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