The Duchess of Wrexe Part 71

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sion--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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 b.u.t.ton 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 Ma.s.siter 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 d.u.c.h.ess'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 la.s.situde 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 Ma.s.siter, 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 Ma.s.siter 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 Ma.s.siter 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 sh.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sing. 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 Ma.s.siter'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 rea.s.sured 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?"