A QUARTETTE
"Her dignity consisted, I do believe, in her recognition,
always sure and prompt, of the dramatic moment."--HENRY
GALLEON.
I
Rachel came forward: Roddy from his sofa said something.
She was, it seemed, unconscious of them all, fixing her eyes upon a
large black-leather arm-chair, settling slowly down into it, dismissing
Peters and the footman with "Thank you--That is very kind": then, at
last leaning her hands upon her ebony cane, raised her eyes and smiled
grimly, almost triumphantly, at Roddy.
He had been aware, at that first glimpse of her in the doorway, that he
was ashamed of himself. He should not have done it.
She was older, feebler, more of a victim than he had ever conceived her
possibly to be, and in some way the situation that awaited her changed
her entirely from the old tyrant who had sat there talking to him only a
week ago into someone who demanded of one's chivalry, of one's courtesy,
protection.
Roddy had also caught the light of fierce recognition that had leapt up
into Breton's face as he had realized who it was that stood before him.
Breton must have many old scores to pay.... Roddy was suddenly
frightened of the emotions, the fierce resentments, the angry rebellions
that he had brought so lightly into collision.
But the smile that the Duchess flung to him had in it no fear. It said
to him: "Oh, young man, _this_ is your little plot, is it? Oh, Roddy, my
friend, _how_ young you are and _how_ little you know me if you think
that I am in the least embarrassed by this little gathering. I'm glad
that you've given me a chance of showing what I can do."
She dominated the room; she was, from the minute of her appearance,
mistress of the situation. They realized her power as they had never
realized it before.
Sitting there, leaning forward upon her cane, she remarkably resembled
Yale Ross's portrait. She was even wearing the green jade pendant, and
her black dress, her bonnet, her fine white wrists, a gold chain with
its jangling cluster of things--a gold pencil, a card case, a netted
purse--these flung into fine relief the sharp white face lit now with an
amused, an ironic vitality.
She was old, she was ill, she was being trodden down by generations
hungrier than any that she had ever known, but she was as indomitable as
she had ever been.
She looked about the room; her glance passed, without any flash of
recognition, without sign or signal that she had realized his presence,
over the fierce figure of her grandson.
"Well, my dear," she said to Rachel, "I'm sure this is all very pleasant
and most unexpected. Let's have some tea."
"I'm afraid," said Rachel, "that it's been standing some time. Let me
ring for some fresh."
"No--I like it strong. It used always to be strong when I was younger.
This new generation likes things weak, I believe."
Rachel, looking at her grandmother, felt nothing of Roddy's compunction.
She did not, even now, grasp entirely Roddy's intention; she had no sure
conviction of the climax that he intended; but she _did_ know that here,
at last, was her chance; she should lift, once and for all, out from all
the lies and confusion that had shrouded them, her attempts at courage
and honesty, attempts that had wretchedly, most forlornly failed.
Breton should know, Roddy should know, the Duchess should know, and she
herself should never again go back.
Breton did not move from the corner where he was sitting; he waited
there, his hand pressing hard upon his knee.
Roddy said, "Most awfully good of you, Duchess, to come out again. I
wouldn't have dared to ask you to come if Christopher hadn't said that
last time did you no harm."
"Only for you, Roddy," she answered him almost gaily, "and Rachel of
course. To-day's a nice day. All that thunder has cleared the air."
What her voice must have seemed to Francis Breton, coming back to him
again after so vast a distance, bringing to him a thousand memories,
scenes and faces that had been buried, a whole world of regrets, and
disappointments.
Rachel gave her her tea; brought a little table to her side.
"Thank you, my dear. How _are_ you, Rachel? You're not looking very
well. Richard, who came in to see me this morning, told me that you were
ill at dinner last night. He seemed quite anxious."
"It was nothing, thank you, grandmamma. That thunder always upsets me. I
was sorry to interfere with Lady Carloes' dinner-party."
"Not much of a party from what Richard told me. And she had in a harpist
afterwards. Why a harpist? Poor Aggie Carloes! Always done the wrong
thing ever since she was a child. Yes, her little drawing-room's so
stuffy, they tell me--must have been intolerable last night."
It was for all three of them a quite unbearable situation. Roddy had
never, even when he was a boy of sixteen, been afraid of her; now at
last he understood what the power was that had kept her family at her
feet for so many years, indeed, he seemed now to perceive in all of
them--in Breton, in Rachel, as well as in the Duchess--a strain of some
almost hysterical passion, that, held in check though it was, for the
moment, promised to flare into the frankest melodrama at the slightest
pretext.
Anything better than this pause; he plunged.
"You won't forgive me, Duchess," he said abruptly. "I believe I've done
a pretty rotten thing. I didn't intend it that way. I only meant just to
clear everything up and make it all straight for everybody, but if I've
been unpardonable just say so and give it me hot."
He paused and cleared his throat. "I wonder if you'd mind, Rachel," said
the Duchess, "passing me that little stool that I see over there--that
little brown stool. Just put it under my feet, will you? Thank you."
Roddy desperately proceeded.
"It's only this. You said the last time you came that you had
heard--that you knew--that you were afraid that Rachel and your
grandson, Mr. Breton, were--had been--seein' too much of one another.
You just put it to me, you know--Well," he went on, trying to make his
voice cheerful and ordinary and failing completely, "lyin' on one's back
one gets thinkin' and broodin', specially a feller who hasn't been used
to it, like me. I got worried--not because I didn't trust Rachel--and
Mr. Breton, of course, all the way, because I do; but simply that, you
know, it's rotten for a feller to be lyin' helpless on his back,
thinkin' that people are talkin' about his wife--you know how malicious
people are, Duchess--and I thought it jolly well must be stopped, don't
you know, and I wanted it stopped quick and straight and clean, and I
didn't see how it was goin' to be stopped unless I'd got us all friendly
together here and just squashed it, all of us. And so--well, to
speak--well, here we are.... And," he concluded, trying to smile upon
everyone present, "I do hope it's all right. It didn't seem then a poor
sort of thing to do, but somehow gettin' you all here as a surprise...."
He broke off, made noises in his throat, and felt that the room was of a
burning heat.
He remembered, vaguely, that he had designed this meeting as a
punishment to the old lady; he had only succeeded, however, in revealing
his own cowardice; the first glimpse of her had made a poor creature of
him. Oh! how he wished himself now well out of it! And yet, behind that
thought was the knowledge of the little speech that he was soon to make
and the way that, with it, he would win Rachel and hold her for ever!
After all, it came to that, absolutely: Rachel was the only thing in all
the world that mattered.
The Duchess flung upon him a kindly satiric glance, then, turning from
him, bent her sharp little eyes upon Rachel, leaning forward upon her
cane so that it appeared that it was now only with Rachel that she had
any concern.
"Had I known that my few careless words!"--She broke off with a little
impatient gesture.
"Ah! Rachel, my dear, I'm truly sorry. My stupidity...."
But Rachel, her eyes upon Roddy, had got up, had moved across to Roddy's
sofa, and stood there, above him. Her eyes moved, then, slowly to her
grandmother.
"There was no need," she said, her voice low and trembling, "for this.
If I'd done, as I should, it couldn't have happened. I'm responsible for
all of it and only I. Roddy _has_ got you here on false pretences,
grandmamma. If you'd rather go now...."
"Thank you," the Duchess said, "I'd much rather stay. It amuses me to
see you all together here."
"Then," said Rachel, "I'll say what I ought to have said
before. Roddy," turning passionately round to him, "you shall
have everything--everything--from the very beginning. Mr.
Breton--Francis--will agree that that's what we should have done--long
ago."
Breton made a movement as though he would rise, then stayed.
"Aren't we, my dear Rachel," said the Duchess, "making a great deal of a
very small affair?"
But Rachel, speaking only to Roddy, sinking her voice and bending a
little down to him, began, "Roddy, one thing you've got to know--it's
been from the beginning only myself that was to blame. Francis"--she
paused, for an instant, over the name--"Francis, please," as he moved
again from his corner, "let _me_ tell Roddy...."
She went on then more firmly, turning a little round to her grandmother
again: "Roddy, I don't want to defend myself--it's the very last thing I
can try to do--I only want to tell you--all three of you--exactly the
truth. You know, Roddy, that when I said I'd marry you it wasn't a
question of love between us at all. We had that out quite straight from
the beginning. I was awfully young: I wanted safety and protection and
so I took you. You rather wanted me, and grandmother wanted you to marry
me, and so there you were too. Then I met my cousin--I'd heard about him
since I'd been a baby and he'd heard about me. We had a lot in common,
tastes and dislikes--all kinds of things. We met and he stirred in me
all those things that you, Roddy, had never touched. I had found
marriage wasn't the freedom I had thought that it would be. I was fond
of you, you were fond of me, but there was something always there
jogging both of us--just putting us out of patience with one another.
Things got worse. You never could explain what you felt. I tried, but
the whole trouble wouldn't go into words somehow.
"Francis and I wrote to one another a little and then one day--as
grandmamma has so kindly told you--(here her voice was sharp for a
moment)--I went to his rooms." Rachel stopped. She was looking straight
in front of her, her hands clenched. She seemed to dive deep for
courage, to remain for an instant struggling, then to rise with it in
her hands. Her voice was strong and unfaltering. "We found that we loved
one another. We told each other ... it seemed to Francis then that the
only thing was for us to go away together. But I refused. Odd though it
may seem, Roddy, I cared for you then more than I'd ever cared for you
before, and I think it's gone on since then, getting stronger always. I
wouldn't go and I wouldn't see Francis again and we weren't to write
again--unless I found that our living together, Roddy--you and I--was
hopeless. Then I said I'd go to him."
Her voice sank and faltered--"There did come a day when I thought
that--we couldn't get on any longer. You know what finally ... Lizzie
Rand found out. She knew that I intended to go away with Francis. She
fought to prevent it--she was splendid about it, splendid! We
quarrelled, and in the middle of it, came your accident.... I wrote
afterwards to Francis and told him that it was all over--absolutely--for
ever. Since then--only once...." She broke off, recovered: "Since then
there's been nothing--no letter, no meeting--nothing. My whole life now
is wrapped up in you, Roddy, and Francis knows that. I've told you the
whole truth!" She turned from him, fiercely, round to her grandmother.
"I don't know what _you_ told Roddy, what you made him believe--you've
wanted, always, to harm me with Roddy if you could. At least, now, you
can't tell him more than I've done."
The Duchess stared first at Rachel, then at Roddy. She had behaved from
the beginning as though Breton did not exist.
Some of her amiability had left her. Her lips were tightly drawn
together as she listened and her rings tapped one against the other.
"This is all rather tiresome," she said sharply. "Very like you, Rachel,
to do these things in public. You get that from your mother. But you're
strangely lacking in humour. It all comes from my own very unfortunate
remark the other day. Not like you, Roddy dear, to arrange this kind of
thing. Stupid ... distinctly--I'm sure now, however, that you're
satisfied. Rachel's certainly been very frank--and now perhaps we might
leave it."
It was then that Francis Breton came forward into the middle of the
room, his face grey with anger, something suddenly unrestrained and
savage in his eyes so that the room was filled with a wind of angry
agitation.
He stood in front of his grandmother, but turned his head, sharply, now
and again, round to Roddy. So agitated was he that his words came in
little gasps, flung out, in little bundles together, and strangely
accented as though he were speaking in a language that was strange to
him.
The sarcastic smile came back into the old lady's eyes and she leaned
forward on her stick again, looking up into his eyes.
"I didn't know--I didn't know--that we were going to meet like this. You
didn't know either or you wouldn't have come, but I've been waiting for
years for this. It's been nice for me, hasn't it, to sit by whilst
you've done everything to make things wretched for me, to ruin me, to
push me back to where...."
Roddy's voice interrupted.
"Mr. Breton, I think you forget----"
Instantly Breton stopped. He forced control upon his voice, he
stammered, "I'm ashamed--I oughtn't to have--But sitting there--not
being allowed to speak--you must excuse me----"
He turned round to Roddy. "You must think me the most complete
blackguard. It's only a climax to everything that's happened since I
came back. I don't want to defend myself, but it isn't--it isn't all so
simple as just talking about it makes it look. You're the kind of man to
whom everything's just black or white--you do it or you don't--but
I--I've never found that. I've been in things without knowing I've been
in them. I've done things that would have turned out straight for any
other fellow, but they've always been crooked for me. Something always
blinds me just when I need to see straightest. That's no excuse, but
it's an awful handicap.
"I won't hide or pretend about it. Why should I? I loved Rachel. We've
only met so little--really only that once in my rooms--that you can't
grudge us that. We had things--heaps of things--in common long before
we knew one another. It wasn't like any ordinary two people meeting, and
I knew so well that she could make all the difference to my life that I
took the chance of knowing her even though she wasn't ever going to
belong to me. I don't think I ever really believed that I'd be the man.
I know now that she's yours altogether and you ought to have her--now
that I've seen you I know that. And last night when I faced the fact
that I'd have to go all my life without her I realized what she told me
long ago, that it was much better just to have my idea of her and not to
have had my regret about having spoiled anything for her. I've no
confidence in myself, you see. If I thought I were the kind of man just
to carry her off and make her happy for ever and ever, then I suppose
I'd have been bolder about her long ago, but I know, even if she didn't
belong to you at all, that I should be afraid that I'd spoil her life
just as I've always spoiled my own.
"I expect this is all very confused. It's all so difficult and you don't
want long explanations, but I'm only trying to say that you needn't ever
have any fear again that I'm going to step in or try to have any part in
her. We've got our things together that nobody can take from us. We've
seen each other so little that most people would say it wasn't much to
give up. But things don't happen only when you're together...." He
stopped suddenly, seemed to stand there confused, turned and flung a
fierce, defiant look at his grandmother--exactly the glance that an
angry small boy flings at someone in authority who has seen fit to
punish him--then went back to his corner and stood there in the shadow,
watching them all.
Even as he finished speaking he had realized finally that his
relationship with Rachel was over, closed, done for. He had known it on
that afternoon in the park--He had realized it perhaps again in the
heart of the storm last night, but now, when he had seen the soul
pierce, through Rachel's eyes, to her husband, he knew that Roddy, one
way or another, had at last won her.
Moreover, to anyone as impressionable as Breton, Roddy's helplessness,
his humour, his bravery had, on the score of Roddy alone, settled the
matter. Breton had his fierce moments, his high inspirations, his noble
resolves!... Now, as he looked this last time upon Rachel, his was no
mean spirit.
Rachel drew a sharp breath and looked at Roddy with wide eyes, flooded
with fear. He had heard now everything that they had to say; although
she had watched him so closely she could not say what he would do. As
she saw the two men there before her she felt that she knew Francis
Breton exactly, that she could tell what he would say, how he would see
things, what would anger him or surprise him.
But about Roddy she was always uncertain: she was only now, very slowly,
beginning to know him, but she was sure that if Roddy were to beat her
she would care for him the more, but if Francis Breton were to beat her
she would leave him for ever.
A flush meanwhile was rising over Roddy's neck, up into his face, to the
very roots of his hair.
"It's rather beastly," he said, speaking very slowly and trying to
choose his words, "all this talkin'. I might have known, if I'd been
able to think about it, what it would be like, but there, I never did. I
had a kind of idea that we'd all get it over sort of in five minutes and
then have tea, don't you know, and all go away comfortably. I don't feel
now that you've rightly got all that everybody thinks about it. It was
very decent of you, Mr. Breton, to say exactly--so plainly, you
know--how you felt. But I don't want to talk a lot--I can't you know,
anyhow.
"It's only this. I wanted the Duchess to hear me say, amongst ourselves,
that I know _all_ about it, that we _all_ know all about it and that
there isn't anything for anyone to talk about because there isn't
anything in it, and if I hear of anyone sayin' a word they've just got
to reckon with me. Rachel and I know one another and, Mr. Breton, I hope
you'll go on bein' a friend of ours and come and see us often. Of course
you and Rachel have a lot in common and it's only natural you should
have.
"Now Duchess, you can just tell anyone who's talkin' that Mr. Breton is
welcome here just as often as he pleases and he's a friend of mine and
my wife's--and they can jolly well shut their mouths. Thank God, all
_that's_ over."
II
But he was very swiftly to realize that it was _not_ all over. Sharply,
quivering through the air like an arrow from a bow, came the Duchess's
words.
"Good God, Roddy, are you completely insane?"
She was twisted, distorted with anger, she seemed to take her rage and
fling it about her so that the chairs, the tables, Roddy's innocent
little sporting sketches and even the case of birds' eggs were saturated
with it.
The gleaming park, the peaceful evening sky, the sharp curve of an
apricot-tinted moon, these things were blotted out and the noises of the
town deadened by this indignant fury. Rachel had known it in other days,
to Breton it evoked long-distant nursery hours, to Roddy it was
something utterly new and unsuspected. For the first time in his life he
caught a shadow of the terror that had darkened Rachel's young days.
To the Duchess it was simply that she now clearly discovered that she
was the victim of an elaborate plot. The three of them! Oh! she saw it
all! and Roddy, Roddy--who had been the one living soul to whom her hard
independence had made concession! This came, the definite climax to the
year's accumulations, the final decision flung at her, before she died,
by those two--Rachel and Breton--from whom, of all living souls, she
could endure it least.
With her rage rose her fighting spirit. She would show them, these young
fools, the kind of woman that an earlier and a finer generation than
theirs could produce!
They had more there before them than one old woman, sick and ailing, and
they should see it.
Her voice shook a little, but she gave no other sign, after that first
challenge: her little eyes flamed from the mask of her face like candles
behind holes in a screen.
"This is your sense of fun, Roddy, I suppose," she said. "You always
_were_ lacking in that. I've told you so before. As you asked me here I
suppose you're ready for my opinion. You shall have it. I'll only ask
you to cast your eye over any friend of ours: see what you would say if
this--this idiotic folly committed by someone else had come to your
ears. I suppose you'd arranged this, the three of you. Well, you shall
know what I think. Your tenderness to Rachel is magnificent--she has
obviously reckoned on it, knew that her frankness would serve her well
enough. You've already been more patient with her than men would have
been in my day. I only hope that your patience may not be too severely
tried....
"As for my grandson, to whom you have so tenderly entrusted Rachel, your
acquaintance with him is quite recent, is it not? I am sure that if you
were to enquire of any man at one of your clubs he would give you quite
excellent reasons for my grandson's long unhappy absence from his
relations and his country. At any rate you don't know him as well as I
do. I could tell you, if you asked me, that it is a long time now since
any decent man or woman has sought his society. Do you suppose that his
family have not the best of reasons for trying to forget his
existence--an attempt that he makes unpleasantly difficult?
"Have you heard _nothing_, Roddy? Do you really want a man who has been
kicked out of society for the most excellent reasons, who has disgraced
his name as no member of his family has ever disgraced it before him,
for your wife's lover? If she must have one...."
Rachel, trembling, had come forward, Roddy had cried out, but quietly,
stronger than either of them, Breton had faced her. She had not,
throughout the afternoon, looked at him nor spoken one word to him. Now,
her anger carrying her beyond all physical control, she was compelled to
meet his gaze.
He stood very quietly beside her chair, looking at the three of them.
"My grandmother is wrong," he said, "I am not quite as deserted as she
thinks. Just before I came here this afternoon Uncle John called upon
me. I had half an hour's very pleasant talk with him: he told me that,
although his mother had not altered her opinion of me, Uncle Vincent and
Aunt Adela and himself considered that I had earned"--he smiled a
little--"forgiveness. He hoped that I would understand that--while my
grandmother was alive--I could not be invited to 104 Portland Place, but
that he thought that I would like to know that they had realized
my--well, improvement, and that he hoped that we would be friends. I
said that I should be delighted."
The Duchess spoke to him then, her voice shaking so that it was
difficult to catch her words.
"John--came--said that--to _you_?"
"Yes. It was a curious coincidence that to-day----"
Her eyes had dropped. She murmured to herself:
"John ... John ... Adela ... behind my back ... Adela ... Vincent----"
They were all silent. She sat there, her head down, leaning on her
hands, brooding. Her anger seemed to have departed, her fire, her fury
had fled: she was a very old woman--and the room was suddenly chilly.
Before her were Rachel and Breton: they faced the ancient enemy. But as
Rachel stood there, realizing that there had flashed between them the
climax of all their lives together, yes, and a climax of forces greater
and more powerful than anything that their own small histories could
contain, she had no sense of drama nor of revenge nor of any triumphant
victory. A little while before she had been almost insane with anger....
Now something had occurred. Rachel only knew that the three of
them--Roddy, Francis and herself--were young and immensely vigorous,
with all life before them; but that one day they would be old, as this
old woman, and would be deserted and sick and past anyone's need of
them.
"Oh! I wish we hadn't! I wish we hadn't!" she thought.
In that moment's silence they all might have heard the sound of the
soft, sharp click--the click that marked the supreme moment of their
relationship to the situation that had, for all of them, been so long
developing--
Breton surrendered Rachel, Roddy received her, and, beyond them all, the
Duchess definitely abandoned her world.
For them all, grouped there so closely together, the heart of their
relations the one to the other had been revealed to them.
Other dramas, other comedies, other tragedies--This had claimed its
moment and had passed....
After the silence the Duchess said, "My family--I no longer...." She
stopped, collected, with all her will, her words, then in a low voice
said, looking at Breton, "I owe you, I suppose--an apology. I owe that
perhaps to you all. My children are wiser in their own generation. I no
longer understand--the way things go--all too confused for my poor
intelligence." She pulled herself together as an old ship rights itself
after a roller's stinging blow. "This has lasted long enough.... We've
all talked--My family are--wiser--it seems."
But she could not go on. "Please, Roddy," she said at length, "I think
it's time--if you'd ring."
"I'm sorry----" he said and then stopped.
Soon Peters and a footman appeared. She leaned heavily upon them and,
staring before her at the door, slowly went out.