detail, and now, of some of them, Rachel Beaminster was the

central figure.

He had had relations of many kinds with many different women and never

until now had he supposed, for an instant, that these relations would be

permanent. Even now, although he was intending to marry Rachel

Beaminster, he was not so foolish as to imagine that the freshness and

novelty of the feeling that he now had for her would last more than a

very short time.

Quite deliberately he treasured up in his mind a thousand pictures of

her, as he had seen her during the last two months, so that when the

time came for seeing her no longer in that way, he would have his

memories: there was the time of her first ball, all excitement and

happiness, the day at her uncle's when she had looked at him over the

top of the fans, the night at the opera when she had been so angry with

him, last night--

She had, through all this time, remained elusive. He did not know her,

could not reconcile one inconsistency with another--but he thought that

she cared about him and would marry him.

He had always known that he must one day marry. That necessity was, in

no way, connected with the emotional side of him, it rather had its

relationship with the common sense of him, the part that believed in the

Beaminsters and all their glory.

He must marry because Seddon Court must have a mistress, because he

himself must have children, because he would like to have someone there

to be kind to. That need in him for bestowing kindness upon someone was

always most urgent, and all sorts of animals and all sorts of persons

had shared it--now one person would have it all. He could not bear to

hurt anyone or anything, and the crises of his life were provided by

those occasions when, in the delight of one of his emotional moments,

hurting somebody was involved--there was always then a conflict.

He knew that it was just here that the Duchess failed to understand him.

She liked hurting people and expected him to be amused when she told him

little stories about her having done so. He had now a kind of dim

feeling that it was because the Duchess hoped that he was going to hurt

Rachel that she had prosecuted so strenuously his marriage.

He trusted with all his heart that he would never hurt Rachel, he

intended always to be very, very kind to her; it was indeed a thousand

pities that the present quality of his attitude to her must, like all

attitudes, eventually change.

But he was always--he was sure of this--going to be good to her and give

her everything that the mistress of Seddon Court should have.

At the same time, vaguely, he wished that the old Duchess had had

nothing to do with this; sometimes he wondered whether the side in him

that found pleasure in her was really natural to him.

Whenever he thought of her, she, in some way, confused his judgment and

made life difficult.

She was doing that now....

II

When he came down to breakfast he found that he was the last. He sat

next to Nita Raseley and was conscious, after a little time, that she

was behaving with a certain reserve. He had known her in the kind of way

that he knew many people in his own set in London, pleasantly,

indifferently, without curiosity. She had, however, attracted him

sometimes by the impression that she gave him that she was too young to

know many men, but, however long she lived, would never find anyone as

splendid as he: she had certainly never been reserved before. Finally he

realized that she expected to hear of his engagement to Rachel

Beaminster at any moment. "Well, so she will," he thought, smiling to

himself. Meanwhile he avoided Rachel quite deliberately.

He was now self-conscious about her and did not wish to be with her

until he could ask her to marry him. No more uncertainty was possible.

He felt, not frightened, but excited, just as he would feel were he

about to ride a dangerous horse for the first time.

He seized, with relief, upon the proposal of church; he wanted the

morning to pass; his prayer was that she would not walk to church with

him, because he had now nothing to say to her except the one thing. When

he heard that she was staying behind and walking with Nita Raseley he

was surprised at his own sense of release.

Lady Adela was kind to him this morning in a sort of motherly way and

apparently seized on his going to church as an omen of his future

married happiness.

"They're all waiting to hear," he said to himself.

They were to walk across the park to the little village church, and when

they set out he was conscious that Lord John, like a large and amiable

bird, was hovering about him: finally, Lord John, nervous apparently,

most certainly embarrassed, settled upon him.

"Going to church, aren't you, Roddy?"

"Yes, Beaminster."

"Well, let's strike off together, shall we?"

Roddy liked Lord John best of the Beaminster brothers; the Duke he could

not endure and Lord Richard was so superior, but Johnny Beaminster was

as amiable as an Easter egg and fond of race meetings and pretty women,

and not too dam' clever--in fact, really, not clever at all.

But Johnny Beaminster embarrassed was another matter and Roddy found

soon that this embarrassment led to his own confusion.

Lord John flung out little remarks and little whistles because of the

heat and little comments upon the crops. He obviously had something that

he very much wanted to say--"Of course," thought Roddy, "this is

something to do with Rachel--he's very fond of Rachel."

Although Johnny Beaminster had not, in strict accuracy, himself the

reputation of the whitest of Puritans, yet Roddy wondered whether

perhaps he were not now worrying over some of Roddy's past history, as

rumoured in London society.

"Doesn't want his girl to be handed over to a reg'lar Black Sheep,

shouldn't wonder," thought Roddy, and this led him to rather indignant

consideration of the confusion of the Beaminster mind and its muddled

moralities.

The walk to the church was not very long, but it became, towards the

close of it, quite awful in its agitation.

"Dam' hot," said Lord John.

"Very," said Roddy.

"Wouldn't wonder if this weather broke soon----"

"Quite likely."

"Makes you hot walking to church this hour of the morning."

"Yes--don't it? Farmers will be wantin' rain pretty badly. Down at my

little place they tell me it's dried up like anythin'----"

"Reg'lar Turkish bath----"

"Well, the church ought to be cool----"

"You never know with these churches----"

Roddy thought "He's afraid of his old mother. Doesn't want me to marry

Rachel, but he's afraid of his old mother."

"Massiter's getting fat----" This was Lord John's contribution.

"Yes--so's that novelist feller----"

"Oh! Garden! Yes--ever read anything of his?"

"Never a line. Never read novels."

"Not bad--good tales, you know."

"He's probably," Roddy thought, "had a row with the old lady about

me----"

Then, strangely enough, the notion hit him--"Wish it was he wanted me to

marry Rachel and the Duchess didn't--Wish she didn't, by Gad."

As they entered the church Roddy might have seen, had he been gifted in

psychology, that there was in Lord John's face the look of a man who had

fought a battle with his dark angel and been, alas, defeated.

III

After luncheon Roddy said:

"Miss Beaminster, come for a walk?"

"A little way," she said, looking at him with her eyes in that straight

direct way that she had.

"She must know," said Roddy to himself, "that I'm going to do it now.

They all know. It's awful!"

Some of the others had gathered together under a great oak that shaded

the central lawn, and now as he climbed the hill with his capture he

felt that from beneath that tree many eyes watched them.

They did not go very far. At the top of the hill, above the little wood

and the gardens and the house, there was a grassy hollow, and under this

grassy hollow a great field of wheat, a sheet of red-gold with sudden

waves and ripples in it as though some hand were shaking it, ran down to

the valley.

"Let's stop here," Rachel said. "I was out all this morning with Nita

Raseley and it's too hot for any exertion whatever."

A tree shaded them and they sat down and watched corn.

"What sort of a girl do you think she is--Nita Raseley, I mean?" asked

Rachel.

"Oh! I don't know--the ordinary kind of girl--why?"

"She seems to want to know me. Says that she hasn't many friends. Is

that true? I thought she had heaps----"

"You never can tell with girls. You're all so uncertain about one

another--devoted one moment and enemies the next."

"Are we?" said Rachel slowly. "I don't think I'm like that--Oh! how hot

it is!" She lay back against the grass with her arms behind her head.

"Do you like me?" Roddy said suddenly.

"I?... You!"

She slowly sat up and he saw at once that she knew now what he was going

to say. At that moment, sitting there, staring at him, with her breasts

moving a little beneath her white dress and her hands pressing flatly

against the grass, in her agitation and the look in her eyes of some

suddenly evoked personality that he did not know at all she was more

elusive to him than she had ever been--

She was frightened--and also glad--but the change in her from the girl

he had known all the summer was so startling that he felt that he was

about to propose to someone he had never seen before.

"Do I like you?" she repeated slowly, and her lips parted in a smile.

"Yes," he said, looking at her hands that seemed to belong to the earth

into which they were pressing--"Because I want you to marry me----"

The moment of her surprise had come before--now she only said very

quietly--

"Why--what do you know about me?"

"I know--enough--to ask you," he said, stumbling over his words. He was

now afraid that, after all, she intended to refuse him, and the terror

of this made his heart stop. No words would come. He stared at her with

all the fright in his eyes.

"Roddy" (she had never called him that before), "do you care----"

Then she stopped.

She began again. "I don't want to talk nonsense. I want to say exactly

what I feel. I suppose most girls would want to be free a little longer,

would want to have a good time another two or three seasons--but I

don't--I hate being free--I want somebody to keep me, to prevent my

doing silly things, to look after me ... and ... I'd rather you did

it--than anybody else...." Then she went on quickly--"But it is more

than that. I do like you most awfully, only I suppose I'm not the kind

of girl to be frantically excited, to be wild about it all. I'm not

that. I do like you--better than any other man I know--Is that enough?"

"I think--we can be most awfully good pals--always," he said.

"Oh!" she cried suddenly, putting her hand on his and looking straight

into his face. "That's what I want--that, that--If that's it, and you

think we can, why then, I'd rather marry you, Roddy dear, than anyone in

the world."

"Then it's settled," he said. But he did not take her hand or touch her.

They sat for quite a long time, looking at the rippling corn and the

house, that was like a white boat sailing on the green far below them.

They said no word.

Then, without speaking, they got up from the grass and walked down the

path to the little wood. But when they came to the place where they had

been the night before he caught her to him so furiously that his own

body was bent back, and he kissed her again and again and again.

BOOK II

RACHEL

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 snow

fell.

Francis Breton, standing at his window high up in the Saxton Square

house, watched the first flakes, as they came, lingering, from the heavy

brooding sky; as he watched a great tide of unhappiness and restlessness

and discontent swept over him. His was a temperament that could be

raised to heaven and dashed to hell in a second of time; life never

showed him its true colours and his sensitive suspicion to the signs and

omens of the gods gave him radiant confidence and utter despair when

only a patient quiescence had been intended. During the last three

months he had risen and fallen and risen again, as the impulse to do

something magnificent somewhere interchanged with the impulse to do

something desperate--meanwhile nothing was done and, standing now

staring at the snow, he realized it.

He had never, in all his days, known how to moderate. If he might not be

the hero of society then must he be the famous outcast, in one fashion

or another London must ring with his name.

And yet now here had he been in London since the end of April and

nothing had occurred, no steps, beyond that first letter to his

grandmother, had he taken. He had not even responded to the advances

made 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 had

waited. 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 been

over 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 had

never paused for a period long enough to allow clear thinking, but now,

through all these weeks, he had been conscious that that same clear

thinking would have come to him had not his grandmother clouded his

mind. He felt her as one feels, in a dream, some power that prevents our

movement, 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 had

often come to him. He would speculate about her. She, like himself, was

by birth half a rebel, she _must_ be--She _must_ be. He had sometimes

thought that he would write to her, and then he had felt that that would

not be fair. Behind all his dreams and romances he always saw some

destiny whose colours were woven simply for him, Francis Breton, and

this confidence in an especial personally constructed God had been

responsible for his wildest and most foolish mistakes.

Often had he seen this especial God bringing his cousin and himself

together. Always he had known that, in some way, they two were to be

chosen to work out, together, vengeance and destruction against all the

Beaminsters. When, therefore, that meeting in the Rands' drawing-room

had taken place he had accepted it all. She was even more wonderful

than he had expected, but he had known, instantly, that she was his

companion, his chosen, his fellow-traveller; between them he had

realized a claim, implied on some common knowledge or experience, at the

first moment of their meeting.

From the age of ten, when he had been petted by one of his father's

mistresses, 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 only

knew that the whole current of his life was changed from the moment that

he met her and that, until the end of it, she now would be intermingled

with all his history.

At first so sure had he been of the workings of fate in this matter that

he had been content (for the first time in all his days) to wait with

his hands folded. During this period all thought of action against the

Beaminsters on the one hand or a relapse into the company of the friends

of his earlier London days on the other, had been out of the question.

This certainty of Rachel's future alliance with himself had made such

things impossibly absurd.

Then had come the announcement of her engagement to Seddon. For a moment

the shock had been terrific. He had suddenly seen the face of his

especial God and it was blind and stupid and dead....

Then swiftly upon that had come thought of his grandmother. This was, of

course, her doing--Rachel was too young to know--She would discover her

mistake: the engagement would be broken off.

During this time he had met Rachel on several occasions, and although

the meetings had been very brief, yet always he had felt that same

unacknowledged, secret intimacy. After every meeting his confidence had

risen, 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 fancied

that this had happened because he had not come to her and more plainly

declared himself; his picture of her idea of him was confused with all

the dramatic untruth of _his_ idea of her; then, interchanging with

that, had come moods when he had seen things more plainly as they were

and had told himself that all relations between herself and him had been

invented by himself, that any kindness that she had shown him had been

kindness sprung from pity.

During the early months of the autumn Rachel and her husband were

abroad, and during this time, Breton told himself that he was waiting

for her return before taking any action. Then a certain Mrs. Pont, a

lady whose beauty had been increased but her reputation lessened by

several scandals and a tiresomely querulous Mr. Pont, had suggested to

Francis Breton a continuation of certain earlier relationships.

He knew himself well enough to be sure that one evening in Mrs. Pont's

company would put an end to his struggles, so weak was he in his own

knowledge that the only possible evading of a conflict was by the denial

of 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's

return.

Although he would confess it to no man alive, he longed now, with an

aching heart, for some sort of reconciliation with the family. He would

have astonished them with his humility had they given him any sign or

signal. He fancied that Lord John or even the Duke might come.... Once

admitted to his proper rank again and what a citizen he would be! Vanish

for ever Mrs. Pont and her tribe and all that dark underworld that

waited, like some sluggish but confident monster, for his inevitable

descent. Wild phantasmic plans crossed his brain every hour of every

day--nothing came of it all; only when at last it was announced that

Sir Roderick and Lady Seddon had returned to England he discovered that

he 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 of

November he waited, expecting that she would write to him; still, by

this anticipation, were Mrs. Pont and Mrs. Pont's world kept at bay.

No word came. Driven now to take some step that would shatter this

silence, he wrote to her a long letter about nothing very much, only

something that would bring him a line from her.

For ten days now he had waited and there had come no word. As these

first flakes of snow softly, relentlessly, fell past his window the

nebulous cloud of all the uncertainties, disappointments, rebellions, of

this pointless wasted thing that men called Life crystallized into

form--"I'm no good--Life, like this, it's impossible--I'm no good

against 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 suspension

of all action. "Just feel what's piling up for you out of all this

silence," they seem to say. Breton's trouble now was that he did not

know in what direction to move. His relation to Rachel was so nebulous

that it could scarcely be called a relation at all.

He only knew that she alone was the person for whom now life was worth

combating. He had told her in his letter that she could help him, and

the absence of an answer spoke now, in this threatening silence, with

mighty reverberating voice. "She doesn't care."

Well then, who else is there? Almost he could have fancied that his

grandmother, there in the Portland Place house, was withdrawing from him

all the supports in which he trusted.

Now the snow, falling ever more swiftly, ever more stealthily, seemed to

be 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, he

went to find Lizzie Rand.

II

Lizzie Rand did not conceal from herself now that she loved him. So long

had her emotional life been waiting there, undesired, that now it could

be kept by her utterly apart from her daily habit, but it became a

flame, a fire, that lighted with its splendid warmth and colour the

whole of her accustomed world. She indulged it now without restraint,

through the long dark autumn she had it treasured there; she did not, as

things then were, ask for more than this splendid knowledge that there

was now someone upon whom she loved to spend her care. She had not loved

to spend it upon her mother and sister, but that had been a duty defined

and necessary. Now everything that she could do for Breton was more fuel

to fling to her flame. That further question as to whether he might care

for her she kept just in sight, but nevertheless not definite enough to

risk 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 present

need.

Even, beyond it all, could she survey herself humorously. This the first

love 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 caught

the impulse back.

This too she would not examine too closely, but from the moment that he

should demand from her definite concrete assistance, from that moment

she 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 skirts

pulled up, drying her shoes.

She looked up and smiled at him and told him to sit down, but did not

move 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 to

or 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 little

square now white with the gaunt trees rising black from the heart of it

and the grey houses that hemmed it in. Over it the snow, yellow and grey

and then delicately white, swirled and tossed.

He came back and sat down beside her and wondered at her neat comfort

and 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 want

first 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, looking

at 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 month

after month, doing nothing, just waiting for something to

happen--something that can't happen unless you make it? Things don't

fall 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 would

define them, and yet, God knew, they were real enough.

"I know--" she said, nodding her head. "It's the thought of them all at

Portland Place that's holding you back. You began by fancying that you

wanted to cut their throats, and you still wouldn't mind slaughtering

them if only they in their turn would do something definite. It's their

doing _nothing_ that just holds you up. But really as long as your

grandmother's alive I'm afraid that it's no good thinking of them. When

she'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 been

brought up to do anything--except what I oughtn't--There's my arm and

one 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--so

freezing. If only somebody minded----"

As he spoke Rachel rose, beautifully, wonderfully, before him. There, as

she had been on that first day when she had had tea there, bending

forward, listening, her dark wondering eyes on his face.

Lizzie at the sound of the appeal in his voice had felt her heart

expand, beat, so that her body seemed to hold, suddenly, some great

possession 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 of

thing. People are meant to stand alone, not to go leaning about for

other 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 by

your 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 anyone

to-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 got

friends 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 and

don't despair. Don't think of your grandmother too much. The mere fact

of your not seeing her makes you imagine her as something portentous and

dreadful, 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. All

these last weeks you and Christopher have been the two people who've

held the world together for me. But there's more than you know, Miss

Rand. There's----"

He bent towards her. She knew that the confidence was at last to be

hers. It needed her strongest control to prevent the trembling of her

hands. His eyes were alight, his whole body eloquent. At the thought of

what 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. Rand

and Daisy. They had been to the play--_Such_ nonsense. One of these new,

serious plays with long, long conversations--Mrs. Rand wanted tea. Daisy

wanted admiration.

Between Lizzie and Breton the precious cup had fallen, smashed to the

tiniest 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 and

coat and went out into the square.

III

There had come to him one of those agonies of loneliness that no

argument, no reasoning can destroy.

The absence of any letter from Rachel seemed to show that she had

abandoned him. In all this vast thickly peopled world there was now no

one to whom his presence or absence, his fortunes or disasters mattered.

The snowstorm gathered him into its folds; the snow fell against his

mouth, his eyes, and before him, behind him, around him there was a

world 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 all

creation--the end of the world.

He pressed into the park and there under the trees stretching like

gallows against the throttling sky temptation to give it all up, to go

under 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. The

Upper World would not hear nor see nor think of his disasters, and

slowly, with the others, life would recede, he would crumble and decay

and 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 thick

grey--promise that the storm was at an end.

Suddenly with the cessation of the storm the long field of white seemed

good and restful, and beyond the park the houses showed light in their

windows.

The yellow spread through the sky, and stars, very slowly, came and the

wind died away.

Courage filled him. Rachel might never come or write or care, but he

would make the thought of her the one true thing in his heart, and with

that he would do battle so long as he could.

Christopher and Miss Rand ... he thought of them as he trudged his way

home--and when he saw the white silence of Saxton Square and the golden

sky breaking above its peace and quiet he thought that, for a time

longer, he would keep his place and hold his own.

CHAPTER II

A LITTLE HOUSE

"Each in the crypt would cry,

'But one freezes here! and why?

'When a heart, as chill,

'At my own would thrill

Back to life, and its fires out-fly?

'Heart, shall we live or die?

The rest ... settle by-and-by!'"

ROBERT BROWNING.

I

Rachel at Seddon Court watched, from her window, that first fallen snow.

Seddon Court is about three miles from the town of Lewes and lies,

tucked and cornered, under the very brow of the Downs. It is a grey

little house, old and stalwart, with a courtyard and two towers. The

towers are Norman; the rest of the house is Tudor.

Beyond the actual building there are gardens that run to the very foot

of the Downs, with only a patch and an old stone wall intervening. Above

the house, day and night, year after year, the Downs are bending;

everything, beneath their steady solemn gaze, is small and restless; as

the colours are flung by the sun across their green sprawling limbs the

house, at their feet, catches their reflected smile and, when the sun is

gone and the winds blow, cowers beneath their frown; everything in that

house is conscious of their presence.

Rachel had been at Seddon Court for a month and now, at the window of

her writing-room, looking across the garden, up into their dark shadows,

she wondered at their indifference and monotony. Anyone who had known

her before her marriage would be struck instantly, on seeing her now, by

a change in her.

Her whole attitude to the world, during her first season in London, had

been an attitude of wonder, of expectation, of the uncertainty that

comes from expectation.

With that expectation were also alarm, distrust, and it was only when

some sudden incident or person called happiness into her face that that

distrust vanished.

Now she was older, that hesitation and awkwardness were gone, but with

their departure had vanished, too, much of her honesty. Her dark eyes

were as sincere as they had ever been, but to anyone who had known her

before her attitude now was assumed. Nothing might catch her unprepared,

but what experiences were they that had taught her the need for armour?

Sitting in her room looking on to a lawn that would soon be white and to

Downs obscured already by the thick tumbling snow, she knew that she was

unhappy, disappointed, even alarmed. Suddenly to-day the uneasiness that

had been gathering before her throughout the last weeks assumed, on this

afternoon, the definite tangibility of a challenge.

"What's the matter--with me, with everything?... What's happened?"

Her room, dark green and white, had no pictures, but a long low

book-case with grave handsome books, an edition of someone in red with

white paper labels and another edition of someone else in dark blue and

another in gold and brown, an old French gilt mirror, square, with a

reflection of the garden and the foot of the Downs in it, an old Queen

Anne rosewood writing-table, some Queen Anne chairs, a gate-legged

table--a very cool, quiet room.

At her feet with his head resting on her shoe there lay a dog. This dog

about a fortnight ago she had found in a field near the house with a

kettle tied on to his tail, and his body a confused catastrophe of mud

and blood.

She had carried him home; it had needed some courage to introduce him

into the household, for Roddy possessed many dogs all of the finest

breeds, and this was a mongrel who defied description. He was very

short and shaggy and stumpy. He was much too large for a Yorkshire

terrier and yet that was undoubtedly his derivation. There was something

of a sheep-dog in him and something of a Skye; his hair fell all over

his face and, when you could see them, his eyes were brown. His nose was

like a wet blackberry and his ears were long and full of emotion; when

he ran his short tail, on which the hairs were arranged like branches on

a Christmas tree, stuck up into the air and he resembled a rabbit.

In the confusion of the moment Rachel had called him Jacob, because she

thought that Jacob was, in the Bible, the "hairy one".... After all, you

_could_ not call a dog Esau.

Yes, to retain him had needed courage. Thinking of Roddy's attitude to

the dog brought so many other attendant thoughts in its train. Roddy in

his devotion to animals (and oh! he _was_ devoted), had no room for

those that were not of the aristocracy.

Concerning dogs who were mongrels he was kind but thought them much

better dead. Unkind he would never be, but the way in which he ignored

Jacob was worse than any unkindness.

Jacob, sensitive perhaps from early suffering, knew this and avoided

Roddy, ran out of the room when he came into it, showed in every way

that he must not expect to rank with the other dogs.

Very characteristic this attitude of Roddy, but very characteristic,

too, the affection that Jacob was now receiving from his mistress. There

was something that Jacob drew from Rachel that none of the fine, noble

dogs of the house was able to secure.... Why?... What, again, was the

matter? Why was Rachel unhappy?

Rachel was unhappy, and the answer came quite clearly to her as the room

was darkened by the great storm of snow now falling over the Downs and

the garden, because marriage with Roddy had not lessened in any way that

uneasy disquiet that had stirred, without pause, beneath her life

before her marriage; that uneasiness had, indeed, during the last three

months, increased....

Was this her fault or Roddy's?

Attacked now by a scrutiny that refused dismissal she delivered herself

up to the investigation of these months of her married life.

She knew that she had only once been happy since her marriage--that was

on the first evening, when, the noise and clamour of the London wedding

having died away, she had walked with Roddy in the peace of the Massiter

garden (Lady Massiter had lent her house for the first weeks of the

honeymoon), had felt his arm about her, had believed that there had

really come to her that comfort and safety for which she longed.

After that there had followed a fortnight of great unreality--the

strangest excitement, the most adventurous wonders, but a wonder and

excitement that were from herself, the real Rachel Beaminster, most

absolutely removed. It was as though she had watched closely but

detached the experiences of some other girl. Roddy had, during those

times, been a most ardent and passionate lover; she had tried to respond

and had hidden, as best she could, her failure.

Then, suddenly, with the time of their going abroad, passion had left

him; it had left him as swiftly as the passing of wind over a hill. It

was there--it was gone.

But he remained the perfect husband. His kindness, his charm, his

simplicity, his affection for her--an affection that could never for an

instant be doubted--these things had delighted her. He was now the

friend, the strong reliant companion that she had wanted him to be.

During those first weeks in Italy and Greece happiness might have come

to her had she not been stirred by her remembrance of the earlier weeks.

The passion that had been in him, although it had not touched her, now

in retrospect lit fires for her imagination. Instantly back to her had

come the whole disquiet and unrest. The things that Roddy called from

her now, she suddenly discovered with a great shrinking alarm, were all

the Beaminster things. All the true emotions, qualities, traditions that

made up her secret life were roused in her by their own inherent

vitality, never by his evocation of them. _He_ was Beaminster--Roddy was

Beaminster. With his kindness and courtesy his eyes saw the world with

the eyes of his ancestors, his tongue spoke the language that had in it

no sincerity, his heart wished for all the ceremonies and lies that the

Beaminster had believed in since the beginning of time.

But her discovery did not lead her much further. She had, in her heart

of hearts, always known that Roddy was a Beaminster. Why then had she

married him? She had married him because she had been untrue to herself,

because she had herself encouraged the Beaminster blood in her to blind

her eyes, because she had desired deceit rather than truth, because she

had wanted the comfort that the man could give her rather than the man

himself, because she had muffled and stifled and silenced that Power in

her--the Power that made her restless and unquiet; the Power that was as

hostile to the Beaminster faith as heaven is to hell--

And yet this vehemence of explanation did not altogether explain Roddy.

Roddy was not _simply_ a Beaminster like Uncle John or Uncle Richard or

Aunt Adela. There was an elemental direct emotion in Roddy that was

exactly opposed to Beaminster conventionality.

These two elements in him puzzled and even frightened her. His attitude

during that first fortnight of their marriage she saw, again and again,

in lesser degrees during their time abroad. She had seen him so

primitive in his joy and excitement over places and people and

moments--colour, food, storms, towns, passers-by, anything--that she had

been astounded by the force of it. Emotions swept over him and were

gone, but, whilst they were there, she knew that she counted to him for

nothing. Strangest of ironies that when he was least a Beaminster, then

was she farthest from him--strangest of ironies that her link with him

should be the Beaminster in him.

She was frightened of his primitive passions. She had in her the

instinct that one day they would touch his relationship to her and that

that contact would rouse in her the full tide of the unhappiness of

which she was now so conscious, and that then ... what might not

happen?...

And yet behind it all she felt a strange, almost pathetic satisfaction

because he, after all, had in him, just as she had, his two natures at

war. There at least they found some common link; her eagerness to find

some link was evidence enough of the affection she had for him.

After their return to England the wilder nature in him had extended and

broadened. Everything to do with Seddon Court drew it out of him; his

passion for the place was wonderful to witness. Every stone of the

little grey building was a jewel in his eyes; the servants, the cattle,

the horses, the dogs, the flowers, the villagers, even the townspeople

of Lewes drew sentiment from him.

"My old place," he would say, cuddling it to himself; he was never

"sloppy" about it, but direct and simple and straightforward. It was

obviously _the_ great emotion above all other emotions.

He was most anxious that Rachel should share this with him, and during

her first weeks there she thought that she would do so. Then the

disquiet in her spread to the place. The house spread itself out before

her now as the lure that had from the beginning tempted her.

"It was for this place and quiet that you were false to yourself----"

Roddy felt that she did not share his enthusiasm, and their difficulty

over this was exactly their difficulty over everything else; simply that

Roddy was the least eloquent person in the world. He could explain

nothing whatever of the vague unhappiness or dissatisfaction at his

heart. Rachel _could_ have explained a great many things, but Roddy, she

felt, would only look at her in his kind puzzled way and wonder why she

couldn't take things as they were.

Perhaps during these last weeks he had himself felt that all was not

well. Rachel thought that sometimes now through, all his kindness she

detected a floating, wistful speculation on his part as to whether she

were happy.

He _wanted_ her to be happy--most tremendously he wanted it--and did she

explain to him that she was not happy because she was, now, for ever

attended by a sense of her own disloyalty to all that was best in her,

he would have suggested a doctor or have made her a present.

Had she been some stranger and had the case been presented to him he

would have probably dismissed it by saying that "having made her bed she

must lie on it." "After all, she married the feller--Well then, that's

_her_ look-out."

So, perhaps, if this had been simply her trouble she would have done her

bravest best to endeavour.

But there was more behind it all--far, far more.

She saw her marriage to Roddy, her struggling for self-respect, her

present morbid introspection as a stage in what was now developing into

a duel between herself and her grandmother.

Her grandmother had planned this marriage. Her grandmother was

determined to destroy the honesty and truth in her and had chosen a

Beaminster for her agent and now waited happy for the death of Rachel's

soul.

But Rachel's soul should not so readily die! During all these weeks the

thought of her grandmother had been continually with her. How she hated

her, and with what fervour did Rachel return that hatred!

There was no melodrama in this hatred. When she had been a very little

girl Rachel had somehow believed that her grandmother had been very

cruel to her mother and father--She had hated her for that. Then she had

seen that her grandmother disliked her and wished to tease her--so she

had hated her for that also.

Her older amplification of this into principles and instincts had not

altered the original vehemence of the passion, it had only given it

grown-up reasons for its existence.

And so, thinking of her grandmother, she thought also of Francis Breton.

Some weeks ago she had received a letter from him and that letter was

now lying in the desk of her writing-table.

She had thought that her marriage would have snapped her interest in her

cousin because it would have broken that hostility with her grandmother

upon which her relationship with her cousin so largely depended. But now

when she saw that marriage had only intensified her hostility to the

Duchess, so therefore it had intensified her perception of Breton. His

letter had aroused in her, just as contact with him aroused in her,

everything in her that now, for her own peace of mind, she should keep

at bay. His letter had amounted to this:

"You are a rebel as I am a rebel. We have said very little, but you have

recognized in me the things that I have recognized in you. You have

escaped through marriage, but for me there is no escape, and if you

would, for the sake of those things that we have in common, keep me from

going utterly under, then you must help me--as only you can."

He did not say this nor anything at all like this. He only, very

quietly, congratulated her on her marriage, hoped that she would be very

happy, said that London was a little desolate and difficult, hoped that

she would not think more harshly of him than she could help, and, at the

very end, told her that meeting her made him feel that he was not

entirely abandoned by everybody.

It was the letter of a weak man and she knew it, but it was the letter

of a man who was weak exactly in the places where she also failed. And

this, more than anything else, moved her.

They two alone, it seemed, were struggling to keep their feet in a world

that did not need them. It had been, through these months, Rachel's

sharpest unhappiness, the consciousness that Roddy and indeed everything

at Seddon Court could get on so very well without her.

Nobody in London needed her--nobody here needed her. If you accepted the

Beaminster doctrine, then no wife would demand more from a husband than

Roddy gave Rachel--but was this not simply another proof that Rachel had

made a Beaminster marriage?

Rachel had been flung straight from the schoolroom into marriage and the

sensitive agonizing cry of a child to be loved by somebody--the cry that

had always been so urgent in her--was urgent still.

It was exactly this comfortable sense of being a help that Roddy had not

given her. Now this letter gave it to her.

But if this letter was an appeal, just as the mongrel Jacob, now at her

feet, was an appeal, on the part of someone wounded and outcast, to her

pity, so also was it an invitation to rebellion.

It was also a temptation to deceit and, did she answer the letter, she

encouraged Breton to write again; she opened up not only a new

relationship to him, but also a new relationship to all the forces that

were most hostile to Roddy and her married happiness. May Eversley had

once said to her: "Sit down and see, without any exaggeration or false

colouring, what you've got. Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you

imagine that you've got but haven't. Take away ruthlessly everything

that you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident of

securing--See what's happened to you in the past--Take away ruthlessly

any sentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quite

resolutely from your ugly mistakes."

Long ago she had written this down--now was the first necessity for

applying it.

The doctrine of Truth--Truth to Oneself, the one thing that mattered.

She knew that the pursuit of Truth was to her, and to every rebel

against the Beaminsters, the restive Tiger. In marrying Roddy she had

been untrue to herself. In writing to Breton she would be true to

herself but untrue to Roddy. She was fond of Roddy although she did not

love him, nor did he, really, love her. The anxiety on both their parts

to avoid hurting one another was proof enough of that, she thought.

There then was the whole situation. As she felt Jacob's warm head

against her foot a great agitation of loneliness and dismay and

helplessness swept over her.

Tears were in her throat and eyes--Then with a strong disdain she pushed

it all from her. She was growing morbid, losing her sense of humour and

proportion. Here in the house there was Nita Raseley staying; in the

country there were people to be called upon, to be invited, to be

interested in, there was Roddy, a perfect husband.

She strangled that other Rachel, there in her room. "Now you're dead,"

she felt, and seemed to fling a lifeless, crumpled figure out into the

snow--

She looked at herself in the glass.

"You're not Rachel Beaminster now--you're Rachel Seddon. Act accordingly

and don't whine--" She washed her face and brushed her hair, and combed

Jacob's hair out of his eyes, and then, determined to be sensible and

cheerful and civilized, went down to tea.

II

The room called the Library was the pleasantest room in the house; an

old, long, low-ceilinged room with windows that stretched from floor to

ceiling, with a large stone open fireplace and book-cases running from

end to end and old sporting prints above them.

Before the great fireplace the tea was waiting and there also was Nita

Raseley, very charming and fresh and pink in the face and golden in the

hair. It was strange that Nita Raseley should have been their first

guest since their marriage, because Rachel, most certainly, did not like

her; but, after that meeting at the Massiters' the girl had flung a

passionate and incoherent correspondence upon Rachel and had ended by

practically inviting herself.

Roddy liked her; Rachel knew that--so perhaps after all it had been a

good thing to have her there. Rachel's dislike of her was founded on a

complete distrust. "She's all wrong and insincere and beastly. I'll

never have her here again...." And yet, really, Miss Raseley had behaved

herself, had been most quiet and decorous and _most_ affectionate.

The electric light was delicately shaded, the curtains were drawn,

outside was the storm, here cosiness and shining comfort.

"Oh! _darling_ Rachel--I _am_ so glad you've come--I do so want

tea----"

"Where's Roddy?"

"Just come in--He'll be here in a minute----"

Rachel came over to the fire and was busy over the tea-table.

"Well, Nita, what have you been at all the afternoon?"

"Oh! that silly old book. Rachel, how _could_ you tell me----"

"What book?"

"Oh! _you_ know--you lent it me. Something like drinking--_you_ know. By

that man Westcott--_such_ a silly name."

"_The Vines!_--Didn't you like it?"

"Like it! My dear Rachel, why, they go on for pages about each other's

feelings and nothing happens and I'm sure it's most unwholesome. They're

all so unhappy and always hating one another. I like books to be

cheerful and about people one knows--don't you?"

"Well, Nita dear, it's a good thing we don't all like the same things,

isn't it? Sugar?"

"Yes, dear, you know--lots--Darling, have you got a headache? You _do_

look rotten--you _do_ really."

Rachel knew that she must keep an especial guard to-day: she was

irritable, out of sorts. She would have liked immensely to send Nita to

have her tea in the nursery, were there one.

"No, I'm all right. But I wanted to get out and this storm stopped me."

"You do look dicky! Oh! what do you think! Roddy's taking us over to

Hawes to-morrow to lunch if the weather's anything like decent. He's

just fixed it up--sent a wire----"

"To-morrow? But _I_ can't.... He knows. I've got Miss Crale coming

here----"

"Only old Miss Crale? Put her off----"

"I can't possibly--I've put her off once before. She wants to talk about

her Soldiers' Institute place--" Then Rachel added more slowly, "But

Roddy knew----"

"Oh! he said you'd got some silly old engagement, but he _knew_ you'd

put it off!"

"He knows I can't. He was talking about it this morning. He knew

how----" Then she stopped. She was not going to show Nita Raseley that

she minded anything.

But Roddy had always said that they would go over together to Hawes--one

of the loveliest old places in the world--He had always promised....

She knew perfectly well what had occurred. Nita had caught Roddy and

clung on to him and persuaded him--Roddy was such a boy--But she was

hurt and she despised herself for it.

"Oh," she said, laughing. "That's all right. You two must just go over

together--that's all! I'll go another time----"

"Well, you see, Roddy _did_ send a wire and the Rockingtons would _hate_

being put off at the last moment.... Oh! You beastly dog! He's been

licking my shoe, Rachel. Really he oughtn't to, ought he? So funny of

you, Rachel, when he's _such_ a mongrel and Roddy's got such lovely

darlings--Of course Jacob's a dear, but he _is_ rather absurd to look

at----"

Jacob glanced at her, shook his ears and then, hearing a step that he

knew, retired, instantly, under a sofa in a far corner of the room.

Roddy came in and stood for a moment laughing across at them. He was in

an old tweed suit with a soft collar and his face was brick-red; looking

at him as he stood there, the absolute type of health and strength and

cleanly vigour, Rachel wondered why she felt irritable. She certainly

was out of sorts.

"Hullo, you two," Roddy said, "you do look cosy! Talkin' secrets, or

will you put up with a man?"

"Oh! _Roddy_," said Nita Raseley, "why, of _course_. Rachel's only just

come down, hasn't been any time for secrets. Come and get warm."

Room was made for him. Rachel smiled at him as she gave him his tea.

"Well, Roddy, what have _you_ been doing? I've been trying to write

letters and Nita's been abusing a novel I lent her. I hope you've been

better employed----"

"I've been botherin' around with Nugent over those two horses he bought

last week. And--oh! I say, Rachel, you'll come over to Hawes to-morrow,

won't you?"

"You know I can't. I've got Miss Crale coming to luncheon----"

"Oh, I say! Put her off----"

"Can't--I've put her off before and she doesn't deserve to be badly

treated----"

"Oh! dash it! But I've gone and wired. The Rockingtons won't like my

changin'----"

"Well, don't change--you and Nita go over----"

"No, but you know we'd always arranged to go over together. You see, I

felt sure you'd put old Miss Crale on to another day. _She_ won't

mind----"

"No, Roddy, thank you. That's not fair on her. It can't be helped. You

go over with Nita."

Then there occurred between them one of those little situations that

were now so frequent. Rachel was hurt, but was determined to show

nothing; Roddy knew that she was hurt, but was quite unable to improve

relations, partly because he had no words, partly because "a feller

looks such a fool tryin' to explain," partly because there was in him a

quality of sullen obstinacy that was mingled, most strangely, with his

kindness and sentiment.

He was absolutely ready to fling Nita and the Rockingtons into limbo,

but he was quite unable to set about such a business.

Moreover now there was Nita Raseley--It was at this moment that Jacob,

having fought in the dark recesses of the sofa between his dislike of

Roddy and his love of tea, declared for his stomach and walked slowly,

and with the dignity required by the presence of an enemy, across the

room.

"Hullo! there's the mongrel--" Roddy endeavoured to cover earlier

awkwardness by easy laughter, but the laughter was not easy and his

attempt to pat Jacob was frustrated by a sidling movement on the dog's

part.

Then Nita Raseley laughed.

Roddy now thought that women were damnable, that his wife had no right

to drag a mongrel like that about with her, that he'd show them if they

laughed at him, and that if Rachel couldn't come to-morrow, why then,

she must just lump it--The last thought of all was that Rachel was

always finding a grievance in something.

He waited a little while, talked in a stiff and unnatural fashion and

then went.

"This weather _is_ very trying, dear, isn't it?" said Nita. "If I were

you I really would go and lie down. You do look _so_ seedy!"

"I think I will," said Rachel.

As she went slowly upstairs to her room she knew that she would answer

Francis Breton's letter.

CHAPTER III

FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE

"He began to love her so soon, as he perceived that she was

passing out of his control."

JANE AUSTEN.

I

Next morning Rachel wrote the following letter to Francis Breton:

"DEAR MR. BRETON,

It was good of you to write to me and I must apologize for

allowing your letter to remain so long unanswered, but, on my

return from abroad, there were naturally a great many things to

do and a great many people to see.

My husband and I enjoyed our time abroad immensely: it was my

first visit to Greece and Italy and I loved every bit of

it--Athens is to me more wonderful than now, here so snugly in

England, seems possible; Florence and Rome very beautiful of

course but spoilt, don't you think, by tourists and the modern

Italian who has learnt American habits--

How is London? I've not yet had a good look at it since I came

back, but we shall be coming up soon, I expect, and have taken

a flat in Elliston Square, between Portland Place and Byranston

Square.

Your letter sounds a little dismal; it is kind of you to say

that I can help you, but, indeed, if writing to me helps do so.

It is only fair to say that at present my husband shares the

family point of view and, so long as that is so, I cannot ask

you to come and see me, but I hope that soon he will see the

whole affair more sensibly.

Yours very sincerely,

RACHEL SEDDON."

She was not proud of this letter when she read it. She whose impulse was

for truth seemed to be flung, at every turn, into direct dishonesty. No,

she would not seize on the excuse of some vague tyrannical fate.

She was herself her own agent in this affair and she bitterly, from her

heart, condemned herself ... and yet, strangely, this letter to Breton

seemed, in obedience to some inward impulse, her most honest action

since her marriage.

Yet why did she not go to Roddy now and say to him that she had written

to Breton and was determined to act as his friend?

Roddy would forbid any further relationship; she knew that. And then?...

No, she could not see beyond--

She banished the letter from her mind, saw the two of them off to Hawes,

and entertained Miss Crale to luncheon. Miss Crale was a broad and

shapeless old maid with huge boots, a bass voice and a moustache. She

was behind most of the charitable affairs in the county, was popular

everywhere, and the most energetic character Rachel had ever met--

Rachel liked her and she liked Rachel, and after she had departed,

breathless and red-faced, on some further visit concerned with some

further charity, Rachel felt braced and invigorated and happier than she

had been for many weeks.

It was a day of frosted blue and the sun flashed fire on to the great

field of snow that stretched from sky to sky. The Downs lay humped

against the blue and the whole world was frozen into silence.

The only sounds were the soft stir the snow, falling from branches or

walls, made and the sharp cries of some children playing in a field near

at hand.

When Miss Crale had gone Rachel went off for a walk. Jacob was with her.

She struck up the winding path on to the Downs. The snow was hard and

yielded a pleasant friendly crunch beneath her feet. Shadows that were

dark and yet were filled with colour lay across the snow; beneath her a

white valley against which trees and buildings seemed little wooden toys

and, in the far distance, hills rising, cut, with their iridescent glow,

the blue sky.

No clouds; no movement; no sound: and soon the sun would be golden and

then hard and red, and then across all the snow pink shadows would creep

and the evening stars would burn--

In the heart of the snow, a valley between the shoulders of the Downs, a

black clump of trees clustered; she could see, now, Seddon Court like a

grey box at her feet, very tiny and breathing rest and peace.

Some of her trouble slipped from her under this clear sky and in this

sharp air; from these quiet hills she saw all her introspection as an

evil thing, morbid, cowardly; from here it seemed to her that her

trouble with Roddy had been because he did not know what introspection

meant and could not understand the appeals that she made to him.

But was it not unfair that men should have so many things that could

take the place of love? For Roddy there were a thousand emotions to give

meaning to life: for Rachel all experience seemed to come to her only

through people and her relations with people.

Soon the valley and the little toy houses were behind her and she had

only the white rise and fall of the hill on every side. Dropped into a

hollow was a little dark deserted house with bare trees about it;

otherwise there was no dwelling-place to be seen.

This absence of human life suddenly drew up before her, as sharply and

with as living an actuality as though some mirage had cast it

there--London--

Three months in the country had flung the London that she knew into a

vivid perspective that was quite novel to her. By the London that she

knew she did not mean the London of parties and theatre, the London of

Nita and her kind, but rather the actual London of the streets and

squares and fountain and parks and dusty plane trees and tinkling

organ-grinders.

She felt now quite a thrill of excitement to think that, in another week

or two, she would be back in it all and would see all the lamps coming

out and the jingling cabs and the heavy lumbering omnibuses, and that

she would hear again the sharp crying of the newspaper boys and the

ringing of church bells and the thud of the horses down the Row and the

hum of voices above the orchestra during the intervals of some play.

She thought of Portland Place and the park and the Round Church and the

little shops and Oxford Circus and the buses tumbling down Regent Street

into Piccadilly and then tumbling down again into Pall Mall. From

Portland Place she seemed to look down over the whole of London and to

see it like a jewel, with its glow dazzling the night sky--

She knew now that although she hated her grandmother she did not hate

the Portland Place house and she was glad that Roddy had taken a flat

near there. No other part of London would ever be quite the same to her

as that was: it would always be home to her more than any other place in

the world, with its space and air and sense of life crowding around it.

And, as she walked, she was fired with the desire to have some real

active share in the London life; not in the sham life of pleasure and

entertainment, but to be working, as all kinds of men must be working,

with London behind them, influencing them, sometimes depressing them,

sometimes exalting them, always moving within them.

That was a fine ambition to work towards a greater London, a greater,

finer, truer world, and whether you were politician or artist or

journalist or merchant or novelist or clerk or philanthropist, still by

your working honestly you would deserve your place in that company.

If she could have some share in such things, then her miserable doubts

and forebodings would vanish in a vision too bright and glorious to

contain them--

As she walked her face glowed and her body moved as though it could

continue thus, swinging through the clear air, for all time.

She determined that on this very evening she would tell Roddy about

Breton. Whatever might be the result life in the future should be clear

of Beaminster confusions. She would even ask Roddy to help her about

Breton, to influence, perhaps, her grandmother with regard to him--

Then, in a few days, Nita Raseley would be gone, and, afterwards, she

would discipline all her wit and energy towards establishing a fine

relationship with Roddy.

Something had, throughout all these months, been wrong; she would

discover where that wrong lay--She would curb her own impatience, would

fling herself into his interests, would learn the things that Roddy

wanted from her and give them to him--

Then, as the sun sank lower and the yellow shadows crept up the sky, she

felt desolate and lonely. Vigour left her--She had descended now into

the valley and had come to the deserted house with the stark frowning

trees. This place, she had heard, had in the eighteenth century been a

private mad-house, and now behind its darkened windows she could have

fancied shapes and down the wind the echo of voices.

She fought with all her might against a great tide of loneliness that

was now sweeping up about her. There had always been so many people

around her and yet she had always been lonely. Even May and Dr.

Christopher had not helped her there. She had a sense now of all the

people in all the world who were waiting for the other people who could

understand them; they were always missing one another, so near

sometimes, sometimes touching, and then, after all, going through life

alone.

Those were the people with feelings and emotions--and as for the people

without them, of what use was life to _them_?

Either way, except for the fortunate way, Life was a futile business.

Then, climbing up from that sinister little valley and seeing that the

sky had turned to violet and that the evening star was there burning as

she had known that it would, she laughed at her morbidity.

She shook herself free from it, thought once more of the things that she

would do with Roddy, thought of London and the fun that she would have

there, thought of Christopher and Uncle John and even Aunt Adela; then,

as she turned down the little crooked path towards the house, she

thought again of her cousin; she would work without ceasing to bring him

back into the family.

That, at any rate, was work upon which she might commence on her return

to London, and as she clicked the little wicket-gate, a side-entrance to

the garden, behind her, she was almost happy again.

The dusk was deepening into darkness, the moon had not yet risen above

the hill. She had entered the garden on the further side of the house

and passed through a long laurel path, her feet silenced by the snow.

Jacob had stayed, some way behind. She could see the white lawn and

beyond it the lighted house; she was about to step out of the dark

shadow of the laurels when she found, just in front of her, almost

touching her, hidden by the black depth of the trees, two figures.

She was upon them with a startled cry. A man had his arms about a woman;

bending back a little he had pulled her forward against him and was

kissing her so fiercely that her hands were buried deep in his coat to

steady herself.

Rachel knew them instantly; they were her husband and Nita Raseley--

She stepped past them on to the lawn and at that instant they were

conscious of her--

Then she walked swiftly into the house.

II

She went up to her bedroom. No thought came to her, her mind was blank,

but she noticed little things, put some of the silver things on her

dressing-table in order, pulled her blind a little lower, moved to the

fire and pushed the logs into a blaze. She sat there for a long, long

time.

When the dressing-bell echoed through the rooms she was still sitting

there, thinking nothing--

Her maid came to her; she told her the dress that she would wear and

after a while sat staring into her mirror whilst her hair was brushed.

Lucy said, "The snow's begun again, my lady. Coming down fast----"

Then some absence of light in her mistress's eyes frightened her and she

said no more.

Someone knocked on the door: a note for her ladyship. Rachel read it:

"It was all a horrible, _horrible_ mistake. Darling Rachel, you

_know_ it was only fun--just nothing at all. Shall I come and

explain? If you'd rather not see me just now say so and I shall

_quite_ understand. I've been so upset that I think I won't

come down to dinner, if it isn't _too_ much bother having just

a little sent up to me. It was all _such_ a silly mistake, as

you'll see when we've explained.

Your loving

NITA."

When she came to "we" Rachel coloured a little. Then she said, "Lucy,

bring me the local railway-guide. In my writing-room."

Lucy brought it to her. Then she wrote:

"DEAR NITA,

No explanations necessary. There is a good train up to town

from Hawes at 9.30 to-morrow morning.

Yours,

RACHEL SEDDON."

"I want this taken to Miss Raseley, Lucy--now. She's not very well, so

ask Haddon to see that dinner is sent up to her room, please."

Then she finished dressing and went down to Roddy.

III

He had perhaps expected that she would not come down, but there was no

opportunity given them for speech because the butler announcing dinner

followed her into the library. They went in.

He sat opposite her, looking ashamed, with his eyes lowered, and the red

coming and going in his sunburned cheeks.

They talked for the sake of the servants, and she asked him whether

Hawes had been as lovely as ever and whether Lady Rockington's nerves

were better, and how their youngest boy (delicate from his birth) was

now.

Whilst she spoke her brain was turning, turning like a wheel; could she

only, for five minutes, think clearly, then might much after disaster be

avoided. She knew that in the conversation that was to come Roddy would

follow her lead and that it would be she who would be responsible for

all consequences.

She knew that and yet she could not force her brain to be clear nor

foresee what the end of it all was to be.

The dessert and the wine came at last and she went--

"I'll be in the library, Roddy," she said.

He gave her a quarter of an hour, and in that pause, with the house

quite silent all about her and the fire crackling and the lights softly

shining, she strove to discipline her mind.

She had known as soon as she had seen them there that the most awful

element in it was that this had in no way altered the earlier case--it

merely precipitated a crisis and demanded a definition. Nothing could

have proved to her that she had never loved Roddy so much as her own

feeling at this crisis towards him. Therein lay her own sin.

It was simply now of the future that she must think. The awful chasm

that might divide them after this night, were not their words most

carefully ordered, shook her with fear; peril to herself, for she could

stand aside and see herself quite clearly: and she knew that if to-night

she and he were to say things that they could neither of them afterwards

forget, then, for herself, and from her deep need of love and affection,

there was temptation awaiting her that no disguise could cover.

Then, as more clearly she figured the scene in the garden, patience

seemed difficult to command.

She hated Nita Raseley--that was no matter--but she despised Roddy, and

were he once to-night to see that contempt she knew that his after

remembrance of it would divide them more completely than anything else

could do.

When he came in she had still no clearer idea of what she intended to

say, or how she wished things to go. She was sitting in an arm-chair by

the fire with her hands shielding her face, and he sat down opposite her

and stared at her and cleared his throat and wished that she would take

her hands down and then finally plunged:

"Rachel--I don't know--I can't--hang it all, what _can_ I say? I've been

a beastly cad and I'd cut my right hand off to have prevented it

happening----"

She took her hand down and turned towards him--

"Let's cut all the recrimination part, Roddy," she said. "It was very

unfortunate--that was all. It was rather beastly of you, and as for

Nita----"

Here he broke in--"No, I say, you mustn't say anythin' about her. She

wasn't a little bit to blame--It just----"

"Well, we'll leave Nita. She isn't of any importance, anyway. The point

is that things have been wrong for months between us, and as we haven't

been married very long that's a pity. This has just brought things to a

head, that's all----"

"No," said Roddy firmly. "No, Rachel, that ain't fair to Nita. I know it

isn't nice, but I must put that out fair and square--fair and square to

Nita.

"We'd had a jolly old drive to Hawes--rippin' day, cold as anythin',

with the horse just spankin' along, and then the Rockingtons were jolly

and the lunch was jolly and back we came. We looked about the house for

you and heard you were still out walkin', so we just strolled about the

garden a bit and then--Well, anyway, Nita simply had nothin' to do with

it. It was so rippin' and jolly after the drive and all, that I just

kissed her. All in a second I just felt I had to ... beastly weak of

me," he finally added in a contemplative tone.

"Well, that disposes of Nita," said Rachel. "Don't let's mention her

again. Meanwhile what sort of life am I going to have if 'things' are

going to sweep over you like this continually? Besides, it's rather

early days, isn't it? We haven't been married half a year yet."

"No," said Roddy slowly, "no, we haven't and it's simply beastly. I'm a

perfect swine. When I married you the one thing I meant to do was to be

just as kind to you as I jolly well could be, and give you a perfectly

rippin' time, and here I am hurtin' you like anything----"

She moved impatiently. "Never mind that, Roddy. You _have_ been very

kind and I'm sure you'd have given anything for me not to have come into

the garden just when I did, so as to have avoided hurting me. But what I

do know is that you're not straight with me. You know I told you before

we were married that the one thing that mattered was Truth--truth to

oneself and truth to everyone else--Well, we haven't been straight with

one another for a single instant. You've done any number of things that

would be wrong to you if I knew about them, but wouldn't be in the least

wrong if I didn't."

"Of course," said Roddy, "no feller tells his wife everything--that

would be absurd. I think things are worse if people know about 'em whom

it hurts to know--_much_ worse."

She was suddenly confronted now with a Roddy whose assurance and

confidence in his own personality startled her. Because he had never

been gifted with words and liked to be in the company of dogs and horses

she had fancied that he had no ideas about anything.

Rachel was a great deal younger than she knew and a great deal more

contemptuous of the other half world than her experience of it

justified. Strangely enough this confidence on Roddy's part angered her

more than anything else could have done.

"The fact is that since our marriage we've never got to know each other

in the least. We talk and go to places together and you give me things

and I give you things--and that's all. I don't know you and now, after

to-day, I can't trust you----"

He coloured a little at that, but said nothing.

She went on, rather fast and her breath coming between her words: "But

I'm not going to be so silly as to make a scene because I saw you

kissing Nita Raseley. She's simply not worth thinking about,--but you

ought to be straighter to me all the way round. If you've wanted to be

kind to me as you say, then you might have taken me more into your

life----"

"Well," said Roddy slowly, "if you'd managed to love me a bit, Rachel,

things might be different."

This answer was so utterly unexpected that it took her like a blow. That

Roddy should attack _her_ when he had, only a few hours before, been

discovered so abominably!

"What do you mean, Roddy?" she stammered angrily. "Love you? But----"

"Yes," he persisted doggedly, "I know when you accepted me you said you

didn't and I know that I hadn't any right to expect it, but I believe if

you hadn't thought me such a silly ass and hadn't looked all the time as

though you were just indulgin' my silly fancies until somethin' more

sensible had come along, things might have been different. I'm the sort

of feller," Roddy said, choosing his words carefully, "that you could

have made anythin' out of, Rachel. I'm weak in some ways--most men

are--and when a thing comes dancin' along lookin' ever so temptin', why,

then I generally have to go after it. But you could have kept me,

Rachel, more than anyone I've ever known----"

She was not touched nor moved, only angered that he, so obviously in the

wrong, should attempt justification.

"Yes," she said hotly. "And I suppose in another moment you'll be

telling me that it's silly of me to be angry at what I saw this

afternoon?"

He thought it out a moment, then answered: "No, it was perfectly natural

of course--only I don't think you ought to mind much. If you really

cared, you wouldn't. It don't matter _really_ so much what I do if I

still like you best. Moments don't count--it's what goes on all the time

that matters. Why, I might kiss a hundred women and still you'd be the

only woman who mattered to me. I've never cared for one so long before,"

he added simply.

Then as she said nothing he went on: "I've never been sort of

educated--never cared enough for anyone to give things up. I would have

given things up for you if you'd wanted me to, but you didn't

really----"

"Aren't we a little off the point, Roddy?" she flung back. "The point is

how are we going to get along all the years and years we've got in front

of us? What are we going to do?"

"Everybody's just the same," said Roddy quietly. "It takes a lot of

years before married people settle down. We can't expect to be any

different----"

But although he spoke so quietly he watched her, hoping for some

yielding on her part; in an instant, had she come to him, she would have

seen a Roddy whom she had never seen before and from that moment onwards

would have had a power over him that nothing could have shaken.

So delicately hung the balance between them. But she was filled with a

sense of her own wrongs, her loneliness, the injustice of it all. At

that moment all affection for Roddy had left her, she would only have

been glad if she had known that she was never to see him again. His slow

voice, his way of thinking out his sentences, his thick clumsy hands and

his red face, everything came to her now as a continuation of the chains

that she had worn all her days.

She got up and confronted him--

"Yes," she said fiercely, "that's exactly it. Life is to be like

everyone else. We're to say the things, do the things that our

neighbours say and do. Because your friends at Brooks's kiss their

wives' friends, therefore you are to do so. Because the men you know

never say what they mean and lie about everything they do, therefore you

do the same. Oh! I know! Haven't I heard it all my life? Haven't my

precious family lived on lies? You've caught it all from my delightful

grandmother! I congratulate you!"

"What if I have?" he said. "She's a friend of mine, Rachel. She's been

dashed good to me--You're not to say a word against her."

"I hate her," Rachel cried passionately. "All my life she's been over

me--for years she's been my enemy. If she stands for everything that you

believe, then it isn't any wonder that we have nothing in common, that

you should be proud of this afternoon, that--that----"

She was biting her lips to keep back the tears. Over his face had crept

a sulky obstinate look that might have told her, had she seen it, that

she was driving him very far.

"She's fine," he said. "She's made England what it is. You're all for

ideas, Rachel, and for Truth and lots of things, but you're difficult to

live with."

"Very well, Roddy. Thank you. Now we know how we stand. I at least owe

Nita a debt for having cleared up the situation. If you find it

difficult with me I can at least return the compliment--and I have at

any rate this added advantage, that I speak the truth."

As he looked at her across the room he saw in her that same figure that

he'd seen once just before proposing to her--someone foreign,

unknown--He felt as though he were quarrelling with a stranger....

She turned and went.

For a long while he stood gazing into the fire, his hands in his

pockets. How had it all happened? Why had they let it come to that kind

of quarrel when they might so easily have prevented it?

And she, crying bitterly in her room, asked herself the same question.

CHAPTER IV

RACHEL--AND CHRISTOPHER AND RODDY

I

Christopher had snatched his first holiday for two years and was abroad

during the January of 1899 when the Seddons were in town.

February, March and April they spent at Seddon Court, and it was not

therefore until early in May that Christopher saw Rachel.

She had dreaded with an almost fantastic alarm this meeting. No other

human being knew her so honestly and accurately as did Christopher, and

the change in her that he would at once discern would, when she caught

the reflection of it in his eyes, mark definitely the sinister country

into which these last months had carried her.

It had seemed as though some malign spirit had been determined to make

the most of that quarrel that Nita Raseley had provoked.

Both Roddy and Rachel hated scenes--upon that, at least, they were

agreed--and from their determination never to have another arose a

deliberate avoidance of any plain speaking. Rachel, longing for honesty,

found herself caught in a thousand deceits--Roddy, avoiding any kind of

analysis, found that everything that he provided in conversation seemed

to lead to danger.

He was now always ill at ease in Rachel's company; he had stood on that

fatal evening, more strongly for the Beaminster interest than he had

intended, but from his very determination to maintain his new

independence, he produced the Duchess for Rachel's benefit at every turn

of the road.

Roddy knew that the Duchess feared that Rachel would lead him from her

side and that she received with rejoicing every sign on his part of

irritation against Rachel. She had wanted him to marry her granddaughter

because that bound him more closely to her, but she had not, perhaps,

been prepared for the probable effect of Rachel's character upon him.

The Duchess therefore made, throughout these months, a third member of

their company. Roddy, finding Rachel's society a growing embarrassment,

spent more and more of his time with his animals and his tenants and

labourers. But all this time he was conscious, in a dumb way, of

unhappiness and a puzzled dismay, so that his very affection for Rachel

produced in him a growing irritation that it should be so needlessly

thwarted. Things were all wrong and his resentment of his own failure to

right them reacted, without his will, upon the very person whom he

wished to propitiate.

For Rachel these months were baffling in their hideous discomfort. Her

affection for Roddy was there, but it was swallowed by her desperate

efforts to analyse a situation that was, in definite outline, no

situation at all.

As Roddy withdrew, her loneliness wrapped her round, and in every day

that added to her distance from Roddy she saw the active and malignant

agency of her grandmother. She was intelligent enough to be aware that

in this constant vision of the Duchess she was outstepping the

probabilities; but her early years and the precipitation with which she

had been shot out of them into an atmosphere that unexpectedly resembled

their own earlier surroundings seemed to point to some diabolical

agency.

"Oh! when I get free of this," had been her earlier cry, and now the

foreboding that she was never to be free of it until she died terrified

her with its possibility. Imagine her brought up in a stuffy house with

windows tightly closed, in full vision of a high road, imagine her

promised the freedom of the road at a future time; imagine her

liberated, at last, rushing into the new life and finding that, after

all, the walls of the house were still about her, and about her now for

ever.

Her one reserve during the early months of the year at Seddon had been

her letters to Francis Breton. His letters to her had been a series of

self-revelation; he had restrained himself in so far as appealing to her

simply on the score of their relationship and his enmity to the head of

the house. She had replied revealing her sympathy, hinting at rebellion

on her own side and feeling, after the writing of every letter, a hatred

of her own deceit, a curiously heightened sense of affection for Roddy,

above all a conviction that impulses were, of their own agency, working

to some climax that she could not, or would not, control.

The foreign blood in her, the English blood in him, baffled their

advances toward one another. Everything that Rachel did now seemed to

Roddy so close to melodrama that it was best to use silence for his

weapon. All Roddy's actions were to Rachel further illustrations of

Beaminster muddle and second-rate personality.

Had Roddy called out of Rachel the great depth of passion and reality

that she inherited from her mother her own love of him would have solved

everything--but that he could not call from her, nor ever would.

For Rachel, she saw in him now a possibility of perpetual infidelity,

and at every suspicion of it her disgust both at herself and him grew

because that possibility did not move her more.

They came up to London at the beginning of May and hid, very

successfully from the world, the widening breach.

To Rachel, it was sheer terror to discover the thrill that the adjacence

of Elliston Square to Saxton Square gave her. In this one

self-revelation there was enough to present her with night after night

of sleepless misery. She visited the Duchess and found that her presence

was continually demanded. Every visit was a battle.

"Show me how you are treating him, whether he cares for you. Have you

found him out? Tell me everything----"

"I will tell you nothing. I will come here day after day and you shall

gather nothing from me. I have escaped you."

"Indeed you have not escaped me. My power over you is only now

beginning----"

No word between them but the most civil. There was no trace in the old

woman now of her earlier irony--no sign in Rachel of irritation or

rebellion.

But the girl knew that war was declared, that her only ally was one in

whose alliance lay, for her, the very heart of danger.

All these things she might hide from the world--from Christopher she

knew that she could hide nothing.

II

It was on an early afternoon in May that Christopher had tea with

Rachel. He had waited for his visit with very real anxiety; the letters

that he had had from her had been unsatisfactory, not because they were

actively expressive of unhappiness, but because there was an effort in

every word of them--Rachel had never found it difficult to write to him

before.

He was also uneasy because he had been against this marriage from the

beginning. He did, as he said to the Duchess, know Rachel better than

anyone else knew her; he knew her from his love for her, and also from

that scientific study that he applied in his profession. And he had

found, too, in her, as he had found in Breton, some strain of fierce

helplessness, as of an animal caught in a trap, that especially moved

his interest and affection--

Was Rachel's marriage a disaster? If so she had certainly managed to

conceal it, for even the Duchess did not know--of that he was sure.

If Rachel were indeed unhappy would she come to him as she used to come

to him?

What change had marriage wrought in her?

It was one of those May days when the weather is hot before London is

ready. It was a day of tension; buildings, streets quivered beneath a

sun in whose gaze there was no kindliness nor comfort. Christopher drove

from Eaton Square, where, for some hours he had been engaged in

preventing an old man from dying, when both the old man himself and all

his friends and relations were convinced that death was the best thing

for him--

Sloane Street ran like white steel before his eyes, not dimly veiled as

he had so often seen it; Park Lane offered houses that stared with

haughty faces upon a world that would, they knew, do anything for

money--

Elliston Square itself was white and sterile; the town was, on this

afternoon, irritated, sinister ... feet ached upon its pavements and

hearts were suddenly clutched with foreboding.

As he ascended in the lift to her flat he knew that, did he find that

this marriage was, truly, a misadventure for Rachel, then, until his

death, he would reproach himself for some weak inaction, some hesitation

when first he had heard that it was to be.

He _had_ protested, but now he felt that he should have done more.

Soon he had his answer to all his questions.

He saw at once that Rachel was no longer the impulsive, nervous girl

whom he had always known. She was a girl no longer.

Her eyes greeted him now steadily, she seemed taller and her body was in

perfect control--very tall and slim and dark, her cheeks pale but

shadowed a little with the shadow deepening beneath her eyes. Her mouth,

that had always been too large, had had before a delightful quality of

uncertainty, so that smiles and frowns and alarms, distress and

happiness all hovered near. It was now grave and composed.

Her limbs had always moved unsteadily and with the awkward lack of

control of a child, now there was no kind of impulse, every movement was

considered, and that was the first thing that Christopher saw, that

nothing that Rachel now did or said was spontaneous.

There was less in her now to remind him of her foreign blood.

The flat was comfortable, but more commonplace than it would have been

had it been Rachel's only.

He kissed her, as he had always done, and he fancied that she clung for

a moment to him, as her hands went up to his coat.

He settled his big loose body and looked across at her.

Christopher was no subtle analyser of other people's emotions. His own

feelings were never complicated and he expected life to run on plain and

simple lines of likes and dislikes, sorrow, anger, love and hatred. If

someone of whom he was fond made a direct appeal to him his simple

remedies were often wonderfully useful--he was no fool and he had been

brought, during a great number of years, into the most direct relations

with men and women, but, if that direct appeal was not made, then he was

frightened and baffled.

He was frightened of Rachel now; he knew instantly that instead of

appealing she would defend herself from him.... Some mysterious

conviction seemed to forebode that he would not be able to help her. He

was, essentially, of those who, believing in goodness and virtue and the

glorious Millennium, are contented, quite simply, with that belief and

might, if they stated those simplicities, irritate the scoffers. But he

was saved because he made statements on the rarest occasions and lived

his life instead.

Here, however, was a crisis in his relations with Rachel that no

platitudes could satisfy. Did he not touch her now he might never touch

her again.

In a situation that was beyond him he was always hopelessly

self-conscious. His love for Rachel was so tremendous a thing in him

that a statement of it should surely have been the simplest thing in

the world. But he saw in her eyes that to challenge her with--"My dear,

you know how I love you. Tell me what's the matter," would frighten her

to absolute silence. "I'm going to tell you nothing," she seemed to say

to him, "unless you move me in spite of myself. But, if I don't tell you

now I shall never tell you."

"Well, my dear," he said, smiling at her, "how are you after all this

time?"

"I'm all right," she answered, smiling back at him. "It is good to see

you again. Tell me all about your holiday."

"Tell me about yours first."

"Oh! There isn't very much to tell. I enjoyed it all enormously, of

course."

"What did you enjoy most?"

"Oh! some of the smaller towns--Rapallo, for instance.--Oh! yes, and

Bologna was fascinating."

"Not Rome and Florence?"

"In a way. But there were too many tourists. Rome one's got to stay in,

I'm sure. That first view was disappointing."

"And how did Roddy--if I may call him Roddy--enjoy it?"

"Immensely, I think. He liked the country better than the towns though."

"You saw lots of pictures?"

"Heaps. Roddy enjoyed them enormously. I'd no idea he knew so much about

them. Oh! it was all lovely, and such colours, such light--London seems

like a cellar, even in June."

There followed then a pause that swelled and swelled between them until

it resembled some dreadful monster, horribly stationed there to separate

them.

Christopher looked at Rachel, but she refused to meet his eyes.

"I've lost her. I shall never see her again!" he thought with despair.

Two years ago he would have gone to her, put his arms around her,

kissed her and drawn from her at once her trouble.

He could not do that now.

"Your turn, Dr. Chris dear. Tell me about your holidays."

"Oh, mine don't count. I went to Brittany first, then up to St. Andrews

with another man to play golf."

"You're looking splendidly well and you're thinner. What was Brittany

like?"

"Delightful. Have you ever been there?"

"Never. I must get Roddy to take me. Just suit him, I should think."

To Christopher's intense relief tea was brought. He came to the table

and then, for an instant, he did catch her eyes, saw tears in them, and

behind the tears some appeal to him to help her. Her hand was shaking.

"How silly of me to spill your tea. I'm so sorry. Let me pour it

back...."

"Rachel----" he began, but a servant entered with something and he

waited. When they were alone again, standing over her as though he were

afraid that she would escape him, he plunged.

"Rachel dear. We're talking as though we'd never met before. You've

never been shy with me like this. If marriage is going to make a

stranger of you, I shall break young Seddon's neck----"

"No," she said in a voice that was between laughter and tears. "Of

course, Dr. Chris. Things are just the same between us, only,

only--well, I'm married and--one thing and another, you know."

He caught both her hands.

"You're perfectly happy?"

She met his eyes.

"Perfectly."

"Happier than you've ever been in your life?"

She dropped her eyes.

"Happier than I've ever been in my life."

"And you'll come to me just the same if there's any kind of trouble?"

"Of course."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

They talked then, for a little time, of other things. But he was not

satisfied. Rachel's soul, caught away in alarm, was still beyond his

grasp.

At last, feeling that the moments were precious and that Roddy might at

any instant appear, he sat down on the sofa beside her.

"Rachel dear. Something's worrying you. You won't tell me?"

"Nothing's worrying----"

"Ah, but I know--well, if you won't you won't--but if you knew how much

I loved you you'd feel that you were cruel not to let me help you."

"_Dear_ Dr. Chris--but there is _nothing_."

But her eyes were full of tears.

"Look here," he said. "Perhaps you'll feel later on you can talk to me.

Just come straight away if you do feel that."

He went on. "Don't be frightened, my dear, if there are a whole heap of

new emotions, new instincts, stirred in you by marriage. Just take them

all as they come. It's all progress, you know. Don't be frightened of

anything. Just take the animal by the head and look at it."

That led him to speak about Brun's Tiger. He explained it--the force in

people, the way they either grappled with the creature, and at last

trained it to help them with their work in the world, or ignored it,

silenced it, allowed it at last to die, and so, cosy and lazily

comfortable, passed to their day's end, but had, nevertheless, missed

the whole purpose of life.

He enlarged on that and showed the connection of the individual Tiger

with the welfare of the world, so that everyone who denied his Tiger

added to his world's muddle and confusion, and at last there would come

an inevitable crisis when war would spring up between those who had

grappled with their Tiger and those who had not.

"One knows one's own Tiger--absolutely of oneself one knows it and has,

of oneself, the choice whether to grapple or not--at least that's what I

gathered he meant--I know it struck me at the time."

"Oh," she said, with a sigh that quivered through her whole body. "It's

so _easy_ to talk.... But it's true what he says. I know it."

At last Christopher got up to go. He did not know whether he had done

any good; he felt that he was a miserable failure, and he had a

foreboding that one day he would be ashamed indeed that he had not

helped her.

"Do something," a voice seemed to tell him. "You'll regret ... all your

life you'll regret."

He turned and held again her hands in his.... "Rachel--dear--tell

me----"

Her hands were chill and lifeless. Her voice caught. "Oh! Dr. Chris!..."

Then she suddenly stepped back from him--

"_It's_ all right.... I'm all right. Come again soon, Dr. Chris

dear--come soon."

He left her and found his way into the hot, breathless street.

After he had gone Rachel sat, staring beyond the room out on to the

white walls of the houses and the green branches of the trees in the

square.

Roddy came in.

All the afternoon he had been thinking about her; at one moment he was

furious with the discomfort that life was now becoming to him, at

another moment he was imagining little plans that would sweep all the

discomfort away.

All this spring they had been miserable together. Now was beginning a

time that was always jolly in London and yet he could not enjoy a moment

of it. Did she dislike him instead of liking him, or did he like her

instead of loving her, it would all be so easy--just the same as any

other couple.

Ever since that silly Nita incident there had been this restraint, and

yet how could that be the cause?

Rachel had made nothing of it; it was because it had meant so little to

her that he had chafed so at the remembrance of it.

She was fond of him--he knew that--she was miserably unhappy.

He loved her--and he was miserably unhappy.

Damn this weather.

He looked at her, wondered what would happen did he cross over and

suddenly kiss her, knew that he would see her struggle to be kind, to

give him what he wanted, knew that that would hurt most damnably, and

that he would be in a bad temper for the rest of the evening and would

wonder why--

So, with a muttered word he went out and up to his dressing-room, had a

bath, and then lay reading with serious brows _The Winning Post_ until

his man told him that it was time to dress.

Slowly and with the absorbed care that he always gave to these

preparations he made himself ready for the Beaminster dinner.

CHAPTER V

LIZZIE'S JOURNEY--I

"So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

Comes home again, on better judgment making;

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter

In sleep a king; but waking no such matter."

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

I

During this year Lizzie Rand was glad that she had so much to do. As she

had never until now given the romance in her an opportunity for freedom,

so had she never before realized the amazing invasion upon life that

that same romance might threaten.

Indeed by the early summer months of 1899 "threaten" was no longer an

honest definition, for, now this same Romance had invaded, had

conquered, had confronted the very citadels of Lizzie's heart, citadels

never surveyed nor challenged at any time before.

Nevertheless, even now, Portland Place noticed no change in Miss Rand.

Norris, Mrs. Newton, Dorchester would still, had they been challenged,

have protested that Miss Rand had no conception of the softer, more

sentimental side of life; she was there for discipline and order--Norris

had been known to be led a fearful dance by young women "time and

again"--Mrs. Newton had passionately adored the late Mr. Newton until a

sudden chill had carried him to St. Agnes, Bare Street Cemetery, whither

Mrs. Newton, every Sunday, did still make her stately pilgrimage--even

Dorchester had once, it was said, paid grim attentions to a soldier who

had, unhappily, found in some fluffy young woman a more hopeful comfort.

Here, above and below stairs, passion had marked its victims ... Miss

Rand only could have felt no touch of it.

She sometimes wondered at herself that she could so calmly and

dispassionately separate the one life from the other. Never, within that

neat stern room at Portland Place, was there a shudder or sudden

invading thrill at some flashing recollection or imagination. To her

work every nerve, every energy was given. Now, indeed, more than ever

before in her experience of it did 104 Portland Place demand her

presence. Increasingly throughout these months of 1899 was the solemn

heavy air unsettled.

Lizzie, to whom all impression came with sharpening acuteness, had seen

in the appearance, success and marriage of Rachel Beaminster the

disturbing elements at work--"Things will never be the same here

again"--she had said to herself.

It was, of course, through Lady Adela that Lizzie studied the house. The

Duchess she never saw, but it was Lady Adela's attitude, before and

after those interviews with her mother, that told their story. Lady

Adela had never until now appeared an interesting figure to Lizzie, but

now forth, from the dry sterile husk of her, a life, pathetic,

struggling against heritages of dumb years, tried to come.

Lady Adela was unhappy; the very foundations of her existence threatened

to dismay her, at any moment, by their insecurity. Within her the

Beaminster tradition urged, before Lizzie Rand at any rate, the

maintenance of dignity and indifference, but the novelty to her of all

this disturbance brought with it a hapless inability to deal with it,

and again and again little exclamations, little surprised wonders at

what the world could be coming to, little confused clutchings at

anything that offered stability, showed Lizzie that trouble was on every

side of her. Then through the house rumour began to twist its way--Her

Grace was not so well--"The Old Lady was breaking up" (this, in the

close security of shuttered rooms below stairs).

No one could say whence these whispers gathered. Dorchester would admit

nothing. Her own position in the servants' hall was that of a lofty

uncompromising female Jove, and she knew well enough that her supremacy

over Norris and Mrs. Newton depended on her mistress's supremacy over

the world in general. Not for her then to admit ill health.

"Indeed no--Her Grace has been better of late than for years past."

But Norris and Mrs. Newton were not to be taken in. They were truly

proud now of their alliance with the Beaminster family royal, but,

supposing Her Grace were to leave this world to rule in a better one

("Here to-day, gone to-morrow 'igh or low," as Norris remarked), why,

then "Le Roi est mort--Vive le Roi," and the Crown might, in the

meanwhile, have passed elsewhere.

"You mark my words," Mrs. Newton said to Norris, "'er Grace will go, old

Victorier will go, and where'll the Beaminster crowd be then, I ask you?

Times are movin' too quick. I wouldn't give a toss for your Birth and

Debrett and all in another twenty years."

To Lizzie also there came other signs of the times. She noticed that now

the relations and friends of the family gathered more frequently

together than ever before within her memory. The Duke, Lord Richard were

continually in the house, and the adherents, Lady Carloes, Lord Crewner,

the Massiters and all the others, called, dined, came to tea.

Throughout it all there was no expression of any change in the family

policy. To Lizzie Lady Adela admitted nothing, only there were occasions

when, almost against her will, she asked for advice, was uncertain a

little, vague a little, even appealing a little.

Here Lizzie was exactly right, assisted and yet admitted no need for

assistance. Her tact was perfect.

Lizzie had also Lady Seddon to besiege her attention.

To her considerable surprise Rachel had written to her three times

during this year. On each occasion there had been some definite reason

for writing, but behind the reason there had been some implied

friendliness and Lizzie had, in her turn, sent answers that were more

than businesslike replies.

Lizzie had seen Rachel several times in January and at each meeting her

impression of Rachel's unhappiness had grown.

"There've been three of you," Lizzie said to herself. "There was the

girl in the schoolroom, and a fierce awkward difficult creature she was.

There was the girl in her first season, and a delightful, joyful,

radiant creature she was. And now--well, there's a girl married, fierce

again, suffering again--above all, afraid of herself."

In May Rachel asked Lizzie to go and see her, and Lizzie went. That

meeting was in no way personal: Rachel seemed less friendly than she had

been on that day, a year ago, when she had been to Lizzie's, but behind

all that outward stiffness the appeal was there.

"She wants me to help her," thought Lizzie. "She's too proud now to ask

me: the time will come though."

All this was connected, she knew, with the fortunes of the house.

Through Lord John, Lord Richard, the Duke, Lady Adela, Dorchester,

Norris, Mrs. Newton the spirit of uneasiness was abroad.

The Duchess, during these months, more than ever before, was present in

every room and passage of the house--

The shadow of some coming event hovered.

II

Over Lizzie's other life, also, the Duchess hovered. Were any disaster

to snatch Her Grace from the domination of this world into a

comparatively humble position in the next, Lizzie did not doubt that the

Beaminsters would once more take Francis Breton into their ranks. It was

the Duchess who held the gate against him.

The romantic side of her did not hold complete dominion. She knew that

were Francis Breton once more accepted by the family, his distance from

her would be greatly increased. Were he, on the other hand, to marry

her whilst he was yet an exile, then had she no fear of after

consequences. She could hold her own with anyone.

She had now very little doubt that he loved her. She had seen, during

the last year, the flame of some passion burning in his eyes,

increasingly he depended upon her and found opportunities for being with

her. There was no other woman whom he saw, of that she was convinced.

Often he had been about to tell her some secret and then had refrained;

she thought that he was waiting until he could be quite assured that she

loved him, and she had fancied that since that day in last December when

the first snow had fallen and they had had that little talk together he

had been much happier, as though he were now convinced of her love for

him.

The spring passed and still his confession did not come. With the early

summer he seemed to be once more unhappy and unsettled, and throughout

May she scarcely saw him.

Then in July he asked her whether she would dine with him and go to the

theatre. He had two dress circle tickets for _Mrs. Lemiter's Decision_.

Something told her that on this evening he would speak to her.

As she dressed her fingers trembled so that buttons and hooks and laces

were of terrible difficulty. In the glass she saw her cheeks flaming;

she wished she were taller, not so sturdy. The lines of her face, she

thought, were all so set as though they knew well for what purpose they

were there. "Business _we're_ here for ..." they seemed to say.

For once she envied her sister's fair rounded fluffiness. Her black

evening dress was fashionable, almost smart, but just a little stern:

she fastened some dark red carnations into her waist and hung around her

throat a chain of tiny pearls, her only piece of jewellery. Her hair was

restrained and disciplined--she could not extract from it any waves or

soft indulgencies.

At the end, staring at her reflection, she let herself go.

"He's seen me all this time as I am. How silly to try to alter things!"

Her face glowed, the pearls and carnations seemed to smile encouragement

to her.

What possibilities had this new, this wonderful Lizzie Rand! What a life

might be hers! What a happy, fortunate woman she was!

God, how grateful she was!

Mrs. Rand saw them off in a four-wheeler with an air of reluctance. It

always hurt her that anyone should go to the theatre without her.

Of course Lizzie was old enough by now to look after herself, but at the

same time this Mr. Breton was no safe character and it would have been

altogether "nicer" if Lizzie had suggested her company--

Lizzie had not suggested it; with a shiver Mrs. Rand resigned herself to

an evening made hideous by a vision of a world crowded with theatres

through whose portals gay audiences were pouring--

"Of course it's selfish of her," she said again and again to

Daisy--"Selfish is the only word."

Meanwhile the cab was, for Lizzie, a chariot of happiness. He looked

splendid to-night, more romantic than he had ever been, with his pointed

beard, his armless sleeve buttoned across on to his coat, his top-hat

shining, his clothes fitting so perfectly. Poor though he was, he always

stood up as smart as anyone, the Duke or Lord John were no smarter.

Did he realize, she wondered, that the edge of his hand touched the silk

of her dress? Did he notice the absurd way that the pearls jumped up and

down on her throat? Did he feel the little shiver of happiness that ran

through her body and out at her toes and fingers?

The chariot was dark, but beyond it there were piled lighted buildings;

before these ran streets that flung dark figures, here one by one, now

in throngs, against the glittering colour.

She could not believe that anyone there by the lumbering cab could show

happiness that could equal hers.

Had she been coldly surveying, from the careful distance of an outside

observer, these emotions in some other woman she would have demanded her

reasons for such expectation of happiness, but it was her very

inexperience of any other such affair in her life that allowed her now

to rest assured. As he touched her hand to help her into the restaurant

she was sure, by the beating of her heart, that she could not be

deceived.

The restaurant was in Pall Mall, and as she went in she noticed the

string of faithful people waiting round the corner of Her Majesty's

Theatre; she was glad that there were so many others enjoying themselves

to-night.

They sat at a little round table on a balcony and below them other happy

people were laughing and talking--Flowers, lights, women not so

beautiful that they disheartened one, and, from the open windows, a

whir, a rattle, a shout, a cry, a bell, a hurdy-gurdy, a laugh--Oh! the

world was turning to-night!

There was a beautiful dinner, but she was far too happy to eat much. He

seemed to understand. They both talked a little, but it was, it

appeared, implied between them that their real conversation should be

postponed.

She was, to herself, an utterly new Lizzie Rand to-night, inarticulate,

uncertain, confused.

"What's this the papers say about South Africa?"

"Yes, it looks as though there were going to be trouble there. But you

can trust Milner--a strong man----"

"Yes, I suppose so--but it seems a pity that this Conference that they

hoped so much from has all fallen through, doesn't it? They do seem

obstinate people."

"Well, they are. I was out in Pretoria in '95--obstinate as mules. But

there won't be much trouble--a troop or two of our fellows have only got

to show their faces----"

"Yes, of course. Isn't that a pretty woman down there? There to the

right--with the black hair and the diamonds--tall--"

But tall women with black hair and Boers in South Africa were merely

points to catch hold, and, for an instant, the thrill of the contact and

the anticipation and the glorious vision of the wonderful future.

Him all this time she closely observed. He was not entirely at his ease,

when she had been in public with him before she had noticed it, his

glance at every new-comer, his conscious summoning of control lest it

should be someone whom he had once known, someone who might now,

perhaps, not know him.

It made him in her eyes all the younger, all the more happily demanding

her protection; how terribly she loved him she had never, she thought,

realized until this moment.

The Haymarket Theatre, where _Mrs. Lemiter's Decision_ had been given to

a grateful world for nearly two hundred nights, was next door.

In a moment they were there and the band was playing and the lights were

up, and then the band was not playing and the lights were down, and she

was instantly conscious of the places where his body touched hers and of

his hand lying white upon his knee.

She, Lizzie Rand, most perfect of private secretaries, most sedate and

composed of women, found it all that her self-control could secure that

she should not then and there have touched that hand with her own.

It was not really a good play. There was a lady, Mrs. Lemiter, who had

once done what she should not have done. There were a number of ladies

and gentlemen, placed round her by the author, in order that she should,

for the benefit of as many audiences as possible, confess what she _had_

done.

During the first and second acts Mrs. Lemiter made little dashes towards

escape and the author (naturally omniscient) always placed someone in

front of her just in time and there were cries of "Not this way, my good

woman." At the end of the third act, Mrs. Lemiter, thoroughly bored and

exasperated, turned on them all and, for a good twenty minutes, told

them what she thought of them.

During the fourth act they all assured her that they liked her very much

and that, as it was now eleven o'clock and she'd lost her temper so

successfully that the house would certainly be filled for many months to

come, they'd all better have tea or dinner, whilst a young couple, who

had throughout the play loved one another and quarrelled, made it up

again.

When the play was at an end Lizzie did not know what it had been about.

She took his hand and when he was about to hail a cab stopped him.

"Let's walk," she said, "it's such a lovely night."

He eagerly agreed and they started.

III

She knew that her moment had come; he knew too--she could tell that

because all the way up the Haymarket he said nothing.

Piccadilly Circus was a screaming confusion. A music-hall invited you to

come and hear "Harry and Clare, drawing-room entertainers." Lights--red

and green and gold--flashed and advised drinks and hair-oil and tobacco.

Ladies, highly coloured and a little dishevelled; stared haughtily but

inquisitively about them, boys shouted newspapers and dived under horses

and appeared, miraculously delivered from the wheels of omnibuses.

It was a rushing, whirling confusion and through it his arm led her,

happier in his secure guard than in anything else under heaven.

Regent Street was quiet and softly coloured above the maelstrom into

which it flowed. He suddenly began:

"I've got something I want to tell you--something I've wanted to tell

you for a long time. You must have seen----"

Her voice coming to her as though it were a stranger's, said, "Yes." At

the same time, looking about her, almost unconsciously, she registered

her memory of the place and the hour--the shelving street, rising with

its lamps reflected, before them, a bank of dark cloud that had suddenly

appeared and hung, sinister against the night sky, behind the white

houses, a slip of a silver moon surveying this same cloud with anxiety

because it knew that soon its darkness would engulf it.

"I've wanted to tell you," he began again, "this long time. It's needed

courage, and things during this last year have rather taken my courage

away from me."

"You needn't be afraid," she said with a little laugh. "You ought to

know by this time that you can tell me anything, Mr. Breton."

"Yes, I do know," he said earnestly. "Of course I know. What you've been

to me all this last year--I simply can't think how I'd have kept up if

it hadn't been for you."

"Oh, please," she said.

"No, but it's true. Even with you it's been a bit of a fight."

He paused. She saw that the black cloud had already swallowed up the

moon and that a few raindrops were beginning to fall.

He went on: "You must have seen that all this time something's been

helping me. I've never spoken to you, but you've known----"

The moment had come. Her heart had surely stopped its beat and she was

glad, in her happiness, of the rain that was now falling more swiftly.

"I don't know--" he stammered a little. "It's so difficult. It's come to

this, that I must speak to somebody and you're the only person, the only

person. But even with one's best friends--one knows them so

slightly--after all, perhaps, you'll think it very wrong----"

At that word it was as though a great hammer had, of a sudden, hit her

heart and slain it. The street, shining with the rain, rose ever so

little and bent towards her.

"Wrong?" she said, looking up at him.

"Yes. I don't know about your standards--you've been always so kind to

me and put up with my faults and so I've been encouraged----"

Her relief should have awaked the gods of Olympus with its triumph.

"I've meant everything I've ever said----"

"Yes, I'm sure you have and that's why I think you'll understand. As I

say, I've got to tell someone or I'll burst. It's just this--it's my

cousin Rachel--Lady Seddon. Ever since we first met in your room she's

been my whole world. Nothing else has mattered. It's she that's kept me

all these months from going under. She's my life, my whole existence now

and in the world to come, if there is one. Oh! Thank God!" he cried.

"I've told someone at last. If you don't approve I can't help it. I know

you'll keep my secret and, after all, it's nothing very terrible. I'm

content to go on like this, just seeing her sometimes, writing to her

sometimes. Now you know, Miss Rand, what's been my secret all this time.

I've felt it's been between us and that's why I had to tell you. We'll

be twice the friends that we were now that I've told you. And I must, I

_must_ have someone to talk to about her sometimes. It's been killing

me, getting along without it."

Now that he had begun words poured from him. He did not know that it was

raining; he saw only Rachel with her white face and dark hair.

Lizzie pulled her wrap about her; she was very cold and the rain was

coming fast.

He was suddenly conscious of this.

"I say, what a brute I am! It's pouring!" He called a passing hansom and

they climbed into it.

He was aware that she had said nothing.

"There!" he said, "you wish I hadn't told you. I know you do. You're

shocked."

"No," she said, struggling to prevent her teeth from chattering.

He felt her shiver. "Why! you're shaking with cold! We oughtn't to have

walked, but I did so want to speak to you about this. We must talk about

it another time. But, I say, you aren't really horrified about it, are

you?"

"No," she said again. "Another time though--There must be thunder. This

storm makes my head ache."

She could say no more. The rest of the drive was in silence. In the hall

she thanked him for her delightful evening.

She looked through the drawing-room door and wished her mother and

sister good night, but did not stay to discuss incidents.

"Well," said Mrs. Rand, who had a fine list of questions ready about the

play--"There's selfishness!"

Lizzie locked her door, undressed and lay down.

Like a sword jagging through and through her brain and piercing from

there down to her heart stabbed the refrain:

"Oh! I hate her! I hate her! I hate her!"

So, wide-eyed, she lay throughout the night.

CHAPTER VI

ALL THE BEAMINSTERS

"We must expect change," returned Mrs. Chick.

"Of weather?" asked Miss Tox in her simplicity.

"Of everything," returned Mrs. Chick. "Of course we must. It's

a world of change. Anyone would surprise me very much,

Lucretia, and would greatly alter my opinion of their

understanding, if they attempted to contradict or evade what is

so perfectly evident. Change!" exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with

severe philosophy--"Why, my gracious me, what is there that

does _not_ change! Even the silkworm, who I am sure might be

supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, changes

into all sorts of unexpected things continually."

_Dombey and Son._

I

At four o'clock on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 11th, in this

year 1899 war between England and South Africa was declared.

At that same hour on that same afternoon an afternoon party was given by

Lady Adela Beaminster at 104 Portland Place, and all the more important

believers in the Beaminster religion were present.

The Long Drawing-room had the happy property of extending to accommodate

its company and now, shadowy as its corners always were, it yielded the

impression still of size and space, its mirrors reflecting its dark

green walls that receded from the figures that thronged it.

The Duchess (now Ross's portrait of her) hung above the Adams fireplace

and a little globe of light shone, on this dark October day, up into

that sharp and wizened face and lit those bending fingers and flung

forward the dull green jade and the dark black dress.

Many people were present. The Duke, Lord John, Lord Richard of

course--also, of course, Lady Carloes, the Massiters, Lord Crewner,

Monty Carfax, Brun, Maurice Garden the novelist, and his wife--also a

fine collection of ladies and gentlemen, important in politics, in the

graver camps of society--also a certain number who belonged by party to

those whom Brun had once called the Aristocrats, the Chichesters, the

Medleys, the Darrants. Old Lady Darrant was there looking like a cook,

and Fred Chichester and his kind and freckled features, and Mrs. Medley

who had married Judge Medley's only son.

Of the Democrats--of the Ruddards, the Denisons, the Oaks, not one to be

seen.

The men and women who stood about in the room seemed strangely, oddly,

of one family. No human being present was without his or her

self-consciousness, but it was a self-consciousness that had about it

nothing vulgar or strident. No voice in that room was raised, the very

laughter implied, "Here we are, in the very Court of our Temple; we may

then relax a little. For a time, at any rate, we know who we all are."

This security was implied on every hand. It was: "Young Rorke's going

out--he's the son of Alice Branches--he married old Truddits' daughter,"

or--

"No, I don't know him personally, but Dick Barnett has seen him once or

twice and says he's a very decent feller," or--

"Well, I should go carefully, if I were you. Neither the Massiters nor

the Crawfords know her and, in fact, I can't find anyone who does."

Had a stranger penetrated into the fastnesses of the Chichesters or the

Medleys he would have been overwhelmed with courtesy and politeness and,

unless he had full credentials, would have been utterly excluded at the

end of it. Had he boldly invaded the Denisons he would, unless he could

prove his contribution to the entertainment of the day, have been told

frankly that he was not wanted.

Had he passed the doors of No. 104 and had no proof of his Beaminster

faith upon him, Norris would have exchanged with him a quiet word or two

and he would have found himself in the bright spaces of Portland Place.

Rachel and Roddy had come to the party. Rachel sat on a high chair and

looked stiff and pale; Lady Darrant, bunched up in an arm-chair, was

beside her. Lady Darrant's emotions were divided between the welfare of

the church in her parish in Wiltshire and the welfare of her only son, a

boy aged twenty who, supposed to be studying for the Diplomatic Service,

was really interested in race meetings and polo. Lady Darrant had, like

most of the Aristocrats, a tranquil mind. Sorrow, tragedies,

perplexities might come and go, the plain surface stability was in no

way disturbed. She would have liked to possess more money that she might

bestow it upon the church, and she would have preferred that her son

should place foreign languages above horses, but, since these things

were not so, God knew best and the world might have been much worse:

none of her friends were ever agitated, outwardly at any rate. Life was

calm, sure, proceeding from a definite commencement to a definite

conclusion and--God knew best. Rumours came to her of atheists and

chorus girls and American millionaires, but she was neither alarmed nor

dismayed.

At a Beaminster entertainment she felt that she was among strangers. Her

account of such an affair given afterwards to friends implied that this

world into which she had glanced was not her world. Lady Adela

frightened her and the mere suggestion of the Duchess, whom she had

never seen, threatened more fiercely her tranquillity than any other

event or person.

Now, every minute or so, she flung little agitated glances at the

portrait. At the back of her mind, this afternoon, was the reflection

that there was going to be a war and that quite certainly her boy, Tony,

would insist on helping his country.

She was proud that he should insist, but, had she not been quite so

confident of God's care for her, would have been very near to most real

agitation.

She looked at Rachel timidly and wondered whether that strange, fierce,

pale girl would be sympathetic. She had heard of Rachel and her

marriage, and she knew that that rather stout healthy-looking young man

standing and talking to Lord John Beaminster was the husband.

He looked kinder than she did, Lady Darrant thought.

"It's terrible about this horrid war, isn't it?" she said at last.

Rachel, watching the room, was absorbed by her own thoughts; she

scarcely noticed the little woman beside her.

She saw Uncle John, his white hair and happy smile and large rather

shapeless body, his way of laughing with his head flung back, the look

of him when he was thinking, his face precisely that of a puzzled

pig--simply to see him there across the room brought back to her a flood

of memories.

She knew that she had avoided him lately and she knew, too, that he was

unhappy about her. He was unhappy, poor Uncle John, about a number of

things--always behind his laughter and cheerful greetings there was the

little restless distress as though Life were offering him, just now,

more than he could control.

Rachel looked and then turned her eyes away.

"Yes," she said to Lady Darrant, "I hope it won't be very much. They say

that a week or two will see the end of it."

Truly, for herself, this afternoon was almost too difficult for her. She

had received, that morning, a letter from Francis Breton asking her to

go to tea with him in his rooms, one day within the following week.

She had never been to his room; she had not met him once during the

whole year.

She had known, during all these last twelve months, that meeting him had

nothing at all to do with the especial claim that they had upon one

another. That claim had existed since that day of their first coming

face to face and nothing now could ever alter it.

But the next time that they met must be, for both of them, a definite

landmark. She might either decide, now, once and for all, never to see

him again, or grasp, quite definitely, the possible result of her going

to him.

The writing of this letter brought, at last, upon her the climax that

she had been avoiding during the last year.

Sitting there in the Beaminster camp it was difficult to act without

prejudice. With the exception of Uncle John and Roddy she hated them

all.

After all if she were to refuse to see Francis Breton did it solve the

question? Did it help her--and that was the great need of her present

life--to love Roddy any better?

And if she went to his rooms and saw him, would not the truth emerge

from that meeting and the miserable doubts and temptations that had

shadowed her since her marriage be cleared away for ever?

She liked Roddy and did not love him--nothing could alter that.

Breton and she belonged to a world that was hostile to this world that

she was now in--nothing could alter that.

Yes, she would go and see Breton. She got up, smiled at Lady Darrant and

went across the room to talk to Uncle John.

On this afternoon she had a great overpowering longing for someone to

love her, to care for her, to pity her, to take her into their arms and

whisper comfort to her. It was so long--oh! so long, since Dr. Chris and

Uncle John had done that.

And yet--the irony of it--there was Roddy eager to do it all: and from

him, the fates had decreed that it should mean nothing to her.

"Why can't he touch me? Why can't he give me what I want? Is it my

fault? Whose fault is it?"

And when she came to Uncle John she was almost afraid to look at him

lest he should see the unhappiness in her eyes.

But, in spite of her unhappiness, she could be satirically observant.

Her grandmother, up there on the wall, controlled, like the moon, this

tide of human beings. They flowed forward, they retreated. About them,

around them, behind and in front of them hovered this War....

Rachel knew that it was the Beaminster doctrine that anything that

occurred to the nation was to be attributed, in the main, to Beaminster

principles. She could tell at once that they had seized upon this war as

an example of Beaminster government. Had diplomacy prevented it, behold

the triumph of Beaminster diplomacy; now, as it had not been prevented,

a swift and total triumph would assert the genius of Beaminster

militancy.

"A week out there ought to be enough.... It's tiresome, of course, but

they'll soon have had enough of it...."

Even Rachel, looking up at the portrait, might, not too fantastically,

imagine that this war presented the last great manifestation of power on

the part of that old woman.

Everyone in the room, perhaps, felt the same.

II

Many eyes were upon her as she moved across to Lord John. This girl,

with the foreign colour and bearing, having, apparently, so little of

the Beaminster about her and making so quickly so conventional a

marriage ("One hadn't expected her to care about a man like Seddon"),

stirred their curiosity.

Monty Carfax, licensed transmitter of public opinion, reported her

unpopular. "Met her one week-end at the Massiters'--that very time when

Seddon proposed. Didn't like her and, really, can't find anyone who

does. Conceited, farouche. It's my opinion Roddy Seddon finds her

difficult." "Yes, but she's interesting," someone would reply, "unusual.

Dissatisfied-looking--not at all happy, I should say."

Lady Adela, stiff, awkward but important, in an ugly grey dress found

Lord Crewner the only helpful person in the room. He seemed to

understand the way that worries accumulated about one and yet refused to

be defined.... He stayed near her throughout the afternoon. She saw

Rachel moving across to her brother and the sight of her stirred all her

discomfort.

"Why need she look as though she hated everyone?" she thought.

Rachel came at length to Uncle John and found him talking to Maurice

Garden. That large and prosperous gentleman hastily proclaimed his

delight in meeting Rachel again, but she had very little to say to him.

He left them, secretly determined that he would never speak to the girl

again if he could help it.

Uncle John regarded her with an air of supplicating nervousness.

"Come along, my dear," he said. "We haven't had a talk for weeks. Let's

find a corner somewhere----"

They found a corner and then were both of them uncomfortable. The girl

whom Uncle John had known and loved had had her tempers and

intolerances, but she had also had her wonderful spontaneous affections

and tendernesses.

Now she sat there looking straight before her and replying only in

monosyllables to his questions.

She was saying to herself: "Shall I go? Shall I go?"

At last he said timidly:

"You'll see mother before you leave?"

"Yes," Rachel said.

"I'm afraid she's not very well."

"Not very well?" Rachel looked up at him sharply, Lord John stared away

from her. No one had ever said that publicly before, Lord John himself

wondered at his words when he had spoken them.

"Of course she doesn't admit it," he said hurriedly. "No one _says_

anything about it--even Christopher. I oughtn't perhaps to have said

anything myself--but I thought----" He broke off. Rachel knew that he

meant that she should be kind and considerate on this visit.

Before she could say anything the Duke came up and joined them.

It always amused Rachel to see her two uncles together. The Duke was a

little dried-up wasp of a man, absolutely selfish, with a satirical

tongue and a self-conceit that nothing could pierce. He wore high white

collars, over which his brown sharp face searched for compliments. He

walked on his toes, his hands were most wonderfully manicured and his

trousers were so stiff and rigid over his thin little legs that they

looked like iron. The one soft spot in him was a strangely tender

affection for his sister Adela which was in no way returned; for her,

and for her alone, he would forget his selfishness. Richard and John he

despised.

"Well, John," he said. "Well, Rachel?"

"Well, Uncle Vincent," she said. The Duke was afraid of Rachel because

her tongue was as sharp as his, but he respected her for that.

"Going up to see mother?"

"Yes," said Rachel. Should she go? Should she go?

Suddenly, arising, as it seemed, out of that crowd of moving figures and

coming and standing there in front of her, was her answer.

Yes, she would go. All these months of indetermination should be ended.

She should know, once and for all, what this Francis Breton meant to

her, what that other life of hers meant to her, and so, in opposition,

what Roddy meant to her. She would, as Christopher would have put it,

grapple with her Tiger....

Instantly, the relief, the glad, happy relief showed her how wretched

life had been.

"What about this war, Uncle Vincent?" she said.

"Well--hem--well--no need to worry--_I_ assure you--no need to worry!"

"It seems a pity," said Lord John, still looking furtively at Rachel and

wishing that he could carry her off into some other corner and just ask

her whether she were really happy or no.

"Why, John," said the Duke, cackling. "You'll have to go out, 'pon my

word, you will--fight 'em, by Jove--Ha! ha! You'd make a fine soldier,

old boy."

Rachel got up, hating Uncle Vincent very much. She put her hand on Uncle

John's fat arm.

"You may go, Uncle Vincent," she said. "We all give you leave--Uncle

John we love too much: if it's a question of bravery he'd be quite

certainly the first of this family." She gave his arm a squeeze.

Uncle Vincent looked at her, smiling--

"Well," he said. "None of us would dream of going ... we're all much too

comfortable."

"I'll see you before I go, uncle dear," she whispered to Lord John. Then

she moved away.

Slowly making her path through the room she left it and climbed the

great stone staircase.

III

Outside her grandmother's door she paused; so she had always paused, and

now, as she waited there, all the procession of other days when she had

stood there came before her. Conditions might be changed, but her

agitation was the same. Never until she died would she open that door

without wondering, in spite of common sense, whether she might not be

caught by some disaster before she closed it again.

She went in and found her grandmother sitting back in her stiff chair

and looking at some patterns of bright silks that lay on a little table

beside her.

A great fire was burning and the room seemed to Rachel intolerably hot;

she noticed at once that what Uncle John had said was true. Before she

had heard Rachel's entrance the Duchess looked an old, tired woman. Her

head was drooping a little over the blue and purple silks; she seemed

half asleep.

But at the sound of the door she was alert; when she saw that it was her

granddaughter who stood there, tall and stately, her large black hat

shadowing her face, she seemed in a moment to be transformed with energy

and life--her head went up, her eyes flashed, her hands stiffened on her

lap.

"May I come in for a moment, grandmother?" Rachel said.

By the door she had wondered--how could she be afraid of this old sick

woman? Now as she crossed over to the fire her sternest self-command was

summoned to control her alarm. She was frightened by nothing but

this--here it was indeed as though there were some spell that seized

her.

"Certainly, my dear--come in." The Duchess gave a last look at the silks

and then turned to her granddaughter. "I'm afraid you'll find it very

hot--I must have a fire, you know."

She had a trick of drawing in her lower lip as she spoke, so that her

words hissed a little over her teeth. She did not do this with everybody

and Rachel believed that it was only because she had noticed that Rachel

as a little girl had been frightened of it that she did it now.

Rachel sat down opposite her and the heat of the fire and a scent of

something that had violets and mignonette in it--a scent that was always

in the room--stifled her so that her head began to swim and the rings on

the Duchess's hand to hypnotize her.

"There's a great party going on downstairs," she said.

"Yes. I know. John came up for a moment and told me about it--and how

are you?"

"Very well, thank you, grandmamma. Roddy and I have been ever so

sociable lately, given several dinner-parties and one musical thing."

"You're not looking very well. Roddy here?"

"Yes."

"Hope he'll come and see me before he goes. Hasn't been to see me much

lately."

Their eyes met. Rachel held her ground and then, beaten as though by a

physical blow, lowered her gaze.

"Oh! hasn't he? He's been here a lot, I thought. He's been very busy

over some horses that he's had to go up and down to Seddon about."

"H'm. Well--I dare say he'll remember me again one day--so we're in for

a war?"

"Yes. They don't seem to think it very serious though--Uncle Richard

says----"

"Your Uncle Richard knows nothing about it--nothing. However, I don't

think anyone need be alarmed."

There was in this last sentence a ring in the Duchess's voice that flung

her words out for the nation to grasp at. "No need, my good people, for

you to worry--_I_ have this in hand."

"Well, I'm very glad," said Rachel. "It's such a long while since

anything has happened that it seems quite odd for everyone to have

something to talk about except dinner-parties and scandal----"

The old woman looked across at her and then very slowly a smile rose,

stiffened between her old dried lips and stayed there--

"What would you say, my dear, if Roddy thought it his duty to go and

defend his country?"

There was, suddenly, the sharp ring in her voice that Rachel knew so

well.

"I know," Rachel said quietly, "that Roddy would do his duty, and of

course I would want him to do that."

The Duchess, with her eyes still upon her granddaughter's face,

said--"I've heard a good deal about a young friend of yours lately."

"Who is that, grandmamma?" Rachel said, and, in spite of herself her

hand trembled a little against her dress.

"Nita Raseley."

Rachel caught her breath.

"I gather that you and she haven't seen so much of one another lately."

"Oh! I think we have. We never were great friends, you know."

"Did she enjoy her time at Seddon? A clever little thing. I shouldn't

drop her, Rachel, if I were you."

"She seemed to enjoy Seddon, grandmamma. I must be going, I'm afraid,

with the patient Roddy waiting for me. Shall I tell him to come up?"

The old hand struck the arm of the chair and the rings flashed.

"No, thank you, my dear. If he can't come of his own accord, I'd prefer

that he had no prompting. There was a time when it was otherwise."

Rachel got up. Their eyes met again, and their hatred for one another

was so settled, so historic, so traditional an affair, that their glance

now was almost friendly.

Then Rachel bent down very slowly and kissed her grandmother's cheek.

How much, she wondered, did she know of the Nita affair? Nita's spite

would, assuredly, have found a happy ground in which to plant its seed.

Oh! how she loathed this thick clouded atmosphere, this deceit, this

deceit! It seemed that, at every turn since her marriage, she had been

dragged into an atmosphere of disguise and subterfuge and

double-dealing.

Well, she was soon to be done with it. At the thought of what her

grandmother would say did she know of her friendship with Breton her

heart beat triumphantly. There at any rate was a weapon!

"Well, good-bye, my dear. Come and see me again soon."

"Yes, grandmamma--good-bye."

IV

In the carriage with Roddy she suddenly laughed.

All those people, moving so solemnly with such self-importance about

that room. The Duke, Lord Richard, Aunt Adela ... Norris, the

footman....

Over them all that fierce commanding portrait. And upstairs that old,

sick woman....

And beyond, away from that house, a war that that old woman and those

self-important people saw only as a means of increasing their own

self-importance.

It was all as a box of tin soldiers and a parcel of stiff china-faced

dolls--

What were they all about? What did they think they were all doing? What,

after all, was she, Rachel? Had they no conception of the sawdust that

they all were beside this real, swiftly moving, death-dealing War that

was suddenly amongst them?

"What is it?" said Roddy.

"Grandmother--grandmother--my dear, delightful, wonderful grandmother.

To think of her sitting all alone up there in her bedroom and all those

people moving about downstairs--all so conscious of her. And yet she

does nothing--_nothing_." Rachel, in her excitement, struck her knee

with her hand. "She isn't even clever, really--She's never in all her

life been known to say a witty thing--never. She doesn't really know

much about politics.... She just sits there and acts--That's what it's

always been, acting the whole time. If it's effective to be old and

feeble she _is_ old and feeble--if it's effective to be fantastic she

_is_ fantastic--She just sits still and takes people in. Why, if she'd

wanted she could have been going out all these thirty years, I believe!"

"You're always unfair to her, Rachel," said Roddy. "You know she has

ghastly pain often and often."

"Yes. I'll give her that," said Rachel. "She's brave--brave as anything.

And after all," she added, "she couldn't affect me more if she were the

wittiest woman in the world----"

Roddy yawned--"Dam dull party," he said.

CHAPTER VII

RACHEL AND BRETON

"We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

Always a little farther: it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

Across that angry or that glimmering sea.

... but surely we are brave

Who make the Golden Journey to Samarcand."

_The Golden Journey to Samarcand._

JAMES ALROY FLECKER.

I

Rachel now awaited her meeting with Breton with restless impatience. It

should afford her, beyond everything, a solution. She was young enough

and inexperienced enough to make many demands upon life--that it should

be romantic, that it should, in the issues that it presented, be honest

and open and clear, that it should allow her to settle her own place in

it without any hurt to anyone else, that it should, in fact, arrange any

number of compromises to suit herself and that it should nevertheless be

so honest that it would admit of no compromises at all.

She approached life with all the reckless boldness of one who has never

come into direct contact with it. Neither her relations with her

grandmother nor with Roddy had as yet taken from her any of her youngest

nor simplest illusions. Were life drab and uninteresting, why, then one

turned simply to the place where it promised colour and adventure.

She had not yet discovered that when we go deliberately to grasp at

happiness we are eternally eluded.

But in spite of her desire for honesty she refused to face the actual

meeting with Breton. She knew him so slightly as Francis Breton and so

intimately as an idea. What she felt in her heart was, that her

grandmother had hoped to catch her by marrying her to Roddy and that

nothing could prove so eloquently that she had not been caught as her

friendship with Breton.

"I will show her and I will show Roddy that I am my own mistress, free

whatever they may say or do."

Breton--seen dimly as a rebel against a harsh dominating world--was the

figure of all romance and freedom. "Roddy doesn't care what happens to

me. He'll do anything grandmother tells him to...."

She was now out to attack the Beaminster fortress; she did not as yet

know that half of her was urgent for its defence.

II

When the afternoon arrived she took a cab and was driven to Saxton

Square. She mounted the stairs, knocked on the door and was admitted by

his ugly man-servant.

"Is Mr. Breton at home?" she asked.

"Yes, my lady," he answered and smiled; she disliked his smile and

before she passed into the room had a moment of wild unreasoning panic

when she wished that she were not there, when Roddy's face came to her,

kind and loving and homely.

She stepped forward into the room, heard the door close behind her and

felt rather than saw him as he came forward to greet her.

Then she heard him say--

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come. I was so afraid lest something should stop

you."

His windows, although only on the first floor, had a wide sweeping view;

a world of chimneys and towers glittering now beneath the sinking sun.

His room was simple and had the effect of cleanly emptiness; a table

arranged for tea, two rather faded arm-chairs, a dark green carpet, a

book-case, two large framed photographs on the walls, one of some street

in Bombay, the other of the Niagara Falls.

The sunshine lit the bare room and their faces and she was suddenly

comfortable and at ease.

He drew one of the easy chairs forward to the window.

"Sit down in the sun; Marks will bring the tea in a moment."

She sat back in the chair and looked out on to the shining roofs and

towers, not glancing towards him, but acutely aware of him, of all his

movements. He sat down upon the broad window-seat near her and looked at

her.

She knew that she had never been conscious, physically, of anyone

before. Roddy's clumsy hands and rather awkward body had always simply

belonged to Roddy and stayed at that; now she felt as if Francis

Breton's hand, close, as she knew, to hers, was joined to her by a

running current of attraction.

Although he was not touching her, it was as though she were chained to

him. If he moved she felt that she must move with him and every motion

that he made seemed to rouse some response in her.

She was aware, of course, as she was always aware with him, of the way

that intimacy between them had moved since their last meeting. All her

romantic evocation of life as she wanted it to be helped her to this. It

was as though she said to herself, "Here at least is my true self free

and dominant. I must make the most of it"--and yet, with that, something

seemed to warn her that freedom too easily obtained carried at its heart

disappointment. The ugly man-servant brought in tea and then

disappeared. Breton moved about, waited upon her, then sat down closer

to her, leaning forward and looking into her eyes.

It was part of his temperament that he should take her coming to him as

an instant acknowledgment of the complete fulfilment of his wishes. He

always saw life as the very rosiest of his dreams until it woke him to

reality. He was ruled completely by the mood of the moment, and his one

emotion now was that Rachel was divinely intended for him alone of all

human beings--

But he could not wait.... He knew, by this time, that reflection was

always a period of disappointment. He was unhappily made in that he

yielded to his impulses of regret as eagerly as to his impulses of

anticipation--One mood followed so swiftly upon another that collision

might seem inevitable.

They were, both of them, young enough to see life as something that

would inevitably, in a short time, condemn them both to years of sterile

monotony. Rachel indeed felt that she was already caught....

They must, both of them, therefore, make the best of their time.

"I _was_ so afraid," he repeated again, "lest something should have

stopped you."

"I would have asked you to come to us, only I'm afraid that my husband

still----"

"Oh! I quite understand."

"It's natural--Roddy's like that. If he wants to do a thing he doesn't

care for anybody and just does it. But if nothing makes him especially

want to do it, then he just takes other people's opinions. Now he might

ask you suddenly to come and see us--simply because he took it into his

head. Then nobody could stop him.... He's very obstinate."

She was rather surprised at herself for talking about Roddy. She had a

curious feeling about him as though she were going on a journey and had

just said good-bye to him and had a rather desolate choke in her throat

because she wouldn't see him again for so long.

"Oh! but I'm glad you've come! If you knew the times and times when I've

imagined this meeting--thought about it, pictured----"

She saw that his hand was trembling on the window-ledge--

"I oughtn't to have come, perhaps--But I don't know. I've felt so

indignant at the way that grandmother is treating you. I wanted to

_show_ you that I was indignant...."

"You don't know," he said, "what a help you've been to me already--You

showed me the very first time that we met that you _did_ sympathize...."

His voice was tender, partly because her presence moved him so deeply

and partly because the sympathy of anyone about his own affairs made him

instantly full of sorrow for himself--When anyone said that they thought

that he had been badly treated he always felt with an air of surprised

discovery: "By Jove, I _have_ been having a bad time!"

"Yes--Wasn't it strange, that first meeting in Miss Rand's room? We seem

to have known one another all our lives."

She looked at him. "That you should hate grandmamma so," she said, "was

a great thing to me. I'd been all alone--fighting her--for so long."

Rachel felt, in the glow of the occasion, that, all her days, there had

been active constant war-to-the-knife in the Portland Place house.

"She's been the curse of my life," he said bitterly. "Always keeping me

down, making me unable to do myself justice. Why should she hate me so?"

"She hates us," cried Rachel, "because we're both determined to be free.

We wouldn't have our lives ruled for us. She wants everyone to be under

her in _everything_."

They glowed together, very close to one another now, in a glorious

assertion of rebellious independence. He put his hand upon the back of

her chair--

"Now," he said, his voice trembling, "now that we've got to know one

another, you won't go back on it, will you? If I couldn't feel that you

were behind me, after being so encouraged, it would be terrible for

me--worse than anything's ever been for me."

"You needn't be afraid," she said, not looking at him, but tremendously

conscious of his hand that now touched her dress. Then there was a long

and very difficult silence during which events seemed to move with

terrific impetus.

She was overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions. She was past analysis of

regret or anticipation. Somewhere, very far away, there was Roddy, and

somewhere--also very far away--there was her grandmother, but, for

herself, she could only feel that she was very lonely, that nobody cared

about her except Breton and that nobody cared about him except

herself--and that she wanted urgently to be comforted and that he

himself needed comfort from her.

She knew that if she were not very strong-minded and resolute she would

cry; she could feel the tears burning her eyes.

"Perhaps I oughtn't to have come--Oh! it's all so difficult--with

grandmother--and everything--I thought I could--could manage things, but

I can't--We oughtn't--I wanted to do what was best. I--I didn't

know--You----"

Then the tears came--She tried desperately to stop them, then they came

rushing; she buried her head in her hands and abandoned herself to

weeping that was partly sorrow for herself and partly sorrow for Breton

and partly, in the strangest way, sorrow for Roddy.

He was on his knees by her chair, had his arm about her, was crying:

"Oh! Rachel--Rachel--Rachel--I love you. I love you--Don't

cry--Don't--Rachel----" He kissed her again and again and she clung to

him like a frightened child.

III

After a time her crying ceased, she got up from the chair, moving gently

out of his embrace, and then went to the looking-glass above the

fireplace and stood there wiping her eyes.

Then, smiling, she looked back at him--He was standing in front of the

window and behind him the reflection, from the departed sun, flooded the

town with gold. He seemed a man transformed, gazing upon her with an

ecstasy of triumph, exaltation, happiness.

"My dear--my dear--Oh! how glorious you are!"

But she did not move.

He stirred impatiently, and then, looking at her with adoring eyes, he

whispered, "Oh! my dear! but I love you!"

"I must go," she said, her eyes, large and frightened, appealingly upon

him--

He smiled at her, his eyes laughing.

"Yes, Francis--let me--let me. Now while I can still see what I ought to

do."

"There's only one thing that you ought to do. You belong to me now." She

plucked nervously with her hands one against the other.

"Francis, let me go--please--please----" He saw then that she was

unhappy and the laughter died from his eyes. His voice, fallen from its

happiness, was almost harsh, as he replied--

"You know we love one another, have loved one another ever since that

day when we met in Miss Rand's rooms? You know it as well as I do. You

knew it when you came to these rooms to-day."

"I oughtn't to have come." Her voice had gathered strength. "It's only

because I realize now what you are to me that I want to go. I thought I

was so strong, that I could be fair to Roddy and to you too ... I didn't

know----"

"Then stay--stay--" he whispered urgently. "It's a thing that you've got

to face anyhow--We can't stay apart, you and I, now. We can try, but you

know--you know as well as I--that we can't do it."

"We must--That's what I meant before. That's why I must go now, because

soon I shan't be strong enough. But we've got to part--we've got to."

"Oh, this is absurd," he cried. "We're human beings, not figures to hang

a theory on--Now just as we realize what we are to one another----"

"Yes, because of that," she broke in swiftly, urgently. "You know that I

love you--I know that you love me. We've got that knowledge that nothing

can take away from us--and we've got the love--nothing can touch it. But

my duty is with Roddy."

"You knew that," he said, "when you came here to-day."

Her face flamed--"That's not fair of you, Francis."

"No, I beg your pardon. It isn't----" He suddenly came to her, caught

her and kissed her, holding her with his arm close to him, murmuring in

her ear. At first she had struggled, then she lay absolutely still

against him, making no response.

He felt her passive against his beating heart. He released her and

watched her as she went across to the window and looked out into the

darkening city.

"I don't care," he said roughly, "I love you. There's no talk about it

or anything else. You belong to _me_."

"I belong to Roddy," she answered quietly. "It's all quite clear. My

duty is to him until ... unless, life with him becomes impossible. I've

got absolutely to do my best and while I'm doing that you've got to help

me."

"What do you mean?" he said, his eyes upon her.

"Help me by our not meeting, by our not writing, by our doing

nothing--nothing----"

"No--No," he answered her, his eyes set upon her.

"You don't get me any other way. Francis, don't you see that we're not

the sort of people, either of us, to put up with the deceits, the

trickeries, the lies that the other thing means? Some people might--lots

of people do, I suppose--but we're not built that way. We're

idealists--We aren't made to stand quietly and see all the quality of

the thing vanish before our eyes--just to take the husk when we've known

what the kernel was like.

"Besides, it isn't as though I hated Roddy. If I did I'd go off with you

now, in a minute if you wanted me, although even then it would be a

hopeless thing for _us_ to do. But I'm very fond of Roddy. I'm not in

love with him--I never have been--I told him from the first--But I'm

going to do my best by him."

"Why did you come here?"

"I came here because I was driven towards you. I wanted to hear you say

that you loved me--I wanted to tell you that I loved you. We've both of

us said it. We know it now--and we've got to keep it, the most precious

thing in the world.

"But we should soon hate one another if we destroyed one another's

ideals. For many people it wouldn't matter--For us, weak as we are, it

matters everything."

"All this talk," he said. "I'm a man. I'm here to love you, not to talk

about it. I've got you and I'm going to keep you."

"You haven't got me," she cried. "You've got a bit of me. There'll be

times when I'm away from you when I shall think that you've got all of

me. But you haven't--no one's got all of me....

"And I haven't got you either--You think now for the moment that it is

so--But I know what it would be if we were hiding about on the Continent

or secretly meeting here in London--That's not for us, Francis."

"I've got you," he repeated. "I'm not going to wait any longer----"

"It's the only way you'll ever have me," she answered, "by letting me do

my duty to Roddy--I promise you that. If ever life is impossible--if

it's ever better for both of us that I should go, I'll come to you--But

I shall tell him first."

"Tell him! But he won't let you go."

"He won't stop me--if it comes to that."

He pleaded with her then, telling her about his life, its loneliness,

his unhappiness, how impossible it would be now without her.

But she shook her head.

"Don't you think," she cried, "that grandmother would be delighted if we

went off? Both of us done for--you never able to return again ... Ah!

no! For all of us, for every reason, it's not to be."

"I won't let you go--I've got you. I'll keep you."

"You can't, Francis----"

"I can and I will----"

Then looking up, catching a vision of her framed in the window with the

lighted city behind her, he saw in her eyes how unattainable she might

be....

He had, he had always had, his ideals. There was a long silence between

them, then he bowed his head.

"You shall do as you will--anything with me that you will."

"Oh, my dear," she whispered, "I love you for that."

Then hurriedly, moving as though she feared her own weakness, she went

to put on her wraps--He came to her.

"Let me write--let me."

"No--Better not."

"Just a line--Nothing that any ordinary person----"

"No, we mustn't, Francis."

He put her furs about her neck, then his hand rested on her shoulder.

Her head fell back.

"Once more"--she said. He kissed her throat, then her eyes, then their

lips met.

"Stay," he whispered, "stay"--Very slowly she drew away from him, smiled

at him once, and was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

CHRISTOPHER'S DAY

"I judge more than I used to--but it seems to me that I have

earned the right. One can't judge till one is forty; before

that we are too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition too

ignorant."

HENRY JAMES.

I

The War had the City in its grip. There was now, during these early

weeks of November, no other thought, no other anxiety, no other

interest. The shock of its reality came most severely upon those whose

lives had been most unreal. Here, in the midst of their dining and their

dancing, was the sure fact that many whom they knew and with whom they

had been in the habit of playing might now, at any moment, find death--

Here was a reality against which there was no argument, and against the

harshness of it music screamed and food was uninteresting.

During that first month of that war, so new a thing was the horrid

grimness of it, that hysteria was abroad, life was twopence coloured.

For everyone now it was the question--"What might they do?"

Something to help, something to ease that biting truth--"Your life has

been the most utterly useless business--no purpose, no strength, no

unselfishness from first to last--what now?"

Christopher's life had not been useless and he knew it. The reality of

it had never been in doubt and death--the haphazard surprise of it and

the pathos and melodrama and sometimes drab monotony of it--had been his

companion for many years.

Christopher, although he had been a hard worker from his childhood, had

always taken life lightly. He loved the gifts of this world--food and

amusement and exercise and pleasant company. He loved, also, certain

people whose lives were of immense concern to him. He also believed in a

quite traditional God about Whom he had never argued, but Whose definite

particular existence was as certain to him as his own.

He had faults that he tried to cure--his temper--his pleasure in food

and wine.

He had three great motives in his life--His love of God, his love of his

friends and his love of his work. He hated hypocrites, mean persons,

cruel persons, anyone who showed cowardice or deceit or arrogance. He

was dogmatic and therefore disliked anyone else to be so. He was humble

about his work, but not humble about his position in the world, which he

thought, quite frankly, a very good one.

His interest in his especial friends was compounded of his love for them

and also of his curiosity about them, and he always loved someone the

more if he or she gave him the opportunity to practise his

inquisitiveness upon them.

After Rachel Seddon he cared more, perhaps, for Francis Breton than

anyone in the world. He had also of late been interested in Roddy, who

was a far better fellow than he had expected.

One puzzle, meanwhile, obstinately and continually beset him. What had

happened to Breton during this last year? Something, or in surer

probability someone, had been behind him. Christopher might have

flattered himself that he had been the influence, but he knew that, if

that had been so, Breton's attitude to him would have implied it. Breton

was fond of him, but did not owe that to him. Who then was it?

On one of these November days he invited a friend and Breton to luncheon

together.

Christopher's geniality and the supreme importance of the war over

everything else helped amiability. Christopher's little house in Harley

Street showed, beyond its consulting-room, a cheerful Philistine

appreciation of comfort and love. There was old silver, there were old

prints, sofas, soft carpets, book-cases, whose glass coverings were

more important than their contents. Also a luncheon that was the most

artistic thing that the house contained, save only the wine.

At the side of the round gleaming table Christopher sat smiling, and

soon Breton told the friend about India and the friend told Breton about

Africa.

Meanwhile Christopher watched Breton. He knew Breton very well and, in

the old days, he would have said that that nervous excitement that the

man sometimes betrayed meant that he was on the edge of some most

foolish action.

He knew that light in the eyes, that excited voice, that

restlessness--these things had meant that Breton's self-control was

about to break.

To-day there were all these signs, and Christopher knew that after

luncheon Breton would escape him.

Breton did escape him, went off somewhere in a hurry; no, Christopher

could not drive him--he was going in the opposite direction.

Whilst Christopher drove, first down to Eaton Square, then back to 104

Portland Place, he was wondering about Breton....

II

It seemed that, on this afternoon, he was unduly sensitive to

impression. The house struck him with a chill, deserted air. There

seemed to be no one about as Norris led him up to the Duchess's rooms,

the old portraits grinned at him, as though they would have him to know

that, very soon, the house would be once more in their possession and

Beaminsters dead and gone be of more importance than Beaminsters alive.

At any rate it was a cold November day, and always now the streets

seemed to echo with newsboys crying out editions.

Even through these stone walls, those cries could penetrate; he could

hear one as he climbed the stairs.

The Duchess, looking peaked and shrivelled, received him with an

eagerness that showed that she was longing for company. The room was

close, but, in spite of that, now and again she shivered a little.

As he sat opposite her the glance that she flung him was almost

pathetic--struggling to maintain her pride, but showing, too, that she

might now, in his company, a little relax that great effort.

"I'm not so well," she said; "I've slept badly."

"I'm sorry for that," he said; "what's the trouble?"

"It's this war," she said, taking her eyes away from his face. "This

war--I don't think I've ever felt anything before, but this--Oh! I'm

old, old at last," she said almost savagely.

"Everybody's feeling it just now," Christopher answered her quietly. "I

suppose I'm as level-headed as most people, but even I have been

imagining things to-day--Nerves, simply nerves----"

"Nonsense," she answered him--"Don't tell _me_, Christopher. What have I

ever had to do with nerves?"

"Wait a little. All we want is to get used to War: it's a new experience

for all of us----"

She laughed sharply--

"It's ludicrous, but really you'd think if you studied my family that I

was responsible for the whole thing. It's positively as though I'd made

some huge blunder which they would do their best to excuse. Adela,

John--I'm now to them an old sick woman who's got to be kept quiet and

away from worry. They wouldn't have _dared_ let me see that six months

ago--"

Her voice was trembling.

She went on again, more quietly. "Every hour now one hears some horrible

thing. This morning that young Dick Staveling dead, shot in some

skirmish or another--Fine boy he was. They're all going out, one after

the other--Not useless idiots who aren't wanted here like John or

Vincent--but boys, boys like--like Roddy."

Again her voice trembled.

For the first time in his knowledge of her some pity for her stirred in

him, for the first time in her knowledge of him she definitely looked to

him with some appeal.

"Roddy came to see me yesterday," she said.

"Yes?" said Christopher.

"He had not been so often as he used--I told him so; he made some feeble

apology, but I can see that he will not come again so often----"

He would have interrupted her, but she went on--"He's not happy, but he

loves her madly--madly. He did not tell me so, but I could see that.

That was something I had never reckoned on."

"You prefer," Christopher said sharply, "to imagine that he is not

happy. I know, unfortunately, what your feeling is about Rachel. Fond of

him though you are you'd prefer that he was unhappy with her."

"I know that he is unhappy. He would not care for her so much if she

returned it. I know Roddy. But she's clever enough----" She broke off.

"If Roddy were to go out to South Africa," she said, "I think I would

kill Rachel--then die happy----"

"Forgive me," Christopher said, "but this is sheer melodrama. Rachel is

devoted to Roddy and Roddy to Rachel. I've the best means for

knowing----"

Even as he spoke he saw her mouth curve with that smile that was always

the wickedest thing about her. He had seen it on many occasions and it

always meant that, then, in her heart there was something cruel or

remorseless.

It gave her now an elfin look so that, amongst the absurd furniture of

the room, she took her place as some old witch might take hers amongst

the paraphernalia of her incantations--her cauldron, her bones, her

noxious herbs.

"That shows, Christopher my friend, that you know very little. I've a

piece of news that will surprise you."

He said nothing, but, in his heart, made ready for some blow.

"What would you say if our Rachel--your Rachel and my Rachel--had found

a new friend in my worthy, most admirable nephew, Francis?"

"Rachel--Rachel and Breton?"

The Duchess watched him with amusement. "Exactly. I have the surest

information----"

"What does your--information--say?"

He hated her at that moment as he had never hated her before.

"It says--and I know that it is true--that for more than a year now they

have been meeting and corresponding--The other day Rachel went to tea

with him--alone. Was with him alone for some time--I'm sure that Roddy

knows nothing of this----"

"It's impossible--impossible! Rachel is the soul of honour----"

"I know that you have always thought so. But what more likely? Their

feeling about myself would, alone, be enough...."

But he would not let her see how hardly he was taking it. He deprived

her of her triumph, did not even question her as to what she would do

with it, turned the conversation into other channels, and left her at

last--seeming there, amongst her candles, with her nose and thin hands,

like some old bird of most evil omen.

III

But for him there was to be no more peace.

It was now about four o'clock and already the dusk was closing in about

the town. He decided that he would go and see whether Rachel were in.

He was determined that he would ask Rachel nothing; if she wished to

speak to him he would help her, but it must be of her own free

will--that was the only way at present.

For how much was the Duchess's malignity responsible? What exactly did

she know? What did she intend to do?

Oddly enough, for a long time past some subconscious part of him had

linked Rachel and Breton together, perhaps because they were the two

persons in all the world for whom he most cared, perhaps because he had

always known in both of them that rebellious discontent so unlike that

Beaminster acquiescence.

As he drove through the evening streets, he felt that never, until now,

had he known how dearly he loved Rachel. In his mind there was no

judgment of her, only a sense of her peril; if she would speak to

him!...

When he asked at the door of the flat for Lady Seddon he was told that

she was out.

"Sir Roderick is at home, sir." He would see Roddy.

Roddy was sitting in the little box-like room known as the smoking-room,

poring over a war map. About the map little flags were dotted; he had

two in his hand and, with one hand lifted, was hesitating as to their

position.

"That was a damned bad mess----" Christopher heard him say as he came

in.

At the sound of the door Roddy looked up, straightened himself, and then

came forward.

"Hallo! Christopher," he said. "Delighted. Splendid! Rachel's out, but

she said she'd be back to tea."

He was not looking well--fat, his cheeks pale and puffy, lines beneath

his eyes.

"I'm jolly glad you've come," he said. He drew two arm-chairs to the

fire and they sat down.

Roddy then talked a great deal. He was always a little nervous with

Christopher because he was well aware that the doctor had disapproved of

his marriage.

Christopher had lately shown him that he liked him, but still Roddy was

not at his ease. He talked of the war, then of golf, then polo, then

horses, Seddon Court--abruptly he stopped and sat there gazing moodily

into the fire.

"You're not looking well, Seddon," Christopher said quietly.

"I'm not very--Nobody's at their liveliest just now with fellers one

knows droppin' out any minute.... One feels a bit of a worm keepin' out

of it all--skunkin' rather----"

Moodily he sat there, his head hanging, dejected as Christopher had

never seen him before.

Suddenly he said--"That ain't quite the truth, Doctor. I _am_ a bit

worried----"

"My dear boy," Christopher said, putting his hand on the other's

knee--"If there's anything in the world I can do for you, tell me."

"Thank you. You're a brick. I'm damned unhappy, Christopher, and that's

the truth----"

"Rachel----" said Christopher.

"Yes--Rachel. I got to talk to somebody. I've been goin' along on my own

now for months and I know you're fond of her----"

"I am," said Christopher, "more than of anyone in the world----"

"I know. That's how I can talk to you. I wouldn't have you think I'm

complainin' of her. I'm gettin' nothin' but what I asked for, you know.

But it's just this. When she took me she never said she loved me, in

fact she said she didn't, but I thought that it wouldn't matter--all you

wanted in marriage was just to be pals and show up about the town

together and treat one another honourably. Well," said Roddy, taking now

a melancholy interest in his discoveries concerning himself, "damn it

all, if I haven't rotted the bargain by fallin' in love with her. Jove!

Why, I hadn't a ghost's guess at what Love meant before Rachel came

along. Of course it isn't her fault. You couldn't expect her to love an

ordinary sort of chap like me, just like a million other fellers

knockin' about--but she's so unusual there ain't another woman in the

world so surprisin' as Rachel--

"She's fond of me," he went on, "I know that, but what I want she just

can't give me and that's the long and short of it.

"Lately it's been terrible hard. She's not happy and that makes me wild,

and every day that passes I seem to want her more. Nothin' else, no one

else matters now. I've been playin' golf, ridin', sittin' down to this

bridge they're all getting mad about, doin' every blessed thing--it

isn't any use. Do you know, Christopher," he said slowly, "I'd give my

soul to make her happy and I just can't----"

"I know----" said Christopher.

"But it's worse than that--" Roddy went on, taking up the poker and

knocking on the fire--"Lately she's been having a room of her own.

Started it a while ago as a temporary thing and now she sticks to it. Up

here, in this damned town, we hardly see one another; always a crowd

either here or outside. I know Rachel don't like it and I don't like it,

but there it is--

"Next week we're going down to Seddon and things may get better

there--But I can't stand it much more--not like this."

"Wait a bit. It'll come all right." Christopher spoke confidently. "I've

know Rachel since she was a small child. She's half Russian, you

know--you must always remember that--and Russian and Beaminster make a

strange mixture--Wait----"

"That's so easy to say--" Roddy answered, shaking his head. "It's so

easy to say, but I don't see just what's goin' to make things different

from what they are----"

"No--one never sees," said Christopher. "And then Destiny comes along

and does something that we call coincidence and just settles it all.

Your trouble will be settled, Roddy, if you're patient----"

"Perhaps," Roddy said slowly, "you could see her a bit--find out----" he

stopped.

"Anything in the world I can do I will. We'll find a way. Meanwhile,

Seddon, there is a bit of advice I can give you----"

"What's that?" asked Roddy.

"Go and see the Duchess more than you've been doing. See her a lot--more

than you did ever----"

"Oh! the Duchess!" Roddy sighed. "I don't know, but it all seems

different with her now. I've changed, I suppose. All her ideas are

old-fashioned and wrong; I used to think her rather splendid----"

"Yes--but she's ill and old, and you're the only person in the world she

cares about."

"Yes, I'll go," said Roddy slowly. "I've known I ought to go."

Voices broke in upon them; the door opened and Rachel, followed by her

friend May Cremlin, once May Eversley, came in--

"Oh! Dr. Chris! You dear!" she cried, and came forward and flung her

arms about him and kissed him.

Her cheeks were flushed, from her black furs her eyes shone at him. Some

thought caught him. He knew where he had seen that excited glitter

already to-day--Breton at luncheon--

They all talked. Then Christopher said that he must go.

Rachel came with him to the door. In the hall she looked at him

defiantly, that flash he knew so well.

"You never come now, Dr. Chris: you've given me up."

"I don't care for you in a crowd very much. There's always a crowd

now----"

"Ask me alone and I'll come," she said, but still her eyes were defiant.

"No," he said gravely. "I'll do no asking, Rachel. When you want me I'm

there for you at any time--at _any_ time----"

For answer she flung her arms again about him and hugged him. Her heart

was beating furiously. Then without another word she left him.

IV

He could not go back to Harley Street yet. The sense of apprehension

that had been growing with him all day would give him a melancholy

evening, were he to spend it alone. He thought of Brun. Someone had told

him that the little man was in London.

He found him in his rooms, reading, with a cynical expression on his

face, a French review.

"I came to see--" said Christopher, "whether you happened to be free

to-night and would dine with me. I'm a pessimist for once this evening

and it doesn't suit me!"

Brun was very, very sorry, but he was dining with a Russian princess; it

was most tiresome that he should have to waste his time with a Russian

princess when he'd come over to London on this occasion expressly to

study the English people at this interesting crisis of their affairs,

but there it was--he'd no idea how he'd let himself in for it, and how

much rather would he spend the evening with his friend, Christopher.

Christopher said that he would smoke one cigarette and that then he must

go.

"And so you feel pessimistic?" said Brun, looking at Christopher

curiously--"It's the war, _Je crois bien_--How alike you all are!"

"No," said Christopher, "I don't think the war's much to do with it. I

dare say the war's a very good thing for all of us."

"Didn't I tell you--?" said Brun, greatly excited--then pulled himself

up--"No, it wasn't you. It was Arkwright. More than a year ago we were

in a picture gallery looking at your Duchess's picture, and coming home

we talked. I said then that something would come, that something _must_

come, and that then everything, _everything_ would crumple up. And

behold!" cried Brun, his eyes flashing--"See, it crumples!"

"That's a little previous of you," said Christopher. "Nothing crumpled

yet. We're disturbed of course----"

"It is most lucky," Brun said, "most lucky. Here we are, you and I,

ordinary people enough, with the end of a Period with its death and the

way it takes it, all for us to watch. _Most_ lucky...."

"End of Victorian Age ... _Voila!_" and with a little dramatic gesture

he waved his hand as though he were flinging the Age and its lumber

away, out of the window.

"You know, Christopher," he went on, "I've seen things coming over here

for so long. All you people, you couldn't have gone on very much longer

so remote from life. And now this--it will finish your Duchess, your

Beaminsters, your queen in her bonnet, your Sundays and your religion

and your Whigs and Tories, and all your hypocrisies--No names any more

taken just because they've always been taken, but new names made by men

who're doing things. Nothing taken for granted any more.

"Your Beaminsters will vanish, and then you'll have your Denisons and

Oaks and Ruddards on top. Then you'll see a time. You'll all be spinning

like a top, dancing, dancing like dervishes. Then while you're busy

dancing up the other people will quietly come--all the real people, the

Individualists--Women will have their justice--no man will skunk behind

his garden hedge because he doesn't want to be bothered. No more

superstition, no more inefficiency----"

"You're a wonderful fellow, Brun," said Christopher, getting up and

flinging away the end of his cigarette. "You've always got any amount to

say--but do you never think of people as people, not as theories or

movements or developments----"

"No, thank God, I don't. That's for the sentimentalists like you,

Christopher. People are all the same, fools or knaves."

"Well, I'm glad I don't think so," said Christopher.

"Tell me," Brun put his little hand on the other's elbow, "your

Beaminsters now, how are they?"

"They're all right."

"The Duchess? I hear she's not so well----"

"Oh! nonsense--Well as she's been any time these last thirty years."

"Yes? So--I'm glad. But the other Beaminsters? Ah! I must go quickly and

call--To see them burst asunder, that will be most amusing----"

Christopher laughed. "You won't see the Duke or Richard Beaminster

burst," he said--"They're like you--no personal feeling."

"And the girl?"

"Lady Seddon?"

"Yes. She'll stir things up. She's not a Beaminster, or only enough of

one to make her hate the family. And she does hate them, _hein_?"

"Oh, my dear Brun, you've got an absurdly exaggerated view about

everything. You'd twist the Beaminsters into anything to make them fit

your theory."

"Oh, they'll fit it right enough. But I must be in at the death. We'll

meet there together, Christopher. Things will occur before we're much

older, my sentimentalist."

Christopher shook his head. "There's something sinister about your

appearances in the City, Brun. 'Where the carcases are, there will....'"

Brun nodded. "It's true enough this time," he said.

CHAPTER IX

THE DARKEST HOUR

"So God help us! and God knows what disorders we may fall

into.... Home and to bed with a heavy heart."

_Diary of Samuel Pepys._

I

During that terrible December week in 1899, England suffered more

defeats to her arms than during any other week of the century.

Magersfontein, Stormberg, Colenso, their names leapt one after another

on to the screen.

London was dismayed; London was impatient. Easy enough to declare that

the most criminal blunders had been perpetrated, easy enough to explain

how one would oneself have conducted this or that, manoeuvred hither

or thither some pawn in the game.

Dismay remained--a wide active alarm at the things that Life, so

suddenly real and dominating and destructive, might in the future be

preparing.

To Lord John this terrible week was simply the climax to a succession of

disturbing revelations of reality. All his days had he been denying

Life, wrapping it up in one covering after another, calling it finally a

box of chocolates or a racing card, a good cigar or a pretty woman,

knowing, at his heart, that somewhere in the dark forest the wild beast

was waiting for him, hoping that he might survive to the end without

facing it.

Now it was before him and its glittering eyes were upon him.

He had gone on the Friday of this week, to pay a week-end visit at a

country house near Newmarket. Many jolly, happy week-ends he had spent

at this same house on other occasions, now, from first to last, it was

nightmare.

On the Monday morning at breakfast a sudden conviction of the impossible

horror of this world struck at his heart. It came as a revelation, life

was for him never to be the same again. His hostess, a large-bosomed

white-haired lady, planted at the end of the table like an enormous

artificial toy in the middle of whose back some key must be turned if

the affair is to amuse the crowd, suddenly horrified him; the women of

the party, their noses a little blue, their cheeks a touch too white,

their voices hard and sharp, the men, red and brown, boisterously hearty

about the animals they hoped to kill before the day was done, the cold

food in a glazed and greedy row, the hot food--kidneys, fish, bacon,

sausages, sizzling and scenting the air--: the table itself with its

racks of toast and marmalade and silver and fruit: the conversation that

sounded as though the speakers were afraid that the food would all

disappear were they spontaneous or natural--all these things suddenly

appeared to Lord John in a very horrible light, so that, in an instant,

racing and women and clothes and food were banished from a naked biting

world in which he was a naked solitary figure.

He caught a train as one flies from some horrible plague: he arrived in

London, breathless, confused, miserable, the foundations of Life broken

from beneath him.

Here he found Lady Adela in a like condition.

He had never cared very greatly for his sister, he had not found her

sympathetic or amusing, she had never appealed to him for assistance,

nor challenged his violent opposition. He had never enquired very deeply

into her interests; she had much correspondence and many acquaintances.

She ran, he supposed, the house or, at least, directed Miss Rand to run

it for her.

He thought her a rather stupid woman, but then all the Beaminsters

thought one another stupid because they believed so intensely in the

Duchess and she had always made a point of seeing that, individually,

they despised one another, although collectively they faced the world.

Finally, Adela had always seemed to him unsympathetic towards Rachel and

that he found it very hard to forgive--but then, he often reflected they

were all, with the exception of himself, a most unsentimental family. He

wondered sometimes why he was so different.

On the afternoon of his return from Newmarket, however, he began to

wonder whether, after all, Adela had not more in common with him than he

had ever expected. He had lunched at the club, had plunged down into the

City to enquire about some investments, it had begun to rain, and he had

returned with the weight of that gloomy day full heavily upon him.

He did not, as a rule, have tea, but to-day he needed company, and he

found Adela in the little sitting-room next to the library, a little

room with faded wall-paper, faded pictures (groups, some of them, of

himself and Vincent and Richard at Eton and Oxford), faded arm-chairs

and faded chintzes--a nice, cosy, friendly room, full of old

associations and old hopes and despairs.

This room did not often see either Lady Adela or John, but to-day

Norris, for reasons best known to himself, had put tea there and, to

both of them, as they sat over the fire with the great house so still

and quiet about them, the shabby intimacy of the little place was

grateful.

John, disturbed, himself, out of his normal easy geniality, noticed that

Adela also was disturbed.

That dry and rather gritty assurance that had all her life protected her

from both the praise and abuse of her fellow-men and women was, to-day,

absent. She seemed really grateful to John for coming to have tea with

her to-day. He wondered whether she felt as he did that this war, with

all its horrors, foreboded, in some manner, special disasters upon the

Beaminster family, as though it were a portent, to be read of all men,

of the destruction and ruin of that family.

"Poor Adela," he thought, "she's very plain. If she asks me to help her

I will. She's got something on her mind."

"Rachel's here," Lady Adela said, looking at her brother nervously.

"Now?"

"Yes, she's with mother. She came to say good-bye to her. She and Roddy

are going down to Seddon to-morrow."

"Yes, I know----" said John.

"She's very queer--very odd. I don't pretend to understand her."

"We're all queer just now," said John. "Down at the club to-day it was

too awful. No other subject--fellows killed, fellows going out to be

killed. Blunder, blame, disgrace--all the time. But what's Rachel been

doing odd?"

"You understand her better than I do," said his sister. "She always

liked you better. I did my best with her, but she never cared about me.

But now I understand her less than ever. She's so excited and hard and

unnatural. Something's happened to her that we don't know about, I'm

sure."

John said nothing. He was unhappy enough about Rachel, but he did not

intend to talk to Adela about it. He would rather not talk to anyone

about it because talking only brought it more actually in front of him.

Besides, he did not know what to say. He knew that he had been cowardly

about Rachel. He had tried to pretend to himself that she was happy when

he had known that she was not and so, for the sake of his comfort, he

had stifled the most genuine emotion in his life; that indeed was the

Beaminster habit.

"She's not happy," continued Adela. "I'm sure I don't know why--Roddy's

very good to her--very good. She's so queer. She wants to have Miss Rand

down with her at Seddon for Christmas."

"Miss Rand?"

"Yes--she asked me whether I'd let her go. She's got to give a dance and

a dinner-party or two and asked me whether she might have her help. Of

course I said 'Yes.' Miss Rand hasn't been looking at all well for some

time now. A change will do her good."

"What did Miss Rand say when you told her?"

"Oh, she was odd. She has been odd lately. At first she thought she

wouldn't go. Then she said she would. I told her it would do her good."

"How's mother been the last two days?"

"Oh! the same. She won't say anything--she confides in nobody."

John looked at his sister and wondered why it was that he had never,

during all these years, considered her as a personality or as anything

actively happy or miserable. She had had, he suddenly supposed, a life

of her own that was, in a way, as acute and sensitive as his and yet he

had never realized this.

He had always taken his mother's word for it that Adela was a dried-up

stick who resented interference; now he was sure that that judgment was

short-sighted, and then, upon this, came criticism of his mother;

therefore, to banish such disloyalty, he said hurriedly:

"I didn't enjoy the Massiters a bit--longed to get away--Sunday was

miserable----"

Adela said--"I never could bear them--John----" she stopped.

"Yes," he said, looking across at her. His large good-tempered eyes met

hers and then the colour mounted very slowly into her cheeks. He had

never seen her agitated before--

"John--" she began again. "I must do something. I can't sit here--just

quietly--going on as though nothing were happening. I know--all one's

life one's stood aside rather, I've never wanted to interfere with

anyone. But now, this war has made one feel differently, I think."

"Well?" said her brother.

"Well--an organization is being formed--women, you know--to help in some

way. They're going to do everything, make clothes, have sales and

concerts and get money together. It's to be a big thing--Nelly Ponsonby,

Clara Raddleton, lots of others.... They've asked me to be on the

committee----"

"Well?" said John, "why not?"

She looked at him appealingly. "Mrs. Bronson's on it too--one of the

originators of it."

"Oh!" John was silent. Here was, indeed, a question. Mrs. Bronson, the

Beaminster arch-enemy. Mrs. Bronson, who had snapped her bejewelled

American fingers at the Duchess--Mrs. Bronson, who called the

Beaminsters the most insulting names. Why, a fortnight ago any alliance

with such a woman was unthinkable, incredible--

"I believe," went on Lady Adela, "that she herself proposed that I

should be asked...."

A fortnight ago ... and now--

John knew that he was glad that Adela wished to join the committee, he

knew that he was closer to Adela now than he had ever been at any moment

during their lives together.

He looked across at her and their eyes met and in that glance exchanged

between them barriers were broken down, curtains turned aside--they

would never be strangers again.

"Mother isn't well." Adela said quite firmly. "Hasn't been well for a

long time--we've all known it. She has felt this war and--and other

things very much. She will feel my going on to the same committee as

Mrs. Bronson--she will certainly feel it. But I think it's my duty to do

so. After all, on an occasion like this family feeling must give way

before national ones." Why did not the walls and foundations of No. 104

Portland Place rock and quiver before the horrid sacrilege of such

words? John, himself, almost expected them to do so and yet he was of

his sister's opinion.

"I think you are perfectly right, Adela," he said.

"Oh! I'm so glad that you do. I don't want to worry mother, just now.

I'm frankly rather nervous about telling her--but it must be done."

"It's odd, Adela," said John, leaning back in his chair and crossing

his fat legs. "But something real like this war, a ghastly day with boys

shouting horrors at you followed by another ghastly day with more boys

shouting more horrors, it does shake one's life up. I've been very

cowardly, Adela, about a number of things. I see that now. I've never

really wanted to see it before. It makes one uncomfortable."

"I don't think one ought to give way," said Adela with a slight return

to her gritty manner, "to one's feelings too much. But certainly one is

beginning to see things differently, which is a dangerous thing for

people of our age, John."

"Yes," said John, "I suppose it is." He paused and then brought

out--"There's Francis, Adela. We've all been very wrong about

Francis. I've felt it for a long time, but hadn't the courage....

He's been behaving very well all this time--One oughtn't to hold

aloof--altogether----"

"Mother refuses to have his name mentioned----"

"We must take into account," John said very slowly and now without

meeting his sister's eye--"that mother is not so well--scarcely so sure

in her judgment----"

He broke off. There was a long pause and they looked away from one

another, as though they had been guilty conspirators. Norris came in to

take the tea away.

"Has Lady Seddon gone?"

"Yes, my lady. She was with Her Grace a very short time----"

Adela turned impatiently to John. "So like Rachel. She might at least

have come to say good-bye to us."

When Norris had gone John got up and walked a little about the room.

He stopped beside his sister and put his hand on her shoulder:

"If there's anything I can ever do to help you, Adela, tell me----!" he

said.

"Thank you, John," she answered.

II

Rachel had never understood why it was that she was driven so constantly

into her grandmother's presence. The impulse that drove her had in it,

perhaps, something of defiance and something of challenge as though she

cried to some weakness in her that it should not master her and that she

would just show it how little those visits mattered to her. It had all

begun from some reason of that kind, and lately, when she grew older,

she discovered that her grandmother was more terrible through

imagination than she was through actual vision.

There was never absent from Rachel a lurking presentiment of what her

grandmother might one day do, and she went to see her now to discover

what she might be at, to prove to her that, whatever she be doing,

Rachel was "up" to her.

On this particular occasion the visit was a very brief one, but there

was one moment in it that after events always produced for Rachel as a

most definite and (on the part of the Duchess) omniscient omen.

Rachel had said that she had come in only for a moment to say good-bye.

She had talked a little and then, rising, stood by the fire.

As she stood there her grandmother suddenly looked at her--a glance that

Rachel had not been intended to catch. There was there a malicious

humour, a consciousness of some power, of some disaster that could be

delivered, triumphantly, at an instant's notice.

Very swiftly Rachel gathered her control, but she had felt what that

look conveyed.

"Francis ... she knows ... what is she going to do?"

She strung her slim, tall figure to its finest restraint and without a

quiver in her voice (her heart was beating wildly), "Good-bye,

grandmamma. I promised Roddy to be back."

But the old lady looked at her--

"How you do hate me, my dear," she said almost complacently.

Rachel compelled the other's eyes. "Would I come to see you so often if

I did?" she said.

"Yes, my dear, you would. You've got a sense of humour hidden somewhere

although, God knows, we've seen little enough of it lately. Oh! yes,

you'd come all right--if it were only to see me growing older and

older."

Rachel turned flaming. "There, at any rate, you're unjust. It's you that

have always hated me from the beginning--since I was small. Hated me,

been unjust to me----"

Her body trembled with agitation--she was not far from one of her old

tempests of passion.

But the Duchess smiled. "You exaggerate, Rachel, your old fault. At any

rate, I'll be gone soon, I suppose--it will seem trivial enough one

day...." Then as Rachel, turning to the door, left her--"But hurt a hair

of Roddy's head, my dear, and--well, you'll hate me more than ever----"

III

When Rachel had gone the Duchess felt very ill indeed. She had only to

touch a bell and Dorchester would be with her, but she did not intend to

summon Dorchester before she need.

She felt now, at this minute, that her spirit of resistance had almost

snapped. Again and again, throughout the last months, the temptation to

lie down and surrender had swept up, beaten about her walls and then

sunk, defeated, back again.

But this last week of disaster had tried her severely. Her pride in life

had been largely her pride in the arrangement of it and now all that

arrangement was tumbling to pieces and she powerless to prevent it. For

the first time in all her days she felt that she would like to have

someone with her who would reassure her--someone less acid than

Dorchester.

Why had she never had a companion--a woman like Miss Rand who would

understand without being sentimental?

There was pain in every muscle and nerve of her body: it swept up and

down her old limbs in hot waves.... She clutched the arms of her chair.

Even her brain, that had always been so sharp and clear, was now

confused a little and passed strange unusual pictures before her eyes.

That girl ... yes ... Dorchester had been very clever about that:

Dorchester had been in communication with Breton's man-servant for a

long time past. To go to tea there ... to be alone with him ... Roddy--

And at that dearly loved name all was sharp and accurate. Night and day

she was terrified lest she should suddenly hear that he was off to South

Africa. She believed that that would really kill her. Roddy--her

Roddy--to go and make another of those ghastly tragedies with which the

newspapers were now full. But let Rachel disdain him and he would go

merely to show her how fine a fellow he was--what idiots men were!

Or let this other thing become a scandal, then surely he would go.

She shook there in her chair and then with her eyes fixed on the fire

prayed to whatever gods or devils were hers that he might not go.

Anything, anything so that he might not go. Break him up, hurt

him--only, only he must not go.

She prayed, thrusting her whole soul and spirit into her urgency--

Then, even as she sat there, her darkest hour was suddenly upon her. It

leapt upon her, as it were a beast out of some sudden darknesses--leapt

upon her, seized her, tore her, crushed her little dried withered soul

in its claws and tossed it to the fire.

She was held by the sudden absolute realization of Death. She had never

seen it or known it before. Others had died and she had not cared; many

were dying now and it did not concern her.

But this beast crouching in front of her, with its burning eyes on her

face, said to her: "All your life I've been beside you, waiting for this

moment. I knew that it would come. I have waited a long time--you have

played and thought yourself important and have cared for meddling in the

affairs of the world, but Reality has never touched you. You have

gathered things about you to pretend that I was not there. You have

mocked at others when they have seen me--you have enjoyed their

terror--now your own terror has come."

Death.... She had never--until this instant--given it a thought.

Everything was gone before its presence. In a week or two, a month or

two, silence--

Rachel--she saw her standing there by the fire, full of life and energy,

so young, so strong.

She, the Duchess of Wrexe, the great figure, courted by kings, princes,

artists, all the men and women of her time, now must crumble into the

veriest dust, be forgotten, be followed by others, banished by this new

world.

She and her Times were slipping, slipping into disuse. Who cared now for

those other glories? What minds now were fit to tackle those minds that

she had known? What beauty now could stand beside that beauty that had

shone when she was young?

The beast crouched nearer. The room darkened. She could feel the hot

breath, could be dazed by the shining of those eyes. Behind her, around

her, the trumpery toys that she had gathered faded.

Darkness rose; a great space and desolation was about her--She tried to

summon all her energy.

She cried out and Dorchester, coming in, found that her mistress had,

for the first time in her life, fainted, bending, an old, broken woman,

forward in her chair.

CHAPTER X

LIZZIE'S JOURNEY--II

I

The world, during all these months, had seemed to Lizzie Rand a very

silent place. Before that July night it had been loud with incident,

coloured with possibilities, strange and varied and thrilling. Now she

was only conscious of the duties that must be fulfilled between daybreak

and darkness; she was unconscious of all life and movement, only she was

aware of the demands on her deliberate activity--these demands she

obeyed.

Slowly, as the dreary autumn dragged its days past her, she accustomed

herself to forestall the horrid moments that would leap from some hidden

darkness upon her. There was the moment when a something said: "Fancy

caring for someone who had never asked nor shown any sign...." Another

moment when something said: "Remember how here you stood, with your

heart beating, waiting for him to come--There you caught some light in

his eyes and fancied it a sign...."

Burning shame was in those moments did she indulge them--a realization,

too, of the bare grey desolation of a world without movement or vision.

She could not see the people about her, her mother, her sister, Lady

Adela, Dr. Christopher (always kind to her), other friends--they were

not there for her at all.

Only two things were there--that she must cling, at all possible costs,

to her pride and that she hated Rachel. Her pride had been called to her

defence before, but to hate anyone was new to her. She had never hated

any human being and now the restlessness that this new emotion brought

confused her.

Night after night stretched ironically before her, banishing sleep. All

her life she had slept from the moment that her head was upon the

pillow; now, at that instant, her brain sprang to fire, thought after

thought, memory after memory, passed in dancing procession before her.

She saw him as little as possible, she supposed that in time she would

not care, would be indifferent to him; she hoped so.

Meanwhile she went out when he came in; saw his kind distress because

he thought that she was not well, and shuddered at it.

Then Lady Adela told her that Rachel had asked whether she were free for

Christmas.

She received a letter:

"DEAR MISS RAND,

I wonder whether by any chance you would care to come to us

here for three weeks at Christmas time? I should be so grateful

if you would come and help me a little with some tiresome

social things here. May I add that I have for a long time

wanted to know you better than the London rush ever gives time

for? My aunt says that you have been overworking lately, she

thinks. If you come here you shall have all the rest and quiet

possible.

Yours sincerely,

RACHEL SEDDON."

A funny little letter--stiff and then suddenly impulsive and friendly.

Of course she would go--she had never doubted that. Here at last was

some food for the burning restlessness that was always at her

breast--Through these months she had longed for some step that would

help to kill the pain.

Now she would watch Rachel and discover her heart and perhaps find from

that discovery some way for her own release. For her shame, night and

day, was that she still cared, cared, yes, as deeply as she had ever

done--that caring must die.

Perhaps the sight and knowledge of this other woman would kill it.

At least here at last was action after the terrible silence and

remoteness of those many months.

She would go to Seddon and she would not leave it without finding some

way by which she might still make some use of life.

II

She had really stayed at very few houses before. The anticipation at any

other time would have excited her, now nothing mattered except that she

would meet Rachel.

Her mother and sister had watched her during these past months with a

dismay stirred by the sudden absence of her genial friendliness.

They had taken so much of her kindliness for granted and now when she

refused them the sympathy that they had always demanded for a thousand

unimportant incidents they, clamorously, missed it.

At first it was easy to say that Lizzie was callous and selfish,

afterwards that she was ill and overworked, finally they hailed with

relief the promise of a three-weeks' holiday. "She'll come back," said

Mrs. Rand, "as fresh as paint, and taken out of herself."

Meanwhile no solution of Lizzie's trouble occurred to them; that she

should ever feel the tyranny of love, like more sentimental mortals,

was, at this time of day, impossible. "We know Lizzie, thank you," said

Mrs. Rand.

They watched her, on the afternoon of the 23rd of December, depart in a

cab for Seddon Court. She was grave and pale and beautifully neat. "I do

admire Lizzie, you know," said Daisy, returning with her mother into the

house. "I can't get that kind of tidiness. Her things go on for years,

looking as good as new."

"Men like a bit of disorder," said Mrs. Rand. "It seems more agitated.

All the same I'd like to know what is worrying Lizzie."

It was a wet and gusty day and the wind blew the rain with hard

impatient spurts against the windows of the cab. Few people were about:

Hyde Park Corner was grey and deserted, umbrellas like black mushrooms

started here and there from the shining ground.

Victoria Station also had, on this afternoon, nothing beautiful to

offer. She found her way to her train, chose an empty carriage, sat in

her corner with her hands upon her lap, waited for the train to move.

People, grey people with white faces, hurried past her carriage. She

wondered whether they too had something in their hearts that made every

thought, every movement a danger.

Because the train would not move and because for the first time in all

these months she found herself without any occupation, she could not

hold thought at bay. She resisted, she tried to sweep her brain empty,

she surrendered. She, Lizzie Rand, always so fond of her self-discipline

and restraint, found control now slipping from her. Before she had met

Breton her duties, the skilful manipulation and arrangement of detail,

her work and her place as a worker, these had supplied her needs. Now

all those things were dust and ashes; high and lofty above them shone

that bright fire whose warmth and colour she had, for an instant, felt

and seen. What was life going to be, through all the years to come, if

she were never to recapture her tranquillity?

The train moved off and she sat there, her eyes bright and shining, her

little body stiff and resolute. Somewhere, a long way away, like a

rounded coloured cloud, hovered emotion--emotion that would break her

heart, would tear her to pieces and then perhaps build up for her a new

life. But her eyes now were dry and her heart was cold.

The train went whir-whack--whack-whir and the telegraph wires flew up,

hung, hesitated, were coming down, flew higher, then with a rush were

buried below the window, and with the noise and movement there danced

before her eyes the questions, "Does she love him?" "Does she love him?

Has she told him that she loves him? What will her husband do? Does she

love her husband?" And then, beyond that, "Why did she come and take

from me all that I had, she who had already so much?"

And then, most bitter of all, "Ah, but you never had him. She took

nothing from you. He never thought of you except as someone to whom he

could talk----"

She had no doubt that these weeks were intended for a crisis. Something

was going to happen at Seddon.... Something in which she was to have her

share. She felt as though she had known that she would be sent to meet

Rachel--It had to be....

Then her thoughts left, for a time, her own miserable little history.

She wondered how Lady Adela would manage without her. Lady Adela had

never been alone before and now that the Duchess had had, a fortnight

ago, that fainting fit, they were all unsettled and alarmed. What would

happen if the Duchess died? Then all the dignity and splendour of 104

Portland Place would pass away! other people might inhabit it, but the

soul of that house would be dead.

Everything on every side of her seemed to be hastening to a climax and

Lizzie could see that old woman fighting, behind her closed doors, for

Life, beaten at last, dead, swept away, others laughing in her place--a

new world to whom she was only a portrait cleverly painted by some young

artist.

Yes, there were other histories developing now besides Lizzie's and she

felt as though she had been whirled, during the last months, into a

wild, tossing medley of contacts and revelations--all this after a life

so grey and quiet and steadily busy.

As the train plunged into Sussex the rain stayed for a little and the

shining earth steamed upwards to a grey sky broken here and there to

saffron. Little towns quietly rested under the hills and many streams

ran through the woods and the roads drove white like steel through the

crust of the soil. White lights spread in the upper air and the heaving

grey was pushed, as though by some hand, back into the distant horizon.

For a moment it seemed that the sun was bursting through; trees were

suddenly green where they had been black and fields red where they had

been sombre dark--Light was on all the hills.

But the hand was stayed. Back the grey rolled again, heavily like

chariots the clouds wheeled round and drove down upon the earth--The

rain fell.

The carriage was very cold. Lizzie's hand and feet were so chill that

they seemed not to belong to her at all. Pictures of houses at Brighton

and the dining-car of some train and two public-houses at the bottom of

a hill stared at her.

The sense of some coming disaster grew with her. It was as though

someone were telling her that she must prepare to be very brave and

controlled and wise because, very soon, all her restraint and wisdom

would be needed. She summoned now, as she had learnt to do, a stern

armoured resolution that sat always a little oddly upon her. Any

observer who had seen her sitting there would have noticed the mild

softness of her eyes, the tenderness of some curve at the corners of her

mouth, and would have smiled at the lines of resolution as though he had

known that the sternness was all assumed.

But she was saying that nothing should touch or move her down here at

Seddon; her heart should be closed. She must grow into a woman who had

no need of emotion--and even as she determined that some vision swept

her by, revealing to her the happy dear uses that she could have made of

love and sympathy had life been set that way for her. How she could have

cared!... A dry little sob was at her throat and burning pain behind her

tearless eyes. God, the things that other people had and did not value!

The train stopped at a wind-swept deserted station and a man and woman

with a little child, the three of them tired, wet, bedraggled, entered

the carriage.

The man was gaunt with a beard and large helpless eyes, the woman

shapeless, loose-breasted, little eyes sunk in her cheeks, an old black

straw hat tilted back on her head. These two did not glance at Lizzie,

nor was there any curiosity of interest in their eyes, but the small

child, yellow wisps of hair falling about her dirty face, detached

herself from them, crept into the furthest corner of the carriage and

from there stared at Lizzie.

The train droned on through a country now shrinking beneath a deluge of

rain. The child moved a little, looked at the woman, looked again at

Lizzie, crept to Lizzie's side of the carriage, at last, still without a

word, came close and, finally, stole fingers towards Lizzie's dress.

Lizzie turned and smiled at the child, who stared back at her, now with

wide terrified eyes. Lizzie looked away, out of the window, and after a

long time, felt the grimy hand upon her knee.

Once the woman said, "Come away, Cissie. You're worrying the lady."

"No. Please," said Lizzie. She took the hand in her own and smiled again

at the wide baby face. The child was very, very young and very, very

dirty--

No child had ever come near her before. She wondered why it had come

now.

III

At Lewes a carriage was waiting for her and, in a moment, it seemed that

she was driving through a dark village street and in front of her, like

a great wall topping the skies, the Downs rose.

When the carriage entered the courtyard and stopped before the broad

stone door Lizzie was seized with terror. She wished, oh! she wished

that she had not come. The sense of descending trouble was so strong

with her that she felt for the first time in her life that she was going

to prove unequal to her task.

Her life was over and done with! Why had she allowed herself to be

pushed back again into all these affairs of other people?

She was ushered into a square lighted hall where they were all having

tea round a wide open fireplace. She was conscious of Rachel rising,

slim and tall, to greet her, of the square ruddy-faced country-looking

man who gripped her hand, jolly hard, and was, of course, Sir Roderick;

of a handsome, athletic-looking girl in a riding-habit, of a man or two

and an elderly smartly dressed woman.

They were all immensely cheerful and friendly and to Lizzie, white and

tired, noisy and horribly robust. She would have liked to have slipped

up to her room and stayed there alone until dinner, but Rachel said:

"Oh! you must be perished after that wet journey. Tea's just at its

hottest and its freshest. Quick, Roddy--the toast--Never mind the rest

of us, Miss Rand--just drink that tea and get warm."

They allowed her to sink back into an easy chair somewhere in the shadow

and the tea was very comforting and the stern hall with its crackling

fire and its cosy solid shape most friendly. She listened to them all

noisily discussing people and dances and horses and dinners. She watched

Rachel Seddon, sitting a little gravely, straight in her chair, throwing

in a word now and again.

This was the woman.... This was the woman....

She felt a warm tongue that licked her hand. She looked down and saw at

her side the oddest dog, a dog like a mat, shapeless with two brown eyes

behind its hair and a black wet nose.

There was something about the eyes and the way that the warm body was

pressed against her dress that won her instant affection.

"What an adorable animal!" she said to Roddy, who was sitting next to