THE LAST VIEW FROM HIGH WINDOWS
"Not without fortitude I wait ...
... I, in this house so rifted, marr'd,
So ill to live in, hard to leave;
I, so star-weary, over-warr'd,
That have no joy in this your day."
_Francis Thompson._
I
Rachel, on the morning of April 28th, received this letter from Lady
Adela:
"BEAMINSTER HOUSE,
_April 27th._
MY DEAR RACHEL,
Mother suddenly last night expressed an urgent wish to see you.
She has not been at all well during the last few days and Dr.
Christopher, who has been here since last Saturday, says that
if you can come down and see her he thinks that it would be a
comfort to her. She is sleeping very badly, but is wonderfully
tranquil and seems to like to be here again.
If you can come down to-morrow afternoon I will send to meet
the 5.32 at Ryston. That is quicker than going round to
Munckston. If I don't hear I conclude that you are coming by
that train.
My love to Roddy.
Your affectionate aunt,
ADELA BEAMINSTER."
Rachel showed the letter to Roddy.
"I'm so glad," she said, "I've been hoping that she'd send for me. I've
felt, ever since that day, that I should never be easy again if I
hadn't the chance to tell her that I see now that I--that we--were
wrong."
"She's never answered my letter," said Roddy. "Perhaps she wasn't well
enough to write. Yes, I'm glad you're going, Rachel."
She was moved by many emotions, the old lady dying, the house in whose
shadow she had spent so many of her timid, angry, adventurous young
years, the thrill that the thought of her child gave her now at every
vision of the world, the knowledge that in Roddy she, at last, had
someone in her life to whom, after every absence, however short, she was
eager to return--these things shone with new, wonderful lights around
her journey.
The April evenings were lengthening and the dusks were warm and scented.
The little station lay peacefully in the heart of green fields; across
the sky, washed clean of every colour, a dark train of birds slowly,
lazily took their flight, trees were dim with edges sharp against the
sky-line, a dog barking in the distance gave rhythm to the stillness.
Rachel, driving through the falling dark, felt, as she had felt it when
she was a small child, the august colour and space and dignity of the
first vision of the great house, white as a ghost now under the first
stars, speaking to her with the old voice, fountains that splashed in
gardens, the river that ran at the end of the sloping lawns, the chiming
clock that rang out the hour as she drove up to the door.
Aunt Adela, Uncle John, Dr. Chris, Lizzie, they were all there, and
their presences made less chill the dominating reason for their
assembly.
Over all the house the shadow fell. The wide, high rooms, the long
picture gallery, the comfortless grandeur of a house that had not found,
for some years, many human creatures to lighten it, these echoed and
flung forwards and backwards the note of suspense, of pause, of
impending crisis.
But Rachel spent one of the happiest evenings of her life with Uncle
John and Christopher. She knew that Uncle John had had a short but
terrible interview with her grandmother, that he had been charged with
treachery and dishonour and every traitorous wickedness.
A week ago, when he had told her this, he had been the picture of
despair and shame. "I hadn't meant her to know. She wasn't to come into
it at all. And then that she should meet him at Roddy's on that very
afternoon.... There's nothing bad enough for me." But he had added with
a strange note of defiance so unlike the old Uncle John: "I had felt it
my duty, Rachel ... to speak to Francis. I had felt it the right thing
to do. I had felt it very strongly."
Then he had been overwhelmed, now he was once more at peace, and
tranquil.
"It's all right," he told Rachel. "I've been forgiven. I think she's
forgiven all of us.
"She wouldn't listen when I wanted to tell her how sorry I was. She
seems now not to care."
"She's never forgiven anyone anything before," said
Rachel.
"Hush, my dear, I don't think you ought to say that. We've never
understood her, any of us. She's always been beyond us. You'll realize
to-morrow, Rachel, how wonderful, how _wonderful_ she is!"
But he was very happy. He had his old Rachel back, the old Rachel whom
he had expected never to see again. She sat between him and Christopher,
at dinner, no longer fierce and ironical, with sudden silences and swift
angers, but affectionate, sympathetic, happy.
"Mother will see you to-morrow," Adela told her. "She's glad that you've
come. The morning's rather a bad time for her. Could you stay for the
whole day?"
"Of course," Rachel said.
At the end of the evening she went up to Lizzie's room; when midnight
rang from the tower they parted, but first, Rachel said:
"Lizzie, I wonder whether you realize what you've been--to all of us--to
me of course ... but to the others--to the whole family."
"Oh! Nonsense!"
"Roddy was speaking about it yesterday. He said that you were the most
wonderful person in all the world for making all the difference without
saying or doing anything--by just being there."
"Oh, Roddy thinks everybody----"
"But this is what I'm coming to. You can't yourself know how much
difference you make to everyone. But there's just this.... Roddy feels
and I feel that when--He--comes (of course it'll be a boy) we'd rather
have you for his friend than anyone in the whole world. You will--you
will be, won't you?"
"My dear--I should _think_ so. I'll whack him and bath him and snub him
and teach him his letters--anything you like." Then she added, rather
gravely:
"There's one thing, Rachel, I've wanted to say for some time. I want you
to know definitely, that all wounds are closed now, everything's
healed--about Mr. Breton, I mean. I was afraid that you might think I
still cared.... That's all ended, closed up, that little episode.
"You needn't be afraid, Rachel. I'm happier, I'm freer than I've ever
been in my life.... Good night, my dear. Your friendship is more to me
than any number of heart-burnings.... I was always meant to be
independent, you know...."
II
It was very strange to Rachel, who had been, on so many, many evenings,
to that other room, to pause now outside this new door, to knock with
the house solemn and still around her, to hear Dorchester's voice, then,
with the old hesitation and--yes--with some of the old fear, to enter.
She had considered what she would say. Coming down in the train she had
turned it over and over--her apology, her submission, her cry: "See, I'm
different--utterly different from the Rachel whom you knew.... I was a
prig of the very worst. I deserved everything you thought of me. Just
say you forgive me even though you can't like me." This was the kind of
thing that, in the train, had seemed possible enough; now, with the
opening of the door and that sharp recurrence of the old thrill, she was
not at all sure that she wanted to be submissive and affectionate. "I
don't feel fond of her--nothing could make me--there are too many
things...."
Space and silence saluted Rachel. Two great mirrors ran from floor to
ceiling, high windows flooded the room with light and everything seemed
to be intended only for such a situation as this--the very house, the
grounds, the colour of the day had arranged themselves, in their purity
and air and silence, about the central figure. The Duchess lay in a long
low chair before the window; she was wrapped in white shawls and thick
rugs covered her body; Dorchester, the same stern, unbending Dorchester,
said gravely to Rachel, "Good afternoon, my lady. I hope that you are
well," then moved into another room.
The Duchess had not stirred at the sound of the closing doors, nor at
Dorchester's voice, nor at Rachel's approach. She was gazing out, beyond
the windows, to the expanse of sunlit country, fields that sloped
towards the river, an orchard, white with blossom, running down the
hill, its colour, dazzling, almost visibly trembling against the sky.
Rachel had only seen her in the Portland Place rooms, with the china
dragons, the gold ornaments, the red lacquer bed, the blazing
wall-paper. It had seemed then that she must have those things around
her, that she needed the colour and extravagance to support her flaming
passion for life, so curbed and shackled by disease.
Their absence made her older, feebler, more human, but also grander and
more impressive. Rachel had always feared her, but despised herself for
her fear; now she was in the presence of something that made her proud
to be afraid.
She thought that she might be asleep, so she moved, very quietly, a
chair forward near the window and, sitting down, waited. The only sound
in all the world was the steady splash--splash--splash of the fountain
below, the only movement the stealthy creeping of the long shadows,
flung by white boulder clouds, across the shining fields.
Suddenly, without turning her head, the Duchess spoke.
"Very good of you, Rachel. I hoped that you would come."
Her voice was weak, her words indistinct as though she were speaking
through muffled shawls, but, nevertheless, behind them the presence of
the old dominating will was to be discerned, but now it was a will
quiescent, struggling no longer for power.
"I would have come before if you had sent for me. I'm so glad that you
did."
"I can't talk for very long, my dear, and I don't suppose that you want
to spend hours in my company any more than you've ever done. No, you
needn't protest. We're neither of us here for compliments.... But
there's something that I must say to you. Christopher allows me half an
hour."
"I hope you're better--that being here has done you good."
"Better? Nonsense. I don't want to be better. That's all over and done
with. I had another stroke three days ago and the next one will finish
me. So don't pretend. You used to be honest enough. I've asked you to
come because I want to speak to you about Roddy."
"He wrote," Rachel said.
"Yes. I got his letter. I couldn't reply. I can't write myself and I
won't have anyone else do it for me. Besides, there was nothing to write
about. He said he was sorry about that little conversation we all had
together the other day."
"And I--" Rachel began eagerly, "I was so sorry. I've been longing to
tell you--it was all wrong, but Roddy has no imagination. He didn't
realize in the least----"
"Ah, my dear. I expect I know Roddy a great deal better than you do.
He'll do the same sort of thing to you, one day. He's got the devil in
him and will always have it, however much you coddle him or let him lie
there thinking over his sins. Do you suppose I'd have been so fond of
Roddy all these years if I hadn't known him capable of such little
revenges? I liked it. There was no need to write to me and he knew
it--but I'm afraid you influence him a good deal."
Rachel coloured. "I hope----"
"Oh yes, you do, and that's exactly why I wanted to see you."
She turned then and, very carefully, very slowly, her eyes searched
Rachel's face.
"I let him marry you, you know. I thought it would be good for you. If
I'd guessed the effect that you'd have had upon him I'd have prevented
it."
Rachel's anger was rising.
"What effect?"
"He's begun to worry about other people--a fatal thing with a man like
Roddy who was meant to do things, not think about them. But, anyway,
that's all too late now.... Waste of time discussing it.... What I
wanted you for is this----"
Her eyes left Rachel's face and returned to the window.
"You're the one person now that influences him and you will always be
so. I can see ahead well enough. Poor Roddy ... and he might have been a
fine man. All the same, I admire him for it; there are things about you
I could have liked if I'd wanted to find them, but we've been fighting
from the beginning until now--when it's the end ..." She caught her
breath, stayed for an instant struggling for words, then went on:
"We can call a truce now. We don't like one another, but just at the
moment you're moved a little because I'm feeble and shall be dead in a
fortnight. That disturbs you.... It needn't. Some months ago a moment
did come when I realized that I should die soon. I hated it--I fought
and struggled with all my might ... but now that it has come it doesn't
matter. Nothing matters. I regret nothing. I've had my time. I hate the
new generation, the manly woman and the soft man with all this
sentimental nonsense about caring for other people. Think of yourself,
fight for yourself, keep up your pride--that's the only way the world's
ever been run. You're a sentimentalist and you're making one of
Roddy.... Nonsense it all is.... But all this isn't what I really wanted
to say." She turned back and her eyes, as again they held Rachel, were
softer.
"Roddy's been my only weakness. I've loved that boy and he's far too
good and fine for a wobbler like yourself. That's why I hated it the
other day. I couldn't bear that he should see me beaten by the pair of
you, both of you thinking yourself so noble with your fine
confessions--not that I believe a word that you said--but it was clever
of you. You _are_ clever and know how to manage men.
"Yes, that hurt me, but afterwards I loved him all the better, I
believe. I'd rather he hadn't written me that soppy letter, but that was
your doing, of course.... But listen. After I'm gone, I want Roddy to
think of me kindly. He's going to think very much what you make him.
It's in your hands. You, when you've got past this sentimental moment,
will hate the memory of me. It's natural that you should and I'm sure I
don't mind. But I want you to leave Roddy alone. If he likes to think of
me kindly, let him. Don't blacken his mind to me. I wish to feel--my
only weakness I do believe--that Roddy will be fond of my memory. That
rests with you."
She stopped with a little final movement of her head as though, having
said what had been in her mind for a long while, she was finished,
absolutely, with it all, and wanted no word more with any human being.
Rachel answered quietly: "You've said some rather hard things. You
mustn't feel that I'd ever try to make Roddy think badly of you. That's
not fair.... I'm not very proud of myself, but you don't understand me.
You've always been determined not to--and perhaps, in the same way, I've
not understood you. We're different generations, that's what it really
is.
"But over Roddy we _can_ meet. I didn't love him when I married him, but
I do now, and we're going to have a child.... That will make us both
very happy, I expect. You love Roddy and I love him. You needn't be
afraid that I'll harm his memory of you."
Her voice was trembling and she was very near to tears. She would have
liked to have said something that would have offered some terms of peace
between them, something upon which, afterwards, she might look back with
comfort. For her that hostility seemed, in the face of death, so small
and poor a thing.
But no words would come.
Her grandmother, in a voice that was very weak, said:
"Thank you, Rachel; that's a great relief to me. That's good of
you ... and now, my dear, I think Christopher would say that I'd talked
enough. Good night."
Rachel knew that this was their last meeting, that here was the absolute
conclusion of all the years of warfare that there had been between them.
There was nothing to say.... She bent down and kissed the dry cheek,
waited for an instant, but there was no movement.
"Good night, grandmamma," she said. "I hope that you'll be better
to-morrow," then softly stole away.
III
The Duchess lay very still, watching the shadows as they crept across
the fields. They were evening shadows now, for the sky, pink like the
inside of a shell, had no clouds upon its surface.
She would not get up again; this evening should be the last to see her
gaze upon the world. It was too fatiguing and all energy had flowed from
her, leaving her without desire, without passion, without regret, without
fear. Very dreamily and at a great distance figures and scenes from her
past life hovered, halted, and passed. But she was not interested, she
had forgotten their purpose and meaning, she did not want to think any
more.
The splashing of the fountain was phantasmal and very far away.
The long black shadow crept up the field. She watched it. At the top of
the red ridge of field, against the sky-line, very sharp and clear, was
a gate, golden now in the sun. When the shadow caught it she would go to
bed ... and she would never get up again.
She waited lazily, indifferently. The gate was caught; the last gleams
of the sun had left the orchard and the evening star glittered in a sky
very faintly green.
She touched a bell at her side and Dorchester appeared.
"I'll go to bed, Dorchester."
"Very well, Your Grace."
"I shan't get up again. Too much trouble." She turned away from the
window and closed her eyes.