CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY D p .... JP9SSS. University Library PR 6045.A45D8 1914a Th ni2jJSte,SlL!!!! rexe ' her dec «"e and dea 3 1924 013 235 118 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013235118 "re^e HER DECLINE AND DEATH— A Romantic Commentary by HUGH WALPOLE GROSSET & DUNLAP ~ Publishers by arrangement with Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc. GERTRUDE K STLEC MEMORIAL LIBRARY Walpok, Sir Hugh, 1884-1941. The Duchess of Wi-exe, her decline mid death; a romantic conimentury, by Hugh Walpole. New York, George H. Doran company (1914] 503 p. 20 cm. (Hit The rising city :i) i. Title. Full name: Sir Hugh Seymour Wajpole. PZ3.Wl655Du 2 14—5432 Library of Congress ia55rl9f|) The Duchess of Wrexe HUGH WALPOLE X A'*? * $ # ■ A \ ^ 7> v. COPVRIGHT, 1914 BY CEOHCE 11. DORAN COMPANY Tin oi'cinjis or wurxt PKINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA TO MY MOTHER A SMALL EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDB BEYOND WORDS <*Aad we'll h»To fire* out of the Grand Duke's Wood." LttUr to Maria Giibornt CONTENTS BOOK Is THE DUCHESS OHAPTEB PAGB I Felix Beun, Db. Christopher, Rachel Beamin- steb — They Abe Subveted bt the Pobtbait . 13 II Rachel .26 III Lady Adela ........... . :. ... 42 IV The Pool . > : >. .. .. ... . ; . . . > 54 V She Comes Oct ; « : . ; .. ... ... ... >. . * ... 66 VI Pans . . > : « > > . >, * . . .. .< 76 VII In the Heabt op the House ..-. ■..-. -. : .' . ... 85 VIII The Tigeb . . >■ >. >: ... « . ..... 98 IX Thb Golden Cage : . : >. . >. ; ,. . ■> . . 108 .'. X Lizzie and Bbeton . . ........ 121 XI HEB QBACE'ti Dav . > .. . : . . I . . > 135 XII Defiance op the Tigeb — I . .. .. . . . . 146 XIII Defiance op the Tigeb — II ........ . 159 BOOK II: RACHEL I The Pool and the Snow II A Little House . . . III First Sequel to Defiance IV Rachel — and Christopheb and Roddy V LlZZffi's JOUBNEY — I . VI All the Beaminstees VII Rachel and Breton . iVIII Christopher's Day . IX The Dabkest Houb . X Lizzie's Journey — II XI Roddy Is Master . . XII Lizzie's Journey — III 171 182 196 210 221 233 246 256 269 280 290 808 CONTENTS BOOK III: RODDY CHAPTER PAGH I Regent's Park — Breton and Lizzie .... 333 II The Duchess Moves 345 III Roddy Moves , 362 IV March 13th: Breton's Tiger 373 V March 13th: Rachel '.s Heart ..... 389 VI March 13th: Roddy Talks to the Devil and the Duchess Denies God 409 VII Chamber Music — A Trio 425 VIII A Quartette 436 IX Rachel and Roddy 450 X Lizzie Becomes Miss Rand Again 454 XI The Last View from High Windows .... 467 XII Rachel, Roddy, Lord John, Christopher . . 477 XIII Epilogue— Prologue 490 BOOK I THE DUCHESS SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT 15 cut into the paper, and the skin drawn so tightly over her bones that a breath, a sigh, might snap it Her little body was, one might suppose, shrivelled with age, with the business and pleasure of the world, with the pursuit of some great ambition or prize, with the battle, unceasing and unyielding, over some weakness or softness. Indomitable, remorseless, unhumorous, proud, the pose of the body was absolutely, one felt, the justest possible. On either side of the chair were two white and green Chinese dragons, grotesque with open mouths and large flat feet; a hanging tapestry of dull gold filled in the back- ground. Out upon these dull colours the little body, with the white face, the shining eyes, the clenched hand, was flung, poised, sustained by its very force and will. Nothing in the world could be so fierce as that determined absence of ferocity, nothing so energetic as that negation of all energy, nothing so proud as that contemptuous rejection of all that had to do with pride. It was as though she had said: " They shall see nothing of me, these people. I will give them nothing "... and then the green jade on her bosom had betrayed her. Maliciously the dragons grinned behind her back. in Arkwright, as he watched, was conscious suddenly of an overwhelming curiosity. He had in earlier days seen her portrait, and always it had been interesting, suggestive, provocative; but now, as he stood there, he was aware that something quite definite, something uncomfortably discon- certing had occurred ; life absurdly seemed to warn h\m that he must prepare for some new development. The Duchess had, he was aware, taken notice of him for the first time. Little Felix Brun watched Arkwright with interest They were, at that moment, the only persons in the room, and it 16 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE was as though they had begged for a private interview and had been granted it. The other portraits of the exhibition had vanished into the mild May afternoon. ' " She doesn't like us," Brun said, laughing. " She'd turn the dragons on to us if she could." . " It's wonderful." Arkwright moved back a little. " Young Boss has done it this time. No other portrait has ever given one the least idea of her. She must bo that." Brun stood regarding her. " There'll never bo anything like her again. As far as your England is concerned she's the very, very last, and when she goes a heap of things will go with her. There'll be other Principalities and Powers, but never that Power." " She's asked us to come," said Arkwright, " or, at any rate, asked me. I wonder what she wants." " She's only asked you," said Brun, " to tell you how she hates you. And doesn't she, my word 1 " There were voices behind him; Brun turned, and Ark- wright heard him exclaim beneath his breath. Then in a moment the little man was received with: "Why, Mr* Brun! How fortunate! We've come to see my mother's portrait." Arkwright caught these words, and knew that the lady standing there must be Lady Adela Beaminster, the Duchess's only daughter. He had never seen Lady Adela before, but it amused him now that she should resemble so exactly tho figure that ho had imagined — it showed, after all, that one ■could take the world's verdict about these things. The world's verdict about Lady Adela was that she was dull, but important, bearing her tall dried body as a kind of flag for the right people to range themselves behind her — and range themselves they did. Standing now, with Eelix Brun in front of her demanding a display of graciousness, she extended her patronage. Thin, with her sharp nose and tight mouth, she was like an exclamation mark that had left off exclaiming, and it was only her ability to be gracious. SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT IT and the sense that she conveyed of having any number of rights and possessions to stand for, that gave her claim to attention. Her black hat was harsh, her hair iron-grey, her eyes cold with lack of intelligence. Arkwright thought her unpleas- ant. Standing a little behind her was a tall thin girl who was obviously determined to be as ungracious as a protest against her companion's amiability should require. The girl's thin- ness was accentuated by her rather tightly clinging white dress, and beneath her long black gloves her hands moved a little awkwardly, as though she were not quite sure what she should do with them. A large black hat overshadowed her face, but Arkwright could see that her eyes, large and dark, were more beautiful than anything else about her. Her nose was too thin, her mouth too large, her face too white and pinched. Her body as she stood there was graceful, but not yet dis- ciplined, so that she made movements and then checked them, giving the impression that she wished to do a number of things, but was uncertain of the correctness of any of them. She was of foreign blood Arkwright decided — much too black and white for England. But it was her expression that demanded his attention. As she watched Felix Brun talking to Lady Adela, she seemed to be longing to express the contempt that she felt for both of them, and yet to have behind that desire a pathetic hesitation as to whether she had a right to be contemptuous of anyone. It was the pathos, Arkwright decided, that one ultimately felt concerning her. She looked lonely, she looked frightened, and she looked " in the devil of a temper." Her black eyes would be beautiful, whether they were filled with tears or with anger, and it seemed that they must very often be filled with both. " I wouldn't like to have the handling of her," thought Arkwright, and then instantly after, " I'd like tq take away some of that loneliness." 18 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE " She'll have a fine old time," he thought, " if she isn't too sensitive." Lady Adela had now moved forward witb Brun to look at the picture, hut the girl did not move with them. She did not look at the portrait nor did she appear to take any interest in the other pictures. She stood there, making, every now and again, little nervous movements with her black gloves. Arkwright moved about the gallery by himself a little, and he was conscious that the girl's large black eyo3 followed' him. He fancied, as, for an instant he glanced back, that the Duchess from her high wall leaned forward on her cane just a little further, so that she might force the girl to give her attention. " That girl's got plenty of spirit," thought Ark- wright, " I'd like to see a battle between her and the old lady. It would be tooth and nail." Then once again the door opened — there was again an addition to the company. Arkwright was, at that moment, facing the girl, and as he heard the sharp closing of the door he saw in her eyes the Avelcome that the new-comer had re- ceived. She was transformed. The pallor of her face was now flooded with colour, and she Beemod almost beautiful as the hostility left her, and her mouth curved in a smile of so immense a relief that it emphasized indeed her earlier burden. Her whole body expressed the intensity of her pleasure ; her awkwardness had departed; she was suddenly in possession of herself. Arkwright's gaze went past her to the door. The man who stood there was greeting the girl with a smile that had in it both surprise and intimacy, as though they wore the two oldest friends in the world, and yet he was astonished to see her there. The man was large, roughly built, with big limbs and a face that, without being good-looking, beamed kindness and good-nature. His eyes and mouth wore sensitive and less ragged than the rest of him, his nose, the plainest thing about him, was square and too large for hia mouth. His hair was white, although ho- looked between SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT 1* forty and fifty years of age. His dress was correct, bat he obviously did not give bis clothes more consideration than the feelings of his friends required of him. Ruddy of face, with his white hair and large limbs and smiling good-humour, he was pleasant to look upon, and Arkwright did not wonder at the girl's welcome ; he would be, precisely, the kind of friend that she would need — benevolent, understanding, strong. They greeted one another, and then they moved forward and spoke to Lady Adela and Brun. Arkwright watched them. There they all were, gathered together under the sharp eyes of the Duchess, and she seemed, so Arkwright fancied, to hold them with her gaze. Little Brun was neater than ever, and Lady Adela drier than ever by the side of the stranger. They talked; they were dis- cussing the picture — - their eyes travelled up to it, and for an instant there was Bilence as though they were all charging it with their challenge or surrender, as the case might be. The girl's eyes moved up to it with a sudden sharpened, thinning of the face that brought back the gleam of hostility that it had worn before. Then her eyes fell, and, with a smile, they sought her friend. Arkwright- did not know any reason for his interest, but he watched them breathlessly, and the sense that he had had, on first entering the room, of being on the verge of some new experience, deepened with him. Brun was apparently suddenly conscious that he had left his friend alone long enough, for he detached himself from the group, shook hands with Lady Adela and the girl, bowed stiffly to the man and joined Arkwright. " Seen enough ? " he said. "Yes," said Arkwright. They went out together. IV Felix Brun and Arkwright were not intimate friends. No one was intimate with Brun, and the little -»aan came and 20 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE disappeared, -was there and was not there, was absent for a year, and then backjigaih as though he had been away a week, was, indeed, simply a succession of explanatory foot- notes to the social history of Europe. It was for the. social history of Europe that he lived, for the eager penetrating gaze into this capital and that, some- thing suddenly noted, some case examined and dismissed. Life is discovered most accurately by those who learn to watch for its accidents rather than its intentions, and it was always the things that occurred by chance that gave Brun his discoveries. Ho was a cosmopolitan of a multitude of acquaintances, no friends, no occupation, an enthusiasm only for cynical and pessimistic observation, invaluable as a com- mentator, useless as a human being. When, as was now the case, some chance meeting had assisted his theories his neat little body shone like a celluloid ball. If, having made his discovery, he might also have his audience to whom he might declare it, then his very fingers quivered with the excitement of it. His hands, white and thin and tapering, waved now. His eyes were on fire. As they walked up Bond Street one might have imagined air- bladders at his armpits, Mercury's wings at his heels. The quiet evening air was charged with him. " Well," said Arkwright, smiling and looking down at his companion. " Who are they all ? " " Lady Adela Bcaminster, Rachel Bcamlnster, Christo- pher " "Christopher?" " Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He's the Duchess's doctor, has been for years. The girl was the Duchess's granddaughter — Lady Adela's niece." "Well?" * - " The girl's coming out in three days' time. They're giving a ball in Portland Place for her. Nobody knows much about her. She's been educated abroad, and always kept very close when she's here. I shouldn't think the old Duchess SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT 21 loves her much. She loved the girl's father, but he married a Russian actress, bolted to Russia with her, and the old lady never forgave him. He and the actress were both killed in a Petersburg fire, and the child. was sent home — only tiny then " "Ah! that explains the foreign air she had. She didn't look as though she loved her aunt very much either." " No — don't suppose she does. But that's not it — that's not it." They had arrived now at the top of Bond Street, and they paused for a moment to allow the Oxford Street traffic to sweep past them. It was an hour of stir and clatter — hansoms, carts, lum- bering omnibuses, bicycles, all were hurled along as though by some impatient hand, and the evening light crept higher and higher along the walls of the street, leaving grey-purple shadows beneath it. They crossed over, and were instantly in a dim, gold- en, voiceless square. It was as though a door had been closed. Brun still held Arkwright's arm. " Now we can talk — no noise. Francis Breton has come back." To Arkwright this name, unfortunately, conveyed nothing. " You don't know ? " Brun was disappointed. " Never heard of him-." "Taney that. World of wonders; what have you been doing with your time? He is the Duchess's grandson, son of the beautiful, the wonderful Iris Beaminster, who eloped with Kit Breton thirty years ago. I believe the old Duchess pursued her relentlessly until the end. They were married Only a few years and then Iris Breton committed suicide. Kit Breton beat her and was always drunk ; an absolute rascal. There was one boy, and ho wandered about Europe with his father until ho was twenty or so. Then Kit Breton died, and the boy came homo. Revenge on his grandmother was his one idea. He was taken up by her enemies, of whom she al- 22 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE ways had a goodly store, and they might have made some* thing out of him, if he hadn't developed his father's habits and finally been mixed up in some gambling scandal, and forced to leave the country. " You can imagine what all this was to the Beaminsters — the great immaculate Beaminsters — you can picture the Duchess. . . . He went and saw her once ... but that's another story. Well, abroad he went, and abroad ho stayed — just now, coming out of the Gallery, I saw him " "You are sure?" "Positiva There could be no mistake. He's just the same, a trifle tircder, a trifle lower down — but the samo, oh yes." It was when Brun was most excited that ho was unmistak- ably the foreigner. Now little exclamations that escaped him revealed him. As a rule in England he was more Eng- lish than the English. They had left the square and were passing up Harloy Street. The houses wore their accustomed air of profitable secrecy. The doors, the windows, the brass knockers, the white and chastened steps were so discreet that Sunday morn- ing was the only time in the week when thoy were really comfortable and at home. In every mufflod hall there was lying in wait a muffled man-servant, beyond every muffled man-servant there was a muffled waiting-room with muffled illustrated papers: only the tinkling, at long intervals, of some sharp little bell from some inner secrecy would pierce that horrible discretion. Upon both men that shining suc- cession of little brass plates produced its solemnity. Arkwright was nevertheless interested by Brun's dis- coveries. He was accompanied, as they talkod, by that pic- ture of the thin, dark girl moving restlessly her long, gloved hands. He could see now that look that she had flung at the picture. . . . Oh ! she was interesting ! " But tell me, Brun," he said, " you go on so fast As I understand you there are these two, Breton and the girl, both SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT 23 of them the result of tragedies. ... Bo they know one an- other, do you suppose t " " No. The girl was only a small child when Breton was in England, and you can be sure that she was carefully kept out of his way. But now that he's hack . . . now that he's back!'' " It's the girl that interests me ! " said Arkwright. "Oh! the girl!" Brun was almost contemptuous.. " There you go — English sentiment — missing all the time the great thing, the splendid thing." " Explain," Arkwright said, laughing ; " I know you won't bo happy until you have." " Why — it's the Duchess, the Duchess, the Duchess all the time. She's the centre of the picture; she is the picture. She's the subject." Arkwright said nothing. Brun tossed his hands in the air. " Oh — you English ! No wonder you're centuries behind everything — you miss the very things under your nose. There's the Duchess, sitting there — a great figure as she has been these sixty years, but a figure hidden, veiled. There she has been for the last thirty years, shut up in that great house, wrapped about and concealed. Nobody knows what the matter was — I don't know. I should think Christo- pher's the only man who can tell. At any rate, thirty years ago she retired altogether from the world, and sees only the fewest of people. But all the ceremony goes on, dressing up, receiving, and the influence she has! She was powerful enough before she disappeared, but since! Why, there's no pie she hasn't her finger in : politics, society, revolution, life, death; nothing goes on without her knowledge, her approval, her disapproval " " Her family, poor dears ! " " Oh 1 they love it — at any rate, the ones who are left do. Tho rebels aro the younger generation. Society in England, uiy dear Arkwright, is dissolved into three divisions — the 54 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Autocrats, the Aristocrats, and the Democrats. I take my hat off to the Aristocrats — the Chicheaters, the Medleys, the Darrants, the Weddons. All those quiet, decorous people, poor as mice many of them, standing aside altogether from any moTements or war-crie3 of the day, living in their quiet little houses, or their, empty big ones, clever some of them, charitable all of them, but never asserting their position or estimating it. They never look about them and see where they are. They've no need to'. They're just there. " The Democrats are quite a new development — not much Of them at present — the Ruddards, the Denisons, the Oaka — but we shall hear a lot of them in the future, I'm sure. They'll sacrifice anything for cleverness; they must be amused; life must bo entertaining. They embrace every- body: actors, Americans, writers; they're quite clever, mind you, and it's all perfectly genuine. They're not snobs — they say, ' Here are our lands and our titles. You're com- mon and vulgar, but you've got brains — you're amusing and we're well born — let's make an exchange. Life must bo fun for us, so we'll have anyone with money or talent.' " Then, last of all, the Autocrats — the Beaminsters, the Gutterils, the Ministers. ' I'm using Autocrat in its broadest sense, but that's just what they are. You must have your quarterings, and you must look down on those who haven't. But, more than that, everything must be preserved, and continual ceremonies, dignities, chastities, restraints, pomps, and circumstances. Above all, no one must bo admitted within the company who is not of the noblest, the stupidest, the narrowest. " The Beaminsters are the bodyguard of this little army, and the Duchess is their general. There, behind her shut doors, she keeps it allgoing; an American like Mrs. Bronson, a democrat like George Lent, she spoils their games here, there, everywhere. So far all has been well. But at last there are enemies within her gates — that girl, Breton. Now, at last, for the first time in her life, she must look out." SURVEYED BY THE PORTRAIT 25 He paused. They had reached Portland Place. To right and left of them the broad road Was golden in the sun — dark trees guarded one end of it, bronzed roofs the other. Two carriages stood like sentinels at the upper end. Brun raised his hand as though he would invoke the spirit of it. " There, Arkwright, there's your subject The Duchess, tiny, indomitable, brooding over this place. This square of London round the Circus, your prostituted street, this splendour, Harley Street, Morris Square with its re- spectability, Ferris Street with its boarding-houses, over them all the Duchess is ruling. There's not one of them, I dare fancy, that is not conscious of her existence, not one of them that will not see life differently when she is gone. Mean- while, she'll fight for her Autocrats to the last breath, and she's got a battle in front of her that will take her all her time. And when she goes the Autocrats will go with her, the Beaminstera as Bcaminsters will be done for; life bore round the Circus will never be the same again. There's a new city rising, Arkwright, and the new citizens may forget, tho Aristocrats may compromise with the Democrats, but they'll turn out the Autocrats. A lot of good things will go with them — good old things — but a lot of fine new things will come in." As they passed out of Portland Place the wooden-legged crossing-sweeper touched his hat to them. " Will he come in ? " said Arkwright, laughing. " Perhaps," said Brun gravely. Arkwright shook his head. " You can talk, Brun, you can say a lot. But it's artificial, the whole of it. Your subject, as you call it, is in the air. We're realists nowadays, you know." Brun's flat stared at them with its hideous red brick and ugly shaplcssnesa. No romance for Dent Street ; the glitter- ing expanse of Portland Place was gone. " You can't be a_rcalist only, if you're to do the Duchess properly," said Brun. " There's more than that wanted.' 1 CHAPTER II RACHEL " My dear thing, it all comes back, as everything always does, simply to personal pluck. It's only a question, no matter when or where, of baring enough." — Henby James. NO. 104 Portland Place was the house where the Duchess of Wrexe had lived now for sixty years. On the left as you go towards the park it had an air that no other house in the Place had ever been able to catch. There were cer- tain buildings, Nos. 31, 26, 42, for instance, that were obvi- ously doing their little best to present a successful imitation, but they were left a long, a very long way behind. The in- teresting thing would be to know whether No. 104 had had that wonderful " note " sixty years ago, when the Duchess came to it. Probably not ; it was, beyond question, her pres- ence that had thus given it its distinction. Ite grim facade, without her, would not so strangely have hinted at beauties and wonders and glories within, nor would the windows have gleamed so finely, nor the great hall-door have symbolized such rich dark depths. Hero the temple of the- Beaminaters, here, therefore, the shrine of all that is best and finest in English aristocracy. It was indeed the largest house in Portland Place, and most of the houses there were large, but, across that blank austere front more was written than mere size. It was Ago at its most scornful, but observant Age, an Age that could compare one period with another, an Age that had not forgotten the things that belonged to its Youth. There was very little, up and down Portland Place, at morning, at midday, at night, that the house did not per- ceive. Those high, broad, shining windows wore not as other 26 RACHEL 27 windows — there was assertion in their very bland stupid- ity. Within the house was dark and cold, with high square rooms, wide stone staircase, and a curious capacity for clutch- ing any boisterous or seedy humanity on the very threshold and strangling it. Prom tho hall the great stone staircase was the featura It struck a chill, at once, into the heart of the visitor, so vast was it, so cold and white, so uncompromising, so scornful of other less solid staircases. Very ancient, too — went back a long, long way and would last, just like that, for ever! What people it must have known, what scenes, what catas- trophes encountered 1 About it, on either side, the hall van- ished into blackness; here a gleaming portrait, there some antlers, here again an eighteenth-century gentleman with a full wig and the Beaminster nose and comfortable contempt in his eyes . . . and, around and about it all, silence; no sound from any part of the house penetrated here. Up the stone staircase, passages, doors, more family por- traits, more staircaso, more passages, more doors, and some- where, in some hidden solemnity, the ticking of a clock, so lonely in all that silence that every now and again it would catch its breath with a little whir, as though it wondered whether it really could go on in the teeth of so contemptuous an indifference. Rachel Beaminster'a sitting-room overlooked Portland Place, and caught the sun on lucky days for quite a time. It was small, square of shape, like a box with a high window, a tiny fireplace, an arm-chair, and a squat table with a bright blue cloth. Always during the two years that had been devoted to " finishing " in Munich she had had that little room, cosy, compact, before her. Now did it seem a little shabby, the carpet and tablecloth and curtains a little faded; it yet had its cosiness, there in tho heart of the great waste and desert that the house presented to her. 28 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE The little silver clock on the mantelpiece had struck five : she had come hack with Aunt Adela from the picture gallery, and, hearing voices in the Long Drawing-room (the voices said, "My dear Adela, we just camo. . . ," "Adela dear, how well . . ."), she slipped up the stairs and secured her own refuge, and rang for tea to be brought to her there. She wanted to think: she wanted to lie in the arm-chair there with the window a little open and the evening air coming from the park across Portland Place curiously scented like the sea. As she lay back in her chair her body seemed fragile, and, almost, in its abandonment, exhausted. Under tbo black eyes her cheeks and neck were very white, and her black hair gave it all the intensest setting. She was tired, horribly tired, and she wondered, vaguely, as she lay there how she was ever to manage this life that, in three days' time, she must take up and carry, a life that offered, perhaps, a little freedom, a little release, but so many, so many terrors. As her gaze took in the little room — its grey paper, a photograph of Uncle John, a bookcase with, poets, some mis- cellaneous and untidy-looking novels, and a number of little red Carlylcs, a china cockatoo with an impertinent stare, a copy of Furze's " Ride," and a water-colour of red Munich roofs signed " Mary," a tiny writing-table with one old yellow photograph of a sad dark woman in a silver frame — these things were, it seemed, the only friendly things she know. Outside this room there was her grandmother, the house,' London; the world — more and more horrible as the circles grew wider and wider. At the mere thought of the things that she must, in three days' time, face, her heart began to beat so that she could scarcely breathe, and, with that beating, came the iron deter* mination that no one should ever know. She could not remember a time when these two emotions had not come together. She saw, as though it had happened RACHEL 29 only an hour ago, a tiny child in a black frock stumbling across endless deserts of carpet towards someone who looked older and more curious than anything one could have con- ceived possible. Someone sitting in a high carved chair, someone leaning on a stick, with two terrifying great dragons behind her. The child was seized with such a panic that her breath came in little pumping gasps, her legs quivered and trembled, her mouth was open, her eyes like saucers. And then, sud- denly, after what had seemed a century of time, there came the thin trembling voice: " Why, the child's an idiot J " Since that awful day Eachel had determined that "no one should ever know." There had come to her, at that moment, the knowledge that round every corner there might lurk dragons and a witch. Sometimes they were there, sometimes they wore not, ' but always there was the terror before the corner was turned. Life for Eachel during those early years was one long determination to meet bravely that half-hour, from six to half-past. Every evening at five minutes before six down the long passages she would be led, then would come the short pause before tho dark door, a pause when the beating of the ■ child's heart seemed the only sound in the vast house ; then the knock, someone's voice " Come in," then the slow open- ing of the door, the revelation of the strange dim room with the old mirrors, the purple carpet, the china dragons, and grandmother in tho high carved chair. There was always, in tho hottest weather, a fire burning, always Dorchester, a large ugly woman, behind tho chair, always the cockatoo see-saw- ing on a golden perch and crying out every now and again with shrill, hostile cries. And then, in tbe centre of this, grandmother, with her terrible hands, her terrible nose, her terrible eyes, and, most terrible of all, her voice. Rachel would sit upright on her chair, aud very often nothing would be said throughout the half-hour. Sometimes Dorchester would ask questions, such as : " And what has 80 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE Miss Rachel been doing to-day ? " " Did Miss Rachel enjoy her walk in the park this afternoon ? " " Has Miss Rachel enjoyed her lessons to-day ? " Sometimes, and these were the terrible occasions, her grandmother would speak : " Well, have you been a good little girl ? " or " Tell me what you have been doing, child." At the sound of that voice the room would flood with terror : the child would still, by an -effort of will, her body. She could feel now, from all that distance of years, tho discipline that it had needed to steady her little black legs that dangled from her chair. She learnt, in time, to control herself so that Bhe could give long answers in a grave, reserved tone. The old lady never moved as she spoke, only bent forward and stared at her, as though she would see whether it wore the truth that she were speaking. As the days passed and Rachel grow older it was around this half-hour that tho house ranged itself. Tho things in it — tho rooms, the passages, tho stairs, tho high, cold school- room with its shining maps and largo frigid table, tho tapes- try room, long and dark and mysterious with strange beasts and horsemen waving in the dusk, tho white drawing-room so delicate and fragile that tho furniture seemed to bo all holding its breath as though a little motion in tho air would dissipate it, the vast dining-room with tho great hanging candelabra, and tho family portraits and tho stono fireplace — all these things existed only that that terrible half-hour might fling its shadow about the day. The child was much alone; she had governesses, a music master, a drawing mastor, but from these persons, however friendly they might be, she held aloof. She told them noth- ing of her thoughts. She had behind her her very early years that were now to her liko a dream ; she did not know that it had ever really existed, that picture of snow and some dark kind figure that was always beside her protecting her^ and in the air always a noise of bells. As she grew older that picture was not dimmed in the vision of it, but only she RACHEL 31 doubted its authenticity. Nevertheless, the memory provided a standard and before that standard these governesses were compelled to yield. " " There were, of course, her uncles and her aunt. Aunt Adela was more immediately concerned in the duty of her niece's progress than any other, but as a duty she always, from the first, represented it. From that first morning, when she had given her cold dry cheek to the little girl to kiss until now, three days beforo Rachel's freedom, she had made no suggestion nor provocation of affection. " It is a business, my dear nieco," sho seemed to say, " that, for the sake of our family, wo must go through. Let us bo honest and deny all foolish sentiment" To this Rachel was only too ready to agree. She did not like her Aunt Adela. Aunt Adela resembled a dry, wintry tree, a tree whoso branches cracked and snapped, a tree that gave no hopo of any spring. Rachel always saw Aunt Adela as an ugly necessity ; sho was not a thing of terror, but merely something unpleasant, something frigid and of a lukewarm hostility. Then there were the uncles — Uncle Vincent, Uncle John, and •Undo Richard. .. Uncle Vincent, the Duke, was over sixty now and very like his mother, withered and sharp and shrivelled, but he was without her terror, being merely dapper and insignifi- cant, and his sleek hair (there was only a little olit.very care- fully spread out) and his white spats Avero the most promi- nent things about him. lie was fond, Rachel gathered, of his racing und his club and his meals, and he was unmarried. Uncle Richard had been twice Prime Minister and was a widower. Ho lived in a beautiful house in Grosvenor Street, and. collected wine and fans and first editions. Ho was al- ways very kind to Rachel, and she liked his tall thin figure, bent a little, with his high white forehead, gold-rimmed pince- nez on the Beaminstcr nose, and beautiful long white hands. She went to have tea with him sometimes, and this was an 82 THE DUCHESS OF WKEXE hour of freedom and delight, because he talked to her about the Elizabethans and Homer, and, when she was older, Nietzsche and Kant. She liked the warm rooms, with their thick curtains and soft carpots and rows and rows of gleaming glittering books, and he always had tea in such beautiful china and the silver teapot shone like a mirror. But she never felt that she was of the same value to him as a first edition would be, and ho talked to her of .the Elizabethans for their sake, and not for hers. Lastly, there was Uncle John, and her heart was divided between Uncle John and Dr. Christopher. Uncle John was a dear. He was round and fat, with snow-white hair that had waves in it, and his face resembled that of a very, very good- natured pig. Ilis nose was not in the least a Bcaminstcr nose, being round and snub, and his eyes beamed kindliness. Rachel, although she had always loved him, had long learnt to place no reliance upon him. His aim in life was to make it as comfortable, as free from all vulgar squabble and dispute, as pleasant for everyone everywhere as it could possibly be. He was a Beaminstcr in so far as ho thought the Beaminstcra were a splendid and ancient family, and that there was no other family to which a man might count himself so fortunate to belong. But he was kind and pleasant about the rest of the world. He would like everyone to have a good time, and it was vaguely a puzzle to him that it should bo so arranged that life should have, any difficulties — it would bo so much easier if everything were pleasant, When, however, diffi- culties did arise they must at all costs bo dismissed. There had been no time in his life when he had not boon in love with some woman or other, but the hazards and difficulties of marriage had always frightened him too much. He was not entirely selfish, for he thought a groat deal about the wishes and comforts of other people, but unpleas- antness frightened him, like a rabbit, into his hole. He lived the life of the " Compleat Bachelor" at 93 Portland Place, having a multitude of friends of both sexes, spending RACHEL 38 hours in hia clubs with some of them, week-ends in country houses with others of them, and months in delightful places abroad with one or two of them. He was very popular, always smiling and good-natured, end cared more for Rachel than for anyone else in the world . . . but even for Rucliol he would not risk discomfort. There they all were, then. Gradually they had emerged, for her, out of the mists and shadows, arranging themselves about her as possible pro- tections against that horrible half-hour of hers. She soon found that, in that, at any rate, they would, none of them, be of use to her except Uncle John. Uncle Vincent did not count at all. Uncle Richard only counted as china or pictures counted. Uncle John could not count as a very strong defence, it was true, but he was fond of her; he showed it in a thousand ways, and although he might never actually stand up for her, yet he would always bo there to comfort her. Not that she wanted comfort. From a very early age indeed she resolutely flung from her all props and sympathies and sentiments. She hated the house, she hated the loneli- ness, most of all sho hated grandmother . . . but she would go through with it, and no one should know that she suffered. ii Then, when she was seventeen, came Munich. On the day that she first heard that she was to go to Ger- many to be " finished " the flashing thought that came to her was that, for a time at any rate, the " half-hour " would be suspended. Standing there thinking of the days passing without the shadow of that interview about them was like emerging from some black and screaming, banging, shouting tunnel into the clear 6erenity of a shining landscape. Two years might count for her escape, and perhaps, on her return, sho would bo old enough for her grandmother to have lost her terrors — perhaps . . . U THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Meanwhile, that Germany, with its music and forests and toys and fairies, danced before her. Her two years in it gave her all that she had expected ; it gave her Wagner and Mozart and Beethoven, it gave her Goethe and Heine, Jean Paul and Heyse, Hauptmann and Morike, it gave her a perception of life that admitted physical and spiritual emotions on precisely the same level, so that a sausage and the Unfinished Sym- phony gave you the same ecstatic crawl down your spine and did not, for an instant, object to sbaring that honour. Munich also gave ber the experience and revelations of May Everaley. There were some twenty or thirty girls who were, with Eachel, under the finishing care of Frau Bebel, but Rachel held herself apart from them all. She could not herself have explained why she did so. It was partly because she felt that she had nothing, whether experience or discovery, to give to tbem, partly because they seemed already so happy and comfortable amongst themselves that they had surely no need of her, and partly because she feared that from some person or some place, suddenly, round the corner there would spring the terror again. She could even fancy that her grand- mother, watching her, had placed horrors behind curtains, closed doors, grimed and shuttered windows.— 5 -" If you think, my dear," she might perhaps be saying, " that you've escaped by this year or two in Germany, you're mightily mistaken. — Back to me you're coming." But May Eversley was different from the other girls. She was different because she saw things without a muddle,- knew what she wanted, knew what she disliked, knew what was delightful, knew what was intolerable. To Rachel this clear-cut decision was more enviable than any other quality that one could have. At this stage of her experience it was the asset, so it seemed to her, that could give life its intensest value. " Sit down and see, without any exaggeration or false colouring, what you've got. Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you imagine that you've got but RACHEL SB haven't. See what you want. Take away ruthlessly every- thing that you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident of securing. See what's happened to you in the past. Take away ruthlessly any Bentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quite resolutely from your ugly mistakes." Rachel's world had hitherto been limited very largely to the schoolroom in Portland Place, the park and Beaminster House, the country place-in-chief (three others, one in Leices- tershire, one in Northumberland, one in Norfolk), but even within this limited country the terrific importance of those rules was driven in upon her. She felt that her grandmother was clear-headed, but, no, none of the others — not Aunt Adela, nor the uncles, nor any of the governesses. She was allowed to meet one or two little boys and girls of her own age. She walked with them in the park, played with them at Beaminster House, had tea with them occasionally, but they were, none of them, clear-headed. She was not priggish about this discovery of hers. She did not despise other people because their definite rules did not seem to them of importance. She did not talk about these things. To see facta very steadily without blinking was impelled upon her by the necessity for courage. It was the only weapon wherewith to fight her grandmother. " Now," she might say to herself, " this half-hour of yours. Is it so bad ? What definitely do you fear about it ? Is it the knock at the door? Is it the crossing the room? Is it answering ques- tions?" So challenged her terror did fall, a little, away from her, ashamed at its inadequate cause. So she went to face every peril — " Is the danger really so bad ? What exactly is it?..." May Eversley was thin and spare, small with sharp fea- tures, pince-nez, hair brushed sternly back, and every inch of her body trained to the purpose that it was meant to fulfil. 86 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE She rang her sentences on the air like coin on a plate. Mean* while, as she explained to Rachel, she had been fighting since she was five. Her mother, Lady Eversley, was the widow of Tom Eversley, now happily deceased, once the mo9t dissolute scamp in Europe. He had died leaving nothing but debts behind him. Since then his widow and his daughter had lived in three little rooms above a public house off Shep- herd's Market, and the widow had battled to-keep up the gayest of appearances. "May had~been, at" a very early age, introduced to the struggle. " My silver mug and rattle were pawned to get a dress for mother to go to a drawing-room in. I shouldn't be here now if it weren't for an uncle, and it's the last thing he'll do for us. So back I go in two years' time — ■ to do my damnedest." Of course she was clear-headed — she had to be. " There are only two sorts of people," she said to Rachel " Like soup — thick and clear — the Clear ones get on and the Thick don't." May obviously liked Rachel, but was amused by her. No- body, it seemed to May, showed so nakedly her emotions as Rachel, and yet, also, nobody could produce, more suddenly, the closest of reserves. May, to whom the world had been, since she was six, a measured plain of contest, marvelled at the poignancy of Rachel's contact with it. " If she's going to be hurt as easily as this by everything, how on earth is she going to get through ? " Then, as the Munich days passed, May found, to her own delight, Rachel's keen sense of humour. Munich afforded enough food for it, and finally one discovered that Rachel smiled more readily than she trembled, but she hid her smile because, as yet, she was not sure of it. " All she wants," May Eversley concluded, " is to be told things." Nobody in the world could be better adapted to give out these revelations. London, to May Eversley, was an open book ; moreover, the most stormy of battle-fields on which the BA.CHEL 37 combatants fought, -were wounded, were slain, were gloriously victorious. She told Rachel a great deal — a great deal about people, a great deal about sets and parties, a great deal about likes and Gislikes. She had on her side One burning curiosity to know about Rachel's Duchess. " Is she as terrible, so tremendous as people 6ay ? Has she such a brain even now ? Old Lady. Grandon, who was a great friend when they were both girls, eays that she wasn't clever then a bit — rather stupid and shy — but you never know. Jealousy on old Grandon's part, I expect. They say she's wonderful still." Questions of taste never worried May Eversley, and it did not worry her now that Rachel might dislike so penetrating an inquisition. But at least May got nothing for her trouble. Rachel told her nothing. May's final word was, " You care too much about it all — care whether it's going to hurt, whether it's going to be frightening or not. My advice to you is, just dash in, snatch- what you can, and dash out again. It doesn't matter a haip pin what anyone says. Everyone says everything in London, and nobody minds. They've all got the shortest memories." Rachel, sitting now in her little room and thinking of Munich, wondered how completely her own discovery of Lon- don would coincide with May's. May's idea of it was cer- tainly not Aunt Adefa*aV Aunt Adela, Rachel thought, was far too dried and brittle to risk any sharp contact with any- thing. None of her uncles, she further reflected, liked sharp contacts, and yet, how continually grandmother provided them! How comfortable all of them — Aunt Adela and the uncles — would be without their mother, and yet how proud they were of having her ! For herself, Rachel faced her approach- ing deliverance with a tightening of all the muscles of her body. " I won't care. It shall be as May says — and there are sure to bo some comfortable people about, some people who want to make it pleasant for one." 38 THE DUCHESS OE WBEXE Then then was a tap at the door and Uncle John came in. Uncle John often came in about half-past five. It was a convenient time for him to come, but also, perhaps, he recog- nized that that approaching half-hour that Rachel was to have with his mother demanded, beforehand, some kind of easy, amiable prologue. To-day, however, there was more in his comfortable smil- ing countenance than merely paying a visit warranted. He stood for a moment at the door looking over at her, rather fat but not very, his white hair, his pearl pin, his white spats all gleaming, a rosiness and a cleanliness always about him so that he seemed, at any moment of the day, to have come straight from his tub, having jumped, in his eagerness to see you, into his beautiful clothes, and hurried, all in a glow, to get to you. " They're all chattering downstairs — chattering like any- thing. There's Roddy Seddon, old Lady Carlocs and Crew- ner and some young ass Crewner's brought with him and your Uncle Dick looking bored and your Aunt Adela looking noth- ing at all — and so out of it I came." He came over and sat on the broad, fat arm of her chair and looked out, in his contented, amiable way, over the light, "salmon-coloured and pale, that now had persuaded Portland Place into silence. His eyes seeincd to say: " Now this is how I like things — all pink and quiet and comfortable." Rachel leant a little against his shoulder, and put her hand on his knee — " You've had tea down there? " " Yes, thank you — all I wanted. What have you been doing all the afternoon ? " He put his own hand down upon hers. " Oh ! Aunt Adela and I went to look at grandmother's portrait." "Well?" " It's as clever as it can be. To anyone who doesn't know RACHEL 39 hor, it's the most wonderful likeness. It's what grandmother would like herself." He caught the note in her voice that threatened the pink security of Portland Place. He held her hand a little tighter. " In what way ? " " Oh, it's got the dragons and the tapestry and the purple carpet. All the coloured things that grandmother likes so much and that help her so. Why, imagine her for a second in an ordinary room, in an old arm-chair with a worn-out carpet and everlastings on the mantelpiece; what would she do? The young man, whoever he is, has helped her all he can." Rachel felt his grasp of her hand slacken a little. " Yes, I know it's wrong of me to talk like that. But it's all so sham. It's like someone in one of those absurd fantastic novels that people write nowadays when half the characters are out of Dickens, only put into a real background- I'm frightened of grandmother — you know I always have been — but sometimes I wonder whether " She paused. " Whether there's anything really to be frightened of. And yet tho relief when I can get off this half-hour every evening — the relief even now when I'm grown up — oh! it's absurd ! " " Well, my dear, you're coming out, you're going to break away from all of us — you'll have your own life now to make what you like of." " Yes, that's all very well. But I've been brought up all wrong. Most girls begin to come out when they're about ten and go on, more and more, until, when the time actually comes, well, there's simply nothing in it. I've never known anyone intimately except May, and now at the thought of crowds and crowds of people, at one moment I'd like to fly into a convent somewhere, and at the next I want to go and be rude to the lot of them — to get in quickly you know, lest they should bo rude to me first" 40 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Now that she had begun, it came out in a flood. "Oh! t shall make such a mess of it all. What on earth am I to talk about to these people ? What do they want with me or I with them ? What have I ever to say to anybody except you and Dr. Chris, and even with you I'm as cross as possible most of the time. Grandmother always thought mo a complete fool, and so I suppose I am. If people aren't kind I can't say a word, and if they are I say far too much and blush afterwards for all the nonsense I've poured out It doesn't matter with you and Dr. Chris becauso you know mo, but the others I And always behind mo thero'd bo grandmotber 1 She knows I'm j going to be a failure, and she wants mo to be — but just to prove to her, just to prove ! " She jumped up, and standing in front of the window, met, furiously, a hostile world. Her hands were clenched, her face white, her eyes desperate. " — Just to prove I'll be a success — I'll marry the most magnificent husband, I'll be the most magnificent person — I'll bring it off- — " Suddenly her agitation was gone — she was laughing, look- ing down on her uncle half humorously, half tenderly. " Just because I love you and Dr. Chris, I'll do my best not to shame you. I'll be the most decorous and amiable of Beaminsters. — Fo one shall have a word to say " She bent down, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Then she sat down on the edge of the arm-chair with her hands clasped over his kneo. Uncle John would not have loved her so dearly had he not been, on so many occasions, 'frightened of her. She was often hostile in the most curious way — so militant that ho could only console himself by think- ing that her mother had been Russian, and from Russia one might expect anything. And then, in a moment, the hostility would break into a tenderness, an affection that touched him to the heart and made the tears come into his eyes. But for one who loved comfort above everything Rachel was an agitating person. RACHEL 41 Now as lie felt the pressure of her hands on his knees, he knew that he would do anything, anything for her. " That's all right, Rachel dear," was all that he could say. ''.You hold on to me and Christopher. We'll see you through." The little silver clock struck six. She got up from the chair and smiled down at him. " If I hadn't got you and Dr. Chris > — well — I just don't know what would happen to me." Meanwhile Uncle John had remembered what it was that ho had come to say. His expression was now one of puzzled distress as though he wondered how people could be so pro- voking and inconsiderate. He looked up at her. " By the way," he said, " it's doubt- ful whether mother will see you this evening. You'd better go and ask, but I expect " " What's happened ? " " I may as well tell you. You're bound to hear sooner or later. Your cousin Francis is back in London. He's written a most insulting letter to your grandmother. It's upset her very much." > "Cousin Frank?" " Yes. He's living apparently quite near here — in some cheap rooms." May Eversley had, long before, supplied Rachel with all details as to that family scandaL Rachel now only said : " Well, I'll go and see whether she would like mo to come." For a moment she hesitated, then turned back and flung her arms again about her uncle's neck. " Whatever happens, Uncle John, whatever happens, we'll stick together." "Whatever happens," he repeated, " we'll stick together." His eyes, as they followed her, were full "of tenderness — but behind the tenderness there lurked a shadow of alarm. CHAPTER III LADY ADELA * At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist." The Ancient Mariner. LADY ADELA had returned from that visit to her mother's portrait with a confused mind. She was not used to confused minds and resented them; whenever s6 great an infliction came upon her she solved the confusion hy dismissing it, by leaving her mind a TJlank until it should take upon itself to be clear again. To obtain that blank an interval of reflection was necessary, and now, to-day, that had been impossible. On returning, she had been instantly confronted by a number of people who required to be given tea and conversation, and no time had been allowed her in which she might resolve that her mind should be cleared. Her confusion was that the portrait of her mother waa precisely like, a most brilliant affair, and yet wasn't like in the least. Further than that, in some completely muddled way, it was in the back of her mind that her mother, suddenly, this afternoon, presented herself to her as not entirely living up to the portrait, as being less sharp, less terrible, less mag- nificent. Horror lest she should in any way bo doubting her mother's terror and magnificence — both proved every day of the week — lay, like a dark cloud, at the back of her confu- sion. She could not, however, extract anything definite from the little cluster of discomforts ; old Lady Carloes and Lord Crew- ner, a young thing that Lord Crewner had brought with him, 42 LADY ADJSHg and her brother Richard were all waiting for tea, and floods of conversation instantly covered Lady Adela's poor mind and drowned it. The Long Drawing-room, where they now were, was long and narrow, with two large open fireplaces, a great deal of old furniture rather faded and very handsome, silver that gleamed against the dark wall-paper, one. big portrait of the Duchess, painted by Sargent twenty years ago, and high windows shut off now by heavy dark green curtains. Tho Duchess, it was understood, did not approve of electric light and the house therefore disdained it. Parts of the room were lighted by candles placed in heavy old silver candle- sticks. .Round the fireplace at the farther end the light shone and glittered; there the tea-tables stood, and round about them the company was gathered. Tho re3t of tho room, hung in dark shadow, stretched into black depths, lit only now and again by the gleam-of silver or glass as the light of the more distant fire flashed and fell. The voices, the clatter of the tea-things, these sounds seemed to be echoed by the darker depths of the farther stretches of the room. Lady Carloes was eighty, extremely vigorous, and believed in bright colours. She was dressed now in purple, and wore a hat with a large white feather. Her figure was bunched into a kind of bundle, so that her waist was too near her bosom and her bosom too near her chin and her chin too near her forehead. It was as though some spiteful person had pressed all of her too closely together. But this very shapelessness added to her undoubted amiability; her face was fat and smiling, her hair white and untidy, and she maintained her dignity in spite of her figure. Nobody knew anything with certainty as to her income, but she was charitable, and ran a little house in Charlos Street with a great deal of ceremony and hospi- tality. Her husband had long been dead and her two daugh- ters had long been married, so that she was happy and inde- 44 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE pendent Many people considered her tiresome because her curiosity was insatiable and her discretion open to question, yet she was a staunch Beaminster adherent, an old friend oi the Ihichess, and saw both this world and the next in the proper Beaminster light. Lady Adela depended on her a good deal, at certain times ; she had foreseen that the old lady would coine to-day ; she had heard of course of Frank Breton's arrival in town, she would demand every detail ; Lady Adela knew that the account that she gave to Lady Carloes would be the account that the town would receive. By the fire Lord Richard, Lord Crewner and the non- descript young man were talking together. Lady Adela caught fragments. " But of course Dilchester is incautious — when was he anything else? What these fellows need " That was her brother. And then Lord Crewner, who believed that the windows of White's and Brooks's were the only courts of Ultimate Judg- ment " That's all very well, Beaminster, but I assure you, they were saying last night at the club " As far as all that was concerned Lady Adela flung it aside. She must attend to Lady Carloes, she must give to her the version of Frank Breton's arrival that her mother would wish her to give. But what was that version? And was her mother really to be depended upon ? At so terrible a flash of disloyalty Lady Adela coloured.— Why were things so difficult this afternoon ? And why had she ever gone to that picture-gallery ? Lady Carloes had, however, not yet arrived at Frank Breton. She never paid a visit anywhere without tabulating carefully in her mind the things that she must know before leaving the house. Her theory was that she was really very old indeed, and couldn't possibly live much longer, and that no moment therefore must be wasted. The more news that LADY ADELA 45 she could give and receive before her ultimate departure, the more value would her life have in retrospect She never went definitely into the exact worth that all the gossip that she collected might have for anybody or any- thing ; as with any other collection it was pursuit rather than acquisition that fired the blood. At the back of her old mind was a perfect lumber-room of muddle and confusion — dusty , gossip, cobwebs of scandal, windows thick with grime and tightly closed. There was no time left now to do anything to that. Meanwhile every day something was purchased or exchanged ; muddle there might be, but, thank God, nobody knew it. " You must be very busy about the ball, my dear." " Yes — it means a great deal of work. It's so long since we've had anything hero, but Norris is invaluable. You don't find servants like that nowadays." " No, my dear, you don't. But, of course, it will go off splendidly. We're all so anxious that Rachel shall have a good. time. It's the least we can do for your mother." At the mention of Rachel Lady Adela's thoughts straight- ened for a second ; that was where the confusion lay. It had been Rachel's attitude to the portrait that had caused Lady Adela's own momentary disloyalty. Of course Rachel hated her grandmother. Lady Adela made a little sound with her fingers, a sound like the clicking of needles. " As far as Rachel is concerned nobody can tell possibly how she's going to take it all. I don't pretend to understand her." Lady Carloes found this interesting — she bent forward a little. " We're nil greatly excited about her. You've kept her away from all of us and one hears such different accounts of her. And of course her success is most important — as things are just now." Lady Adela answered, " I can tell you nothing. She isn't in tho least like any of us, and I don't suppose for a moment %& THE DUCHESS OF WREXE that she'll listen to anybody. She made a friend of May Eversley in Munich, and I don't think that was the best thing for her. But you know — I've talked about this to you bo- fore." Not only had Lady Adela talked ; all of them had done so. In the Beaminster camp this appearance that Rachel was about to make was of the last importance. There were enemies, redoubtable enemies, in the field. Rachel Bea- minster's bow to the world was for the very reason that all the world was watching, a responsibility for them all. But there were many rumours. Rachel was not to be relied upon — she hated her grandmother, she wa« strange and foreign and morose. Lady Carloea was not happy about it, and Lady Adela's attitude now was anything but reassur- ing- John Beaminster came in. Lady Oarloes liked him be- cause he was good-tempered and injudicious. He told her a number of things that nobody else ever told her, and he had so simple a mind that extracting news from it was as easy as taking plums from a pudding. He did not come over to them at onee, but stood laughing with Lord Crewner and his brother. He would come, however, in a moment, so Lady Carloes made a last hurried plunge at her friend. " What's this I hear, my dear, about Frank Breton ? " " Yes, it's perfectly true. He's come back, and has taken rooms quite near here. He wrote to mother " Lady Carloes took this in with a gulp of delight. "My dear Adela ! What did he say ? " "Oh! a very rude letter, no told mother that he knew that she would like him to be near at hand and that they ought to let bygones bo bygones, and that he was sure that she would be glad to hear that he was a reformed character. Of course he hates all of us." "What will you all do?" " Oh ! Nothing, of course. We gave him up long ago. By a tiresome coincidence he's taken rooms in the same house LADY ADELA ■-.' 47 as my secretary , Miss Rand. I would send her away if she weren't simply invaluable. Sut it gives him a kind of a link with j> us; "Monty Carfax saw him yesterday. He's lost his left arm, Monty says, and looks more of an adventurer than ever. So tiresome for your mother, my dear." Then, as Lord John began to break away from the group at the fireplace and move towards them " Roddy Seddon told me he might look in this afternoon. . . . Your mother's so devoted to him. He seems to under- stand her so well." Tho two ladies faced one another. Their eyes crossed. Lady Carloes murmured, " Such a splendid fellow ! " then, as Lord John's cheerful laUgh broke upon them " Isn't Rachel coming down ? " she asked. ii Lady Adela left her brother and Lady Carloes together and crossed over to the group at the fireplace. Of all her brothers, she liked Richard best. He seemed to her to be precisely all that a Beaminster should be : she liked his appearance — his fine domed forehead, his grey hair, his long rather melan- choly face, his austere and orderly figure. He had to perfection that reserve, that kind benignancy that a Beaminster ought to have; whenever Lady Adela questioned the foundations upon which the stability of her life depended he reassured her. Without saying anything at all, ho gravely comforted her. That is what a Beaminster ought to do.' She knew, as she saw him standing there by the fire, that he would never doubt his mother. To him she would always be splendid and magnificent, and with what determination would ho expel from him any base attacks on that loyalty! Lady Adela thought that power to expel resolutely and firmly everything that attacked the settled assurance of one's mind the finest thing in the world. '48 THE DUCHESS OP WREXE Lord Crewner was a thin, handsome man of any age at all over forty and under sixty. He was polished and brushed and scrubbed to such an extent that he looked like an adver- tisement of some fine old English firm that produced, at great cost and with wonderful completeness, fine old English gentlemen. He believed in not thinking about things very much, because thinking let in Radicals and diseases and the poor, and made one uncomfortable. He loved the London that he knew, a London bounded by Sloane Square, the Marble Arch, Trafalgar Square and Westminster. He was a bachelor, but might have married Lady Adela had the Duchess not refused to hear of Lady Adela leaving her; he adored the Duchess, although he was scarcely ever allowed to see her because he bored her. He always lowered his voice a little when talking to women, and heightened it a little when talking to men ; to his valet he spoke in the voice that Nature had given him. Lady Adela was reassured as she came towards them. Al- though she did not especially desire to marry Lord Crewner, the thought that, he might, had affairs been differently ar- ranged, have asked her, placed him, in her eyes, apart from other men. At any rate these two were comfortable to her, and, for a moment, she was able to dismiss Rachel and Frank Breton from her mind. They talked easily beside the fireplace. The voices of Lady Carloes and Lord John, the pleasant murmur of the fire, the ticking clocks, all helped that lazy swaying of time and space about one, that happy reassurance that as the world had been so would it continue ever to be, and that the old emotions and the old experiences and the old opinions would always hold their own against all invasion and decay. Lord Richard talked of Chippendale and some wonderful Lowestoft, Lord Crewner talked of Madeira and Lady Masters' new house ; Lady Adela listened and was soothed. Upon them all broke a voice : " Sir Roderick Seddon, my lady." LADY ADELA 49 There stood in the doorway the freshest, the most beaming of young men. He was tall and broad ; his face was of a red- brick colour, and his dark London clothes, although they were well cut and handsome enough, were obviously only worn to please a necessary convention. His hair was light brown and cut close to his head, and his body had the healthy sturdiness of someone whose every muscle was in proper training. He came forward to the group at the fireplace with the walk of a man accustomed to space and air and freedom; his smiling face was so genial and good-humoured that the whole room seemed to break away a little from its decorous and shining propriety. They were all pleased to see him. Lady Carloes and Lord John came over and joined the group, and they stood all about him talking and laughing. Roddy Seddon was the only young man whom the Duchess permitted, and people said that that was because he was the only young man who had never shown any fear of her. The knowledge of this fact gave him in Lady Adela's eyes a curious interest. She beheld him always rather as she would have beheld anyone who had learnt an abstruse language that no one else had ever mastered or some traveller who was reputed to have said or done the most extraordinary things in some savage country. How could he? What talisman had he discovered that protected him ? And then, swiftly on that, came the curious thought that she herself was glad that she had her terror, that she was proud, in some strange, inverted way, that any Beaminster could have the effect upon anyone that her mother had upon her. But Boddy Seddon had another especial interest for her, for it was Boddy, all the Beaminsters had decided, who was to marry Rachel. Boddy was, in every way, the right per- son ; not very wealthy, perhaps, but ho had one nice place in Sussex, and Eachel would not, herself, be a pauper. Boddy would never let the Beaminsters down; he hated all these new invaders as strongly as any Beaminster could. 50 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE He hated this mixing of the classes, this perpetual urging of the working man to think. "Lots of our fellows," Lady Adela had heard him say, "get along without thinkin' — why not the other fellers? " She felt now that a conversation with Roddy would com- plete the soothing process that Lord Crewner and her brother had begun. He would finally reassure her. She had no difficulty iu securing him. Lady Carloes sat by the firo and talked to Lord Crewner, and the nondescript, and the two brothers departed. When Roddy had drunk his tea, she led him away to the farther part of the long dim room, and there by that more distant fireplace the two of them sat, shadowy against the leaping light, their faces and their hands white and sharp and definite. " Who else is dinin' on Thursday ? " She gave him names. " Tho Prince and Princess are com- ing, you know, but they aren't alarming. They've been often to see mother when they've been over hero before. They're getting old enough now to be comfortable. He dances like anything still." " I always like dinin' in the place you're dancin' at You don't get that shivery feeling comin' up the stairs and puttin' your gloves on. You're one up on the others if you've been- dinin'." Lady Adela looked at him, and sighed a little impatiently. He was incredibly young and might, after all, let them down. He was thirty now, but he looked not a day more than nine- teen, and he always talked and behaved as though ho were still in his last year at Eton. She opposed him, in her mind's eye, to that figure of Prank Breton that had been be- fore her all day. How could a mere boy stand up against a scoundrel like that? Moreover, she had heard stories about Roddy. Women had terrible power over him, she had been told, and then, with a glance at him, sighed again at the thought that her LADY ADELA 51 own time had gone by for having power over anybody, even Lord Orewner. Well, after all, her mother knew the boy better than any- one did and her mother loved him — better than everyone else put together her mother loved him. " How's Rachel takin' it?" " How does Eachel take anything ? She never says any- thing, and one never knows. She seems to have no curiosity, or eagorness." " I was talkin' to May Eversley about her the other night May says she'll bo splendid." " I don't like May Eversley " — Lady Adela nervously moved her hands on her lap. " I wish Eachel hadn't made such friends with her in Munich." " Oh, May's all right." Roddy's blue eyes were smiling. " Took her down to Hurlingham yesterday and we had no end of a time." It was a pity, Lady Adela reflected, that Roddy was so absolutely on his own. His mother had died at his birth, and his father had been dead for five years now, and here it seemed to Lady Adela a curious coincidence that both Rachel and Roddy were or- phans — and both so young. She leant forward towards him — " You can do a lot for Rachel, Roddy. You can help her to understand her grandmother, you can reconcile her to all of us." "Oh! I say," Roddy laughed. "Perhaps she won't have anythin' to say to me, you know. My seein' your mother so often is quite enough " " No. She likes cheerful people — Dr. Christopher and John. You're in the same line of country, Roddy. She doesn't like me, and I haven't got the things in me to draw affection out of her. I'm not that kind of woman." As a rule Lady Adela betrayed no emotion of any kind, but now, this afternoon, both to Lady Oarloes and Roddy 52 THE DUCHESS OF WKEXE she had made some vague, indefinite appeal. Perhaps the news of Breton's arrival had alarmed her, perhaps her visit to the gallery with Rachel had really disturbed her. She seemed to beg for assistance. Roddy analysed neither his own emotions nor those of his friends, but, this afternoon, Lady Adela did appear to him a little more human than before. He was suddenly sorry for her. " Rachel'll be all right," he assured her. " Wait a bit. By the way, I met that little feller Brun yesterday — said he was comin' on Thursday. He's wild about your mother's picture " " Yes — we saw him at the gallery this afternoon. Rachel and I were there." " Rachel 1 What did she think of it ? " " Seemed to take no interest in it at all. We were there only a few minutes " Silence fell between ,., them, a silence filled with meaning. Lady Adela had "intended to speak about Breton — now, suddenly, she could say nothing. The mention of the pic- ture-gallery had brought back all her earlier discomfort — she saw tho picture, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the white pinched cheeks. Then she saw tho great bedroom upstairs, the high white bed, the little shrivelled figure. Had Rachel pointed this contrast ? Had Breton ? Was it something that Roddy had discovered already, something that had made his courage so easy for him? What, what was going to be done with her if she were no longer afraid ? Why, on that terror, on that trembling service, were built the foundations of all her life. How could she face that picture that the world had of a splendid, historic, dominating figure if she herself saw only a sick, miserable old woman tumbling to pieces, passing to decay ? The minutes had passed, and she had said nothing. Roddy must be wondering at her silence. To her relief Lady Carloes came towards her to say good-bye. — - LADY ADELA 53 Roddy's eyes were puzzled. For what had she carried him off if she had nothing to say to him? in When they were all gone she went up to her mother. Be- fore the door she paused. The house was very still, and her heart was furiously heating. She opened the door, and at the sight of the room was instantly reassured. Dorchester met her. " Her Grace went to hed early to- night. But she will see you, my lady." Lady Adcla stepped softly to the farther door. All was well. About her, around her, within her, was that same splendid terror, that same knowledge that she was approach- ing some great presence that had been with her all her lifo As she opened the bedroom door and saw the high white bed she knew that her mother was more magnificent, more wonderful than any painted picture could possibly make her. CHAPTER IV THE POOL OK that same afternoon in another_part of the house Miss Rand, Lady Adda's secretary, finished her work for the day, and prepared to go home. It was about a quarter-past six, and the May eTcning was sending through the windows its pale glow suggesting soft blue skies and fading lights. Miss Rand's room told you at once everything about Miss Rand. For efficiency and neat- ness, for discipline and restraint, it could not bo beaten. Misa Rand herself was all these things, efficient and neat, " disciplined and restrained. Her room had against one white and shining wall a black and shining typewriter. Against another wall was a table, and on this table were so many contrivances for keeping letters and papers, decent and docketed that it made every other table the observer could remember seem untidy and littered. There was nothing in the room superfluous or un- necessary, and even some carnations in a green bowl near the window looked as though they were numbered and ticketed. Miss Rand was a little woman who appeared thirty-five when she was busy, and twenty-five when someone was pleasant to her. When she was at work tho broad dark belt that she wore at her waist was her most characteristic feature. Then, in keeping with this, was her dark hair, beautiful hair perhaps if it had been allowed somo freedom, but now ordered and sternly disciplined; she wore no ornaments, and about her there wa3 nothing out of place nor extravagant. Her face was full of light and colour and her eyes were beautiful, but no one considered them: it was impossible to 84 THE POOL W look beyond that stern shining belt — one felt that Miss Bind herself would resent appreciation. From ten o'clock in the morning until five o'clock in the evening the huge Portland Place house absorbed her energies. She saw it sometimes in her dreams, as a great unwieldy machine kept in place by her hand, but leaping, did she leave it for an instant, trembling, soaring, carrying destruction with it into the heart of the city. Meanwhile her hand Avas upon it. From— JiTorris the butler, from Dorchester the guardian of the Duchess's apart- ments, down to the smallest, most insignificant kitchen-maid, Miss Rand knew them all. There was, of course, Mrs. New- ton, the most splendid and elevating of housekeepers, but when matters below stairs went beyond her control Miss 11 and could always arrange them. There was nothing, ab- solutely nothing, that, in the way of managing her fellow- creatures, Miss Band could not do. Hut it was because Miss Rand never occurred to any single creature in the Portland Place house as a sentient breathing human being that she succeeded as she did. She had no prejudices, no angers, no rebellions, no rejoicings. She was the little engine at the heart of the house that sent everything into motion. " One can't imagine her eating her meals, Mrs. Newton," Mr. Norris once said. " And as to her sleeping like you or me " To see her now as she put the final touches to her room before leaving it, arranging a paper here and a paper there, going to the bookshelf and pushing back a book that jutted in front of the others, setting a chair against the wall, placing the blotting-pad exactly in the middle of the table,' finally taking her hat and coat and putting them on with the same careful and almost automatic distinction — this sufficiently revealed her. She seemed, as she looked for the last time about the room with her bright eyes, like some sharp little bird, perched on a window-sill, looking beyond closed win- dows for new adventure. 56 THE : DUCHESS OF WREXE It was one of the striking points in her that her eyes al- ways seemed to be searching for some disorder in some place outside her immediate vision. She closed the door behind her. As she stepped into the passage someone was coming down the staircase to her right, and looking up she saw that it was Rachel Beaminster. Rachel was on her way from her grandmother's room, and before she saw Miss Band standing there, waiting to let her pass, her face was grave and, in that half-light, strangely white. Then, as she saw Miss Band, she smiled — " Good evening, Miss Rand." " Good evening, Miss Beaminster." " I'm afraid that this ball is giving you a lot of trouble." " I think that everything is arranged now, Miss Bea- minster. I hope that it will be a great success." Rachel sighed and then laughed. " Don't I wish the whole stupid thing was over. And I expect you do too ! " Miss Rand smiled a very little. " It's good for the serv- ants," she said. " They're always happy when they're really busy." For a moment they stood there smiling. It occurred to Rachel that Miss Rand must bo rather nice. She had never thought of her before as anything but Aunt Adda's secre- tary. " Good night, Miss Rand." " Good night, Miss Beaminster." ii In Portland Place Miss Rand drew a little breath and paused. So many times during the last five years had she walked from Portland Place to Saxton Square, and from Saxton Square to Portland Place, that the streets and houses encountered by her had become individual, alive, always offering to her some fresh adventure or romance. Portland Place itself was no bad beginning, with its high white colour, THE POOL 811 its air, and its dark mysterious park Hovering at &• edge of it. If one. had not known, Miss Rand thought, one might hare supposed that just beyond it lay the sea, so fresh and full of breezes was the air. The light was yellow now and the houses black and sharp against the faint sky. In another half-hour the lamps would be lit. It was pleasant and fitting that the end of Portland Place should be guarded by the Eound Church and the QueenV Hall. " Leave that calm and chaste society behind you," those places said, " but before you plunge into the wicked careless world (that is Oxford Circus) choose from us. Here you have religion or musio, both if you will, but here at any rate we are, the very best of our kind." The Queen's Hall looked shabby in the evening light, but Miss Hand liked that ; it heightened her sense of the splen- dour within — Beethoven and Wagner and Brahms needed no illumination — it was your musical comedy demanded that. Miss Rand liked good music Then there was the Polytechnic with wonderful offers in the windows enticing you to see Rome for eleven guineas, and Paris for three, and there was a hat shop with three glorious hats wickedly dangling on poles, and there was a pastry- cook's, a tobacconist's, and a theatre agency: all this variety paying the way between music and religion and the whirling, tossing, heaving melodrama of Oxford Circus. Miss Rand loved Oxford Circus. It was like the sea in that it was never from one. moment to another the same. Miss Rand knew the way that it had of piling the melodrama up and up, faster and faster, wilder and wilder, bursting into a frantic climax and then sinking back, for hours per- haps, into comparative silence. She knew all its moods, from its broom and milkman mood in the early morning, to its soiled and slinking mood somewhere between .midnight) and one o'clock. 58 THE DUCHESS OP WEEXE Just now it was getting ready for the evening. Up Regent Street the cabs and buses were straining, the flower women with their baskets were bunched in splashes of colour against the distant outline of the Bound Church. Out of every door people were pouring, and in the middle of the Circus three of the four lines of traffic were turned suddenly into some- thing sleepy and indifferent by the hand of a policeman. For an instant the restless movement seemed to bo crystallized — the hansoms, the bicycles, the omnibuses, the cartB were all held, then at a sign the flow and interflow had begun one© more; life was hurled in and hurled out again, stirred and tossed and turned, as though some giant cook were up in the heavens busy over a giant pudding. And the light faded and the lamps came out, and Miss Rand, walking through two streets that were as dark and secret as though they were spying on the Circus and were going to give all its secrets away very shortly, passed into Saxton Square. To-night Miss Hand had more to think about than Oxford Circus. She was tired after all tho work that there had been during the last few days, and she always noticed that it was when she was tired that she was ready to imagine things. She had been imagining things all day and had found it really difficult to keep steadily to her proper work, but out and beyond her imagination there was, before her, this definite, tremendous fact — namely, that she would find, this evening, on entering her little drawing-room, that Mr. Francis Breton was being entertained at tea by hor sister and motker. It wis a quarter to seven now, so perhaps he had gone, but at any rate there would bo a great deal that her mother and sister would wish tp tell her about him. A week ago Mr. Francis Breton had come to live on the second floor in 24 Saxton Square, had put there his own furniture, had brought with him his own man-servant (a most sinister-looking man). These matters might have remained (although, of course, THE POOL 59 Mies Lizzie Rand's connection with the Beaminater family made his arrival- of the most dramatic interest) had not Miss Daisy Rand (Misa Lizzie Rand's prettier and younger sister) happened, one evening, to run into Mr. Breton in the dark hall ; she screamed aloud because she thought him a burglar, became very shaky about the knees, and needed Mr. Breton's assistance as far as the Rand drawing-room. Here, of course, there followed conversation; finally Mr. Breton was asked to tea and accepted the invitation. On this very afternoon must this tea-party have taken place. Lizzie Rand knew her mother and sister very well, and she had, long ago, learnt that their motto was, "Let everything go for the sake of adventure." That was well enough, but when your income was very small indeed, and you wished to do no work at all and yet to have your home pleasant and your life adventurous, certainly someone must suffer. Everything had always fallen upon Lizzie. Mrs. Rand's husband had been a colonel and they had lived at Eastbourne; on his death it was discovered that he had debts and obligations to a lady in the chorus of a light opera then popular in London. The debts and the lady Mrs. Rand had covered with romance, beoause she considered that they were due to the Colonel's insatiable appetite for Adventure — but, romance or no, there was now very little to live upon. They moved to London. Daisy was obviously so prety that it would bo absurd to expect her to work, and " 6he would bo married in a minute," so Lizzie had, during the last five years, kept the family. It would be impossible to give any clear idea of the effect on Mrs. Rand that Lizzie's connection with the Beaminster family had. Mrs. Rand loved anything that was great and solemn and ceremonious; she loved Royalties, bands and soldiers gave her a choke' in her throat, the " Society News " in the Daily Mail was like a fine pic- ture or a splendid play. She was no snob; it was simply that she saw life as a background to slow stately figures gorgeously attired. «0 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE In all England there was no one lilce the Duchess of Wrexe ; in all England there was no family like the Bcamin- eter family. Even Royalty had not quite their glow and glitter; Royalty you might see any day, driving, bowing, smiling. The Queen had a smile for everyone and was at home in the merest cottage; hut the Duchess, the Duchess — no one, not even Lizzie, on whose shoulders the whole fortunes of the Beai minsters rested, over saw. There was nothing about the Beaminsters that Mr3. Rand did not know, and so of course she knew all about the un- happy past history of Francis Breton. That any Beaminster should have behaved rather as her own dead colonel had once behaved gavo one a link at once. Mrs. Rand's mind was, at the best of times, a confused one, and* in the dead of night, she could imagine a scene in which the wonderful Duchess would send for her, give her tea, press her hands and say, " Ah ! Dear Mrs. Rand, our men-folk — your husband and my grandson — what trouble they give us, but we love them nevertheless." So romantic was Mrs. Rand's mind that she saw nothing extraordinary in the coincidence of Mr. Breton's arrival at their very doors. Of course he would arrive there ! Where else could he arrive? And of course he would fall in love with Daisy, would reform for her sake; there would be a splendid marriage; the Duchess would thank Mrs. Rand for having saved her grandson. Yes, Mrs. Rand had an incurably romantic mind. Lizzie knew all about her mother's mind, and Daisy's mind. She dealt with them very much a3 she dealt with Lady Adela's mind or Lord John's mind. They were all muddled people together, and the clear-headed people had the advantage over them. So with regard to her mother and sister Lizzie had developed a protective feeling; Bhe wished to save them from THE POOL 61 the inroads of the clear-headed people who might so rob and devour them. She saw also that her connection with the Beaminster family was a very bad thing for her mother and sister be- cause it encouraged them to be romantic and muddled and idle. But, at present, at any rate, there was nothing to be done. As she turned into the grey silence of little Saxton Square the did hope that her mother and sister would not behave ■ too outrageously about Mr. Breton. She was interested, she would like to see him ; his whole possible relation to the Duchess, to Lady Adela, to Miss Beaminster set her own imagination working. She did hope that her mother and sister would not behave so disgracefully that they would frighten Mr. Breton away so that he would never come near them again. And then, as she reached the door of No. 24, she thought for a moment of Rachel Beaminster. " I like her," she thought, " I'd like to know her. She's never spoken to me like that before." in No. 24 had three floors: the ground floor was occupied by the Bands, the first floor by Breton and the second floor by an old decrepit invalid called Caesar and his son, who was a bank clerk. Down in the basement lived Mr. and Mrs. Tweed, ownera of the wliolo house; he had been a butler and she a house- keeper, and exceedingly respectable they were. Every floor had its own kitchen and every lodger found his own servants, but the hall was common for all the three floors, and if young Mr. Ca>sar came in at two in the morning and banged the front door everybody knew about it. It must have been a fine old house in its day, No. 24, and there were still fine carvings, good fireplaces and ceilings, 62 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE high broad windows and thick solid walls. Mrs, Rand liked to think that her drawing-room had onco seen fine oighteenth- century ladies reflected in its mirrors, hoard the tapping of high-heeled shoes on its polished floors. The thought of those glorious days gave her own rather faded furniture a colour and a touch of poetry. Sometimes, Lizzio thought with a sigh, if her mother had inhabited a plain nineteenth- century house living within- a small income would liayo been easier for her. Lizzie, entering the drawing-room, knew at once that Mr. Breton was still there. She saw that ho was tall and spare, that ho had no left arm, that he had a rather small pointed brown beard and eyes that struck her as fierce and protest- ing. She did not know whether it were the beard or tho eyes or the absence of the arm, but at her first vision of him she said to herself: "He's too dramatic; it's not quite real," and her second thought was : " He's just what mother will like him to be ! " He was standing against the window, and ho wore a black suit, a little faded. The blinds had not been drawn, and the square beyond the window was elephant grey, with tho lamps at each corner a dim yellow; thero was a thin rather ragged garden in the middle of tho square, and in tho garden was a statue, of a nymph, old and deserted, and some trees now faintly green. Over it all was a sky so pale that it was moro nearly white than blue. Although tho curtains had not been drawn a lamp in the middle of tho room was lit and tho fire burnt merrily. The furniture had once been good and was now respectable. There wc/o several photographs, a copy of " Tho lighting Temeraire," and a water-colour sketch of " Lodoro Falls." There was a book-case with the works of Tennyson, Long- fellow, and Miss Braddon, and on one of the tables two Prenoh novels, one by Gyp and ono by Zola. Mrs. Band would have been handsome had her grey hair been less untidy and her clothes more uniform in design and THE POOL «3 colour. Her blouse was cut too low and she wore too many rings; her eyes always wore a lying-in-wait expression, as though she might be called on to be excited at any moment and didn't wish to miss the opportunity. Daisy Rand was pretty and pink with light fluffy hair. All her clothes looked as though their chief purpose were to reveal other clothes. The impression that she left on a casual observer was that she must be cold in such thin things. Lizzie, looking at Frank Breton, could not tell what im- pression her sister and mother had made upon him. "At any rate," she thought, " he's stayed a long time. That looks as though he had been entertained." She was introduced to him and liked the cool, firm grasp of his hand She saw that her mother and Daisy were quiet and subdued — that was a good thing. She caught, before she sat down, his instinctive look of surprise. She knew that he had not expected her to bo like that " Wo've been telling Mr. Breton, Lizzie," said Mrs. Rand, " all about the theatres. He's been away so long that he's quite out of touch with things." Lizzie always know when her mother was finding conversa- tion difficult by the amount of enthusiasm and surprise that she put into her sentences. " So terrible it must bo to have missed so many splendid things." " I assure you, Mrs. Rand," said Breton, " that I've been seeing other splendid things in other countries. Now I'm ready for this ono again." Mrs. Rand was silent and at a loss. Lizzie knew the explanation of this. Her mother had been trying to venture on to the subject of Breton's family and had found un- expected difficulty. Perhaps there had been something in Breton's attitude that had warned her. They talked for a little while, but disjointedly. Then suddenly there was a knock at the door, and young Mr. Csesar, n bony youth with a high collar and an unsuccessful mous- 64 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE tacbe, came in. He Lad not very much to say, but the result of his coming was that Lizzie found herself standing at the ■window with Breton ; they looked at the square now sinking into dusk. He spoke ; hi.'i voice was lowered : " I understand that you are secretary to my aunt, Miss Rand ? " " Yes," shd said. " They haven't heard of -my return with any great delight, I'm afraid?" She noticed that he was trying to steady his voice, but that it shook a little in sj'nto of hia efforts. " I don.'t know," she said, looking up and smiling. " I'm far-too busy to think of things that are not my concern." " Tbey are giving a ball to-morrow night for my cousin t " "Yes." " Do you see much of her ? " " No — nothing at all. She's been abroad, you know." " Yes, so I heard. But I saw her driving yesterday. She looks different from the rest of them." All this time, as he spoke to her, she was conscious of his eyes ; if only she could have been sure that the protest in them was genuine she would have been moved by them. She did not help him in any way, and perhaps her silence made him feel that ho had done wrong to speak to her about his affairs. They looked at the square for a little time in silence. At last, speaking without any implied fierceness, he said: " You know, Miss Rand, I'm a wanderer byjnature, and sometimes I find cities very hard to bear. Do you know what I do?" " No," she said. .. " Turn them into other things. Now here in London, do you never think of streets as waterways? Portland Place, for instance, is like ever so many rivers I've seen, broad and shining. And some of those high thin streets beside it are like canals; Oxford Circus is a whirlpool, and so on " THE POOL W He laughed, " I get no end of relief from thinking of things like that" " You hate cities? " she asked him. " No — not really. But it depends how they receive yon. If they're hostile " He shrugged his shoulders. " And this square \ " she said. " What's this square ? " " A pool. All the houses hang over it as though they were hiding it It's restful like a pooh There's no noise " The statue of the nymph had disappeared. The trees were a Hack splash against the lamp-lit walls. Lights were in the windows. He seemed suddenly conscious that it was late. When he had gone Lizzie stood, for some time, looking into the square and thinking how right he had been. All that evening "Daisy was out of temper. CHAPTER V - SHE COMES OUT DOWNSTAIRS the dinner-party was at its height Mrs. Newton, the housekeeper, went softly down the pas- sages to give one last glimpse at the ballroom. There it lay, like a great golden shell, empty, expectant The walls were white, the ceilings gold; on the white walls hung the Lelys, the Van Dycks, and at the farther end of the room Sargent's portrait of Her Grace, brought up, for this espe- cial occasion, from the Long Drawing-room. There was the gleaming, shining floor, there the golden chairs with their backs against the wall, and there before each picture a little globe of golden flame ministering to its beauties, throwing the proud pale faces of the old Bcaminsters into scornful relief, and none of them so scornful as that Duchess in the far distance, frowning from her golden frame. Mrs. Newton was plump and important. She worshipped the Beaminster family, and it yielded her now intense satis- faction to see these rooms, that were used so seldom, given to their proper glory and ceremony. For a moment as she stood there and felt the fine reflection of all that light upon the shining floor, absorbed the silence and the space and the colour, she was uplifted with pride, and thanked her God that she was not as other women were, but had been per- mitted by Him to assist in no small measure in the glories and splendours of this great family. Then, with a little sigh of satisfied approval, she softly walked away again. n Two hours later Rachel Beaminster, standing a little be- hind her aunt, saw the people pressing up the stairs. To SHE COMES OUT - 67 those who watched her, she seemed perfectly composed, her flushed checks, her white dress, her dark hair anfhsyea gave her distinction against the colour and movement of the room. Her eyes wore a little stern, and her body was held proudly, but her hands moved with sharp spasmodic movements against her dress. As she stood there men were brought up to her in constant succession and introduced. They wrote their names on her programme, bowed and went away. She smiled at each one of them. Before dinner she had been introduced to the Prince — German, fat and cheerful — and the second dance of the evening was to be with him. Some of the men who had been dining in the house she already knew — Lord Crew- ncr, Roddy Scddon, Lord Massiter, and others — and once or twice now tho faces that were led up to her were familiar to her. Tho great ballroom seemed to be already filled with people, and still they came pressing up the stairs. Rachel was miserably unhappy. For one moment before she had left her room, where her maid had stood admiringly beside her, when she herself had seen the reflection of the white dress and the dark hair and the flushed checks in the long mirror, for one great moment she had been filled with exaltation. This ball, this agitation, this excitement was all for her. The world was at her feet. The locked doors were at last rolling open before her and all life was to be revealed. Pearls that Uncle John had given her were her only orna- ment. They laughed at her from the mirror, laughed and promised her success, conquest, glory. Life at that instant was very precious. But, alas ! tho dinner had been a terrible failure She had eat between Lord Crewner and Lord Massiter, and had no word to say to either of them. Lord Massiter was middle- aged and hearty and kind, and ho had done his best for her, but she had been paralysed. They had talked to her about tho opera, the theatres, hunting, books, Munich; she had had 68 THE DUOHESS QE WREXE a great deal to say about all these things, and she had said nothing. Always within hor there seemed to be rivalry be- tween the Beaminster way of saying things and the other way. When Lord Crowner said to her, " What I like in music i9 a real cheerful little piece that one can go to after dinner, you know," there were a whole number of Beaminster observa- tions to make. But as soon as they rose to her mouth some- thing within her whispered, " You know that you don't mean that. That's at second hand. Give him your opinion." And then that seemed presumption, so she said nothing. It was all wretched and quite endless. Uncle John sent her encouraging smiles every now and again, but she felt that he must bo disappointed at her failure. The food choked her. The tears filled her eyes and Lt was her pride only that saved her. Through it all she felt that her grandmother up- stairs in hor bedroom was planning this. Afterwards the Princess, seeing perhaps that she was un- happy, was kind and motherly to her, and told her funny stories about her childhood in Berlin. But all the timo Rachel was saying to herself, " You're a fool. You're a fool. You've got no 6elf-control at all." She had been dreading the introductions to so many young men, but she found that that was easy enough. They were" not young men ; they were simply numbers on her programme and they vanished as soon as they came. Then the band in the distance began to play an extra, whilst the young men wandered about and discovered their friends, and the sound of the music cheered hor. It. amused her now to watch the people as they mounted the stairs. She noticed that all the faces were grave and preoccupied until a moment before the arrival at Aunt Adela, and then a smile was tightly fastened on, held for. a moment, and then dropped to give way to the preoccupation again. The room was so full now that it seemed that it would bo quite impossible for any dancing to tako place. Uncle John was working very hard at introducing people to one another, SHE COMES OUT 69 and as she saw his good-natured face and his white hair her heart went out to him. If everyone were as kind as Uncle John how nice the world would be! Meanwhile her eyes anxiously watched the stairs, and as every woman turned the corner at the bottom the question was — u Was this May TSvcrsley ? " There had been a battle about May. Aunt Adela did not like her, disapproved of her, would not hear of inviting her. Very well, then, Rachel would not como to the ball at all. They could give the ball for somebody else. If May were not asked Rachel would not come. So Lady Everslcy and May had both been asked, and of course they had accepted. Rachel waited and gazed and was continually disappointed. The extra was over and soon the first dance would begin; with the second dance would arrive the Prince and Rachel would have no talk with May at all. It was too bad of May to be late. She had promised so faithfully — Ah ! there she was with her air of one confidently conducting a most diffi- cult campaign. She mounted the stairs like a general, gave Lady Adela the tiniest of smiles, and was at Rachel's side. That clasp of May's hand filled Rachel's body with confi- dent happiness. May's hardy self-control, her discipline de- rived from some stern old Puritans, dim centuries away, was all waiting there at Rachel's service. " How late you are ! " " Mother was such a time. And then we couldn't get a cab. How are you, Rachel ? " " Dinner was terrible — all wrong. I hadn't a word to say to anyone. I'm better now that you've come." " Is the Prince here ? " " Yes. I'm dancing the next dance with him. The Prin- cess was very kind after dinner. Oh ! May, dinner was a disaster, an absolute disaster ! " " Not nearly so bad as you thought, you may be sure. Things always seem so much worse." 70 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE And now May had been discovered. Gentlemen young and old dangled their programmes in front of her, were re- ceived, were dismissed. May had the air of a general, sitting fiercely in his tent and receiving reports from his officers as to the progress in the field. Confident young men wore in- stantly timid before her. The first dance was over. Against the white splendour vivid colours were flung and withdrawn. Threads and pat- terns crossed and recrossed, and then presently the glittering floor was waste and deserted; on its surface was reflected dark gold from the shining walls. The second dance came, and with it the Prince. Rachel had now lost all sense of tho ball having been given in any way for herself. The dancing, it comforted her to see, was not of the very best, and at once she found that she had herself nothing to fear. Tho Prince danced well, and soon she was lost to all sense of everything save the immediate joy of rhythm and balance, and the perfect spontaneity of the music and her body's acknowledgment of it. When it came to an end, and they were sitting in a corner, somewhere, he was a fat middle-aged man again, and she Rachel Beaminster, but she know now for what life was intended. After that, for a long period, her dancers did not concern her. They were there simply to supply her with that ecstasy of rhythm and movement. Sometimes they could not supply her because they were bad dancers, and 'one of her partners was indeed so bad that she ruthlessly suggested, after one turn round the room, that they should sit out. Then she sat in a room near at hand, irritated by the sound of that glorious music, and paying very scant attention to tho young man's stammered apologies, his information about his experiences of Paris and the way that ho shot birds in Scotland. She was to go down to supper with Roddy Seddon, and she was awaiting that experience with some curiosity. If her grandmother were so' fond of him, then he must be a dis- SHE COMES OUT 71 agreeable young man, and yet his appearance was not dis- agreeable. He looked as though, like Uncle John and Dr. Chris, he were ono of tho comfortable people. Dr. Chris, by the way, had not arrived. He had told her that he might not be able to escape until late hours. And so, as the evening advanced, her happiness grew ; im- possible now to understand that speechlessness at dinner, impossible to find reasons for that earlier misery. She danced now both with Lord Massiter and with Lord Crewner, and said exactly what she thought to both of them ; impossible now to imagine anything but tbat the world was an enchant- ing, thrilling place especially invented for the happiness of Miss Rachel Beaminstcr. m Uncle John had been promised a dance; his moment ar- rived, lie had watched her during the early part of the evening, and had been afraid that she was not at all happy. She was so unlike other girls, and that first miserable hour seemed to him tho most tragic omen of her future career. " How is sbo ever to get on if she takes things as badly as this ? I wish I could help her. I know so exactly iow she must be feeling." But imagine him now confronted with a figure that shone with happiness, with success, with splendour ! She caught his arm — " Come, Uncle John, we won't dance. [We'll talk. Up here — There's no one in this room." She rau abcad of him, found a corner for them both, and then, pushing him on to a sofa, twisted round in front of him, turning on her toes, flashing laughter at him, sitting down at last beside him, and then kissing him. " Oh, my dear ! I'm so glad," be said. " I thought you were miserable." " So I was — at first — perfectly wretched. Now it's all 6plendid — - glorious ! " 72 THE DTJOHESS OF WREXE This was to him an entirely new Rachel. In her move- ment, her excitement, her immediate glad acceptance of the life that an hour ago she had feared with such alarm, he , perceived an element that was indeed foreign to all things Beaminster. And this new attitude reminded him with renewed sharpness that he could not now hope to hold the old Eachel with the intimate affection that had been his before. She was slipping from him — slipping • . . even as he watched her, she was going. She laid her hand upon his arm: "Uncle John, I'm a success! I am really. I can dance, dance beautifully! I can put these young men in their places. They're frightened ! . . . really frightened." " Of course — you're lovely — the biggest success there's ever been. But what was the matter with you at dinner ? " " Yes. Wasn't that dreadful ? Everything went wrong, and the only thing I could think of was how glad grand- mamma would be. I had a kind of paralysis." Uncle John nodded his head. " I know exactly what it's like." " Well, I shall never let myself be so stupid again — never! I swear it!" They sat in silence for some time, she, restless, straining towards the music, he a little overcome by her happiness. There was a pause between the dances and then the band began once more. " Have you danced with Roddy Seddon yet ? " "No. What's he like?" " Oh ! he's nice — you'll like him." " I don't expect to. He's a friend of grandmamma's. Hark ! There's the band again ! . . . Come along, back we go!" Smiling, radiant, she hung upon his arm. Afterwards, standing in a doorway, he watched her. He sighed. " What a selfish old pig I am ! . . . But she'll never bo mine again." SHE COMES OUT ?3 IV Uncle John held only for a moment Rachel's attention. No single person now, hut rather a gorgeous pattern that the whole evening was weaving about her. She saw the lights, she heard the music, she felt the movement of her body, she gathered through a haze of happiness the faces of her uncles and Aunt Adela and others whom she knew, but how for the first time in her life she knew what happiness, happiness without thought, or doubt, or foreboding could be. Thus it was that she came to Roddy Seddon, who was certainly enjoying himself: this, however, was not the first ball of his life nor even, if all the truth were known, his best Ho had expected it to bo solemn and sedate — you could not hope to find here the jolly kind of dance that they had had at the Menets', for instance, last week; that would not he possible in a Beaminster household. It was all, to bo honest, a little old-fashioned. Things were moving a bit faster nowadays. Waltzes and Lancers were all very well, but one might have had a cotillon, something un- expected ! However, May Eversley and one or two other girls had had the right kind of go about them. He smiled a little and tugged at his short bristling yellow moustache, and then discovered that it was time to take Rachel Beaminster down to supper. This event was of more than ordinary interest to him;. He was perfectly aware that most of his friends and relatives thought that it would be a very good thing for him to marry Rachol Beaminster. He was, himself, not scornful of thid idea. He was thirty-two, and it was time that Seddon Court in Sussex had a mistrrss; his life had been varied and exciting and it was right now that he should make some ties. There were a number of other reasons in favour of his marrying. As to Rachel Beaminster, she was not pretty, but she was interesting. She was unusual; moreover she was a Bea- 74 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE minster, and an alliance with that ancient family would b», past dispute, a magnificent alliance. But the element in it all that intrigued him most was the fact that nobody could toll him anything about Eachel, even May Evcx'sley who knew her so well was not sure about her. " You'll go on being sur- prised," she had said. Surprise, indeed, wa3 waiting for him this evening. On the few occasions that he had seen Rachel ho had seen her grave, shy, a little awkward, most reserved. Now she met him as though sho had known him for years, glowing, almost pretty, so burning wero her eyes. At supper she laughed, called across the room to May, agreed with everything that everybody said, and with it all was younger than any girl that he had ever known. The girls who were Roddy's friends talked about life at times more boldly than he would have talked with his men friends, and wero, at all events, for ever hinting at the things that they knew. Rachel hinted at nothing; she kept nothing back, she allowed him no disguises. " Oh ! don't I wish," she cried, " that this night could go on for ever just like this " — and he, taking the compliment to himself, agreed with her. . He had expected to find someone haughty and cold, a young Aunt Adela with a dash of foreign temper. lie found someone entirely delightful. Afterwards, when they sat out on a balcony overlooking Portland Place, he was Encouraged to talk about himself. " I like all this, you know," he said, waving his hand at the grey mysterious street that the pale lamps so mournfully guarded. " I like this air eomin' along from tho park. I'm all for the open, Miss Beaminster — horses and dogs, and mshin' along with the wind at your back. It's a rippin' little place I've got down in Sussex. I hope you'll see it one day — old as anything, with jolly Roman roads and such hangin' atimnd, and the most spiifin' lot of gees. Look, tho sun will be gettiu' above the houses soon. I've seen some sunrises in SHE COMES OtT 751 my day. You ought to be on the Downs at night, Miss Bea* minster.". Roddy was surprised at himself at the way that he was. talking, but she really looked quite beautiful there in the window with her dark hair and her eyes and white dress. " I can't tell you," she said, when it was time for them to part, " how much all you say interests me. I love horses too, and I adore dogs " " I've got a dog I'd like you to have," he began. " It's a " " Oh no," she answered. " Aunt Adela would never let me keep one here. Thank you all the same. But you'll let mo come down to Seddon Court one day, won't you ? " " Let you 1 " Roddy could find no words. She flung one glance at the square, where the dawn was beginning, and then was back in the ballroom again, dancing, dancing, dancing. . . . The sky was all pink above the roofs, and the birds were making a whirl of chattering, when her bedroom received her again. Her maid was sleepy but proud. " They all say it's been a great success, Miss Rachel." " Success ! " She stood for a moment in the middle of the room with her arms extended. " Oh ! It's been glorious, glorious. I've never — ■ — " She paused. Her inns fell to her sides — "Oh! Dr. Chris! Dr. Chris! He never came — he said that he mightn't bo able. It was the only thing that was wrong " — Then more slowly, as she moved to her dressing-table — " And all the last part I never missed him." " Well, I dare say," said Lucy, standing behind Rachel's chair and staring at the white face in the mirror, " that with his patients and the rest he couldn't get away — : — " " Oh ! But I ought to have missed him," said Rachel, and afterwards, lying in bed, sleepless with excitement, it was Dr. Christopher's face that she saw. CHAPTER VI FANS " II est doux de somraeiller tt 1 'ombre cbaude, sur le tiede oreiller d'us mal fpicurieme et d'une intelligence ironique, tres simple, asiiei curieuse,, et prodigieuseuient inditlerente, au fond." ^-" Rouaih Rojaanu ON the afternoon that followed the ball Lady Adela took Rachel to tea with Lord Richard. It was a superb May afternoon; white clouds, bolster- shaped, were piled in the heavens and made, so rounded were they, the blue sky seem an infinite distance away. It was a day of sparkling dazzling gaiety — the air seemed electric with the happiness of the world, and, as they drove down to Grosvenor Street, Rachel felt that the little breeze that just touched the hats and coats of the people on tho oninibuaee was created simply by the joy of tho beautiful weather. As they moved slowly down Eond Street Rachel looked at the world and thought of last night. She looked at the men with their shining hats and shining boots; at th»- messenger boys and the young women with parcels and the young women without ; at the old men who thought themselves young and the young men who thought themselves old ; at the fish shops and the picture galleries, at the jewellers' and the book shops, at the place where they taught you Swedish exercises and the place where there was a palmist with a Japanese name, and it was all splendid and magnificent and simply carried on tho glories of the night before. Before tho turning into Gros- venor Street there was a great crush of carriages and a long pause. In the carriage next to Rachel there was a very stout, very richly coloured lady with a strong scent and a pug dog. A little farther away there were two young gentlemen in a 78 FANS 77 smart little carriage, and their hata were so large and their expression so haughty and the top of their canes so golden that it seemed absurd that they should have to wait for anybody, and near them was a small boy on a little butcher's cart and near him an omnibus with a red-faced driver and any number of interested ladies, and all these incongruities seemed only to add to the haphazard happiness of this shining after- noon. Rachel had many tbings to consider as she sat there. Aunt Adela did not interfere with her thoughts, because she never talked when she was in a carriage, but always sat up and looked wearily at the people about her. She had never very much to say, but the open air made her feel stupid. Rachel was aware that last night had altered her point of view for all time. She was aware, as she sat there in sun- shine, of a new world. By one glance at Aunt Adela was this new world made apparent. Aunt Adela had hitherto been important — Aunt Adela was now unimportant. Had this afternoon been wet and gloomy, then Rachel might havo doubted that passionato discovery of the world that she now felt was hers, but here with this blazing sun and sky the note was sustained. ' Surely never again would Rachel be afraid of her grandmother, surely never again would she be afraid of anyone. Holding herself very proudly in a dres9. that was a soft primrose colour and in a hat that was dark and shady, Rachel looked round about her on the world. " Thcre'a Lady Massitcr!" Lady Adela smiled lightly and bowed a very little — " Monty Carfax is with her." Rachel thought of Lord Massiter, and wondered again at last night's dinner — "How could I have been like that? How could I ? " There passed them a very handsome carriage with a little dark handsome lady who looked happily round about her, all alone in her magnificence. Rachel did not know whether her aunt had seen or no : here was the Beaminster arch-enemy, Mrs. Bronson, a young American widow, incredibly rich, in- 78 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE credibly fascinating, incredibly bold. Mrs. Bronson bad been in London only a year, had snapped her jewelled fingers at the Beaininsters and everything that they stood for, had laughed at snubs and threats, was intending, so it was said t to have London at her f eot in a season or two. Rachel considered her. She was like some jewelled bird of paradise. She was — one must admit it — better suited to this glorious day than was Aunt Adcla. Why need Aunt Adela refuse to bo glad because the sun was shining? Why could not Aunt Adela havo said some- thing pleasant about last night's dance? Why must this absurd outward dignity bo so carefully maintained? Why when one was looking attractive in a primrose dress could one's aunt not say so ? That reminded her of Roddy Seddon. She liked him. IIo might bo a real friend like Dr. Chris- topher. Tho thought of him made her, as she sat there in the sun, feel doubly certain that tho world was a comfortable, reassuring placo and that that vision of cold spaces and dark forests that had been so often with her was now to be banished - like an evil dream nover to return. At tho end of Grosvenor Street the trees were so green that they might have been painted, and hero they were at Uncle Richard's house. n But, with the closing of Uncle Richard's doors the sun was taken from the world. Uncle Richard's house was always soft and dim, like one of those little jewel case3, all wadding and dark wood. Uncle Richard's carpets were so thick and soft that everyone seemed to walk on tiptoe, and the wonder- ful old prints in tho hall and the beautiful dark carving on tho staircase and the sudden swiftness of the doors as they closed behind you only helped to increase tho impression that everything hero, yourself included, was in for a beautiful exhibition, and that light might hurt tho exhibits. FANS 79 Uncle Richard's study, where they always had tea, was lined from roof to ceiling with hook-cases, and behind the shining glass there gleamed the backs of the haughtiest and proudest books in the world. For, were they old and dingy, then they were first editions of transcendent value, and were they new and shining, then were they " Editions do luse," or some of Uncle Richard's favourites bound in the most intri- cate and precious of bindings. Somo china on tho mantelpiece was so valuable that house- maids must surely have a sleepless time because of it, and all the furniture was so conscious of its rich and ancient glories that to sit down on the chairs or to lean on the tables was to offer them terrible Insults. Two Condors and a Corot shone from the grey walls. In tho midst of this was Uncle Richard, elaborately, ironically indifferent to all emotions. " I have governed the country, yes — but really, my friends, scarcely a job for a fine spirit nowadays. I have collected these few things — yes, but after all what does it come to ? Don't' many pawn- brokers do tho same ? " Rachel, as she stood in the room, felt that her newly found Independence was slipping away from her. With the depar- ture of the sun had fled also that consciousness of last night's splendours. About her again was creeping that atmosphere that was always with her in this room, something that made her feel that she was a wretched, ignorant Bcaminster, and that even if she did learn the value of all these precious things, why then that knowledge was of little enough use to her. Uncle Richard with his high white forehead, his long dark trousers, his grey spats and his great collar that bent back, in humble deference, before tho nobility of his neck and chin, Uncle Richard required a great deal of courage. " Well, dear, I hope you enjoyed your dance." " Yes, Uncle Richard, thank you." " I left early, but everything seemed to be going very welL" " Yes, I think it was all right." 80 THE DUOHESS OF WREXE How different this from the fashion in which she had in- tended to fling her enthusiasm upon him. What, she won- dered, would have been the effect had she done bo? How would he have taken it? Could she haye pierced that mel- ancholy ironical armour that always kept the real man from her? Meanwhile she was now back again in the old, old world ; tea was brought, the footman and butler moved softly about the room. Aunt Adela said a little, Uncle Richard said a little . . . the lid was down upon the world. Meanwhile, impossible to imagine that only a quarter of an hour ago there had been that gay confusion in Bond Street, impossible to believe Mrs. Bronson in her carriage anything but common and vulgar, impossible to prefer that dazzling . sun to this cloistered quiet A wonderful lacquered clock ticked the minutes away. " I'm in a cage — I'm in a cage — and I want to get out," someone in Rachel Beaminster was crying, and someone elst replied, " Thank God that you are allowed to be in such a cage at all. There's no other cago so splendid." Her primrose gown was forgotten; when Uncle Richard asked her questions she answered " Yes," or " No." ner old terrors had returned. Upon the three of them, sitting thus, Roddy Seddon was announced. Roddy had assaulted and conquered Lord Richard in as masterly a fashion as he had subdued the Buchess and Lady Adela. He had done it simply by present- ing so boisterous and honest an allegiance to the Beaminster standard. Lord Richard's irony had been useless against Roddy's ingenuous appeal. Moreover, there was tho Buchoss's advocacy — young Seddon was tho hopo of the party. Roddy brought to view no evidence of last night's energies ; he was as fresh, as highly coloured, as browned and bronzed and clear as any pastoral shepherd, his skin was so finely coloured that clothe? always seemed, with him, a pity. Lord FANS 81 Richard's melancholy cynicism had poor chance against such vigour. His eyes, as they fastened upon Rachel, brightened. She gave that dim room such fresh pleasure, sitting there in her primrose frock with her serious eyes and long hands. No, she was not beautiful; he knew that his last night's impres- sion had been the true one ; but she was unusual, she would make, he was sure, a mo3t unusual companion. " You wouldn't think it," May Eversley had said, " but there's any amount of fun in Rachel — you'll find it when you know her." Ho was not sure but that he saw it now, lurking in her eyes, her mouth, as sho sat there, so gravely, opposite to her uncle and aunt. "How d'ye do, Lady Adela? How d'ye do, Miss Bea- minster ? How are you, sir ? Thanks — I will have some tea, Pretty gorgeous day, ain't it ? Rippin' dance of yours last night, Lady Adela." . Meanwhile, Rachel knew that she had nothing to say to him. Out there in tho sunlight she might, perhaps, have maintained that relationship that had been begun between them the night before, but in here, with Aunt Adela and Uncle Richard so consciously an audience, with the air so dim and tho walls so grey, Roddy Seddon teemed the most strident of strangers. She sat, silently, whilst he talked to Aunt Adela. " I've never had so toppin' a dance as last night — 'pon my soul, no. Young .MilLavcn, whom I tumbled on at Brooks's at lunch- eon, said the same. Band first-rate, and floor spiffin'." " I'm glad you liked it, Roddy," said Lady Adela, with a dry little smile. " I must confess to being glad that it's over." Roddy glanced a little shyly at Rachel. " I suppose you're goin' hard at it now, Miss Beaminster ? " Sho looked across tho tea-tablo at him. " There's Lady Grodo's and Lady Massiter's, and Lady Carloes is giving ono for her niece " *' Tho Massiter thing ought to be a good one. Always do 82 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE it well," said Roddy. " 'Poii my word, on a day like thia it makes one hot to think of dancing." He was perplexed, ne had instantly perceived that he had hero a Rachel Beaminstcr very different from last night's heroine. She was now beyond all contemplated intimacy. He had heard others speak of that aloofness that camo like a •loud about her. He now saw it for himself. After a time he came across to her whilst Lady Adcla and her brother talked as though the world consisted of ono Bea- minster railed round by high palings over which a host of foolish people were trying to climb. Ho stood beside her smiling in that slightly embarrassed manner of his, a manner that caused those who did not know him to say that they liked Roddy Soddon because he was so modest. " Such a day it seems a shame to bo in town." " Yes — isn't it lovely ? " " The opera's pretty hot in the evenin' just now. Have you been yet ? " " I've been in Munich often. I've never been here." " My word ! Haven't you really ? Wish I could say the same. I'm always bein' dragged " " Why do you go if you don't care about it ? " " Can't think — always askin' myself. Why do half the Johnnies go ? And yet in a way I like some sor,ts-o* music." "What kind of music?" " " Sittin' in the dark, in a room, with someone just strokin' the piano up and down - — just strokin' it — not hammerin' it. I don't care what the old tune is " Rachel laughed a little, but said nothing. Of course, she thought him the most thundering kind of fool, and this made him eager to display to her his wisdom and common sense. But he could say nothing. There followed the most awk- ward silence. She did not try to help him, but sat there quietly looking in front of her. . ----- Suddenly she said: " Uncle Richard, I want to see your FANS 83 fans again. I haven't seen them for a long time. I know you' vo added some lately. Sir Koderick, Lave you ever seen my uncle's fans ? " " No," he said. " I'd bo delighted " Lord Richard's eyes lifted. The linos of his mouth grew softer. Rachel watched him. "Now he'll pretend," she said, " that he doesn't care. He'll pretend that they're nothing to him at all." lie went, in bis solemn guarded manner, to a place in the room where a largo cabinet was let into the wall. He drew this cabinet forward, and then, out of it, moving his hands almost pontifically, he pulled trays, and on theso trays lay tho fans. Tlio others had gathered around him. There were nearly fivo hundred fans — fans Dutch and Italian and French and Chinese and Japanese; fans of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, of the eighteenth and of tho Empire — modern Japanese heavy with iron spokes, others light as gossamer, with spokes of ivory or tortoise shell. There were French fans, painted only on ono side, with pictures of fantastic shepherds and shepherdesses; there were Chinese fans with bridges and mandarins and towers; Empire fans perforated with tinsel and such lovely shades of colour that they seemed to change as ono gazed. There they all lay in that rich solemn room, quietly, proudly conscious of their beauty, needing no word of praise, catching all tho colour and the daintiness and fragrance that had ever been in the world. Rachel drank in their splendour and then looked about her. Uncle Richard's eyes were flaming and his hands trembling against tho case. Then she looked at Roddy Seddon. His head was flung back ; with eyes and mouth, with every vein and fibre of hi9 body he was drinking in their glory. His eyes were suddenly caught away. Ho was staring at 84 THE DUCHESS OP WEEXE her before she looked away — Her eyes said to him, " Why! Do you care like that t Do those things mean that to you ? " She smiled across at him. They wore in communion again as they had been last night. He was surprised that he should be so glad. CHAPTER VII IN THE HEART OF THE HOUSB "Our interest*! on the dangerous edge 'of thing* The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superstitious atheist, demirep, That loves and saves her soul in new French books — We watch while these in equilibrium keep The giddy line midway: one step aside, They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line — ** Bishop Blougram's Apology. THE Duchess could but dimly guess at the splendour of that fine May afternoon. It had been her complaint lately that she was always cold and now the blinds and curtains were closely drawn and a huge fire was blazing. Her chair was close to the flame: she sat there looking, in the fierce light, small and shrivelled; sho was reading intently and made no movement except now and again when she turned a page. Dorchester was the only other person there and she sat a little in the shadow, busily sewing. From where she sat she could see her mistress's face, and behind her carved chair there were the blue china dragons and the deep heavy red curtains and a black oak table covered with little golden trays and glass jar3 and silver boxes. Neither heat nor cold nor youth nor age had any effect upon Dorchester. No one knew how old she was, nor how long she had been with her mistress, nor her opinions or sentiments concerning anything in the world. She was tall and gaunt and snapped her words as she might snap a piece of. thread. From Mr9. Newton and Norris downwards the servants were afraid of her. She made a confidant of no one, was supposed to have no emotions of any kind, absurd and fan- 85 86 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE tastio stories were told of her ; she was certainly not popular in the servants' hall and yet at a word from her anything that she requested was done. With Miss Rand only was it understood that she had a certain friendly relationship ; it was said that she liked Miss Rand. Dorchester had witnessed the whole of the Duchess's career. As she sat now in the shadow every now and again she looked up and glanced at that sharp white face and those thin hands. What a little body it was to have done so much, to have battled its way through such a career, to have fought and to have won so many conflicts 1 It seemed to Dorchester only yesterday that splendid time, when the Duchess had been queen of London. Dorchester also had been young then and had had an energy as enduring, a will as finely tempered as had her mistress. What a character it had been then with its furies and its disciplines, its indulgences and its amazing restrictions, its sympathies and cold clodded cruelties, its tremendous sense of the dramatic moment so that again and again a position that had been nearly surrendered was hold and saved. She had never been beautiful, always little and sharp and some- times even wizened. But she gained her effects one way or another and beat beautiful and wise and wonderful women off the field. And then sweeping down upon her had come disease. At first it had been fought and magnificently fought. But it was the horror of its unexpected ravages that had been so difficult to combat. She had never known when the pain would be upon her — it might seize her at any public moment and her retreat bo compelled before the wholo world. There had been doctors and doctors and doctors, and then opera- tion after operation, but no one had dono any good until Dr. Christopher had come to her, and now, for years, he had been keeping her alive. Out of that very necessity of disease, however, had she IN THE HEART OF THE HOUSE 87 dragged her drama. She had retired from the world, not as an old woman beaten by pain, but as a priestess might with- draw within her sanctuary or some great queen demand her privacy. And it had its effect. Very, very carefully were chosen to see her only those who might convey to the world the right impression. The world was given to understand that the Duchess was now more wonderful than she had ever been, and it was so long since the world at large had seen her that every sort of story was abroad. Certain old ladies like Lady Carloes who played bridge with her gained most of their public importance from their in- timacy with her. It was rumoured that at any moment she might return and take her place again in the world, old though she was. All this was known to Dorchester and she smiled grimly as she thought of it. The real Duchess ! Perhaps she and Dr. Christopher alone in all the world knew the intricacies, the inconsistencies of that amazing figure. From the moment that illness had come every peculiarity had grown. Her self- indulgences, her temper, her pride, her egotism — now knew, in private, no restraint. And yet when her friends were there or anyone at all from the outside world she displayed the old dignity, the old grand air, the old imperious quiet that be- longed to no one else alive. But what, during these last years, Lady Adela had suffered! Dorchester herself had had many moments when it had seemed that she had more to control than her strength could maintain, but long custom, an entire absence of the nervous system, and a comforting sense that she was, after all, paid well for her trouble, sustained her endurance. But Lady Adela had nothing. The Duchess had always hated her children, but had used them, magnificently, for her purposes. They had all been fools, but they wcro just the kind of fools that the Beaminster tradition demanded. 88 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE Lady Adela had from the first been more of a fool than the others. She had never had the gift of words and before her mother was, as a rule, speechless, and it had been only by her changing colour that an onlooker could have told that her mother's furies moved her. Often Dorchester had attempted interference, but had found at last that it was better to allow tho fury to spend its force. Then also Dorchester had noticed a curious thing. The Duke, Lord Richard, Lord John, Lady Adela were proud of these prides and tempers. They were proud of everything that their mother did ; they might suffer, their backs might wince under the blows, but it was part of tho tradition that their mother should thus behave. Dorchester fancied that sometimes there was fla&bcd upon them a sudden suspicion that their mother was in these days only an old, ailing, broken woman — no great figuro now, no magnificent tyrant, no. mysterious queen of society. And then Dorchester fancied that she had noticed that when such a suspicion had come upon them they had put it hastily aside and locked it up and abused themselves for such base- -ness. Curious people, these Beaminsters ! Well, it was no business of hers. And, perhaps, after all she had herself some touch of that fooling, some fierce im- patient pride in those very tempests and rebellion. After all, was there anyone in tho world like this mistress of hers ? Was there another woman who would bear so bravely the pain that she bore ? And was not that fierce clutch on life, that energy with which she tried still to play her part in tho great game, grand in its own fashion ? Would not Dorchester also fight when her time came ? She looked across the firelight at her mistress. When would arrive the inevitable moment of surrender? How im- minent that moment when in the eyes of all thoso about her the old woman would see that all that was now hera was a (juiet abandonment to death ! IN THE HEAKT OF THE HOUSE 8D Well, there would be some fine, savage struggling when that crisis struck into their midst. Dorchester smiled grimly, and then, in spite of herself, sighed a little. They were all growing old together. n At five o'clock came Dr. Christopher, and Dorchester moved into the other room and left the two together. With his largo limbs and cheerful smile be made the Duchess seem slighter and more fragile than ever, and she herself felt always with his coming some addition of warmth and strength ; each visit, so she might have expressed it, gave her life for at least another tiny span. That be, knowing so much of the follies and catastrophes of life, should yet be an optimist, would have proved him in her opinion a fool had she not known, by constant proof, that he was anything but that. " Well, one day he will discover his mistake," she would say, and yet, perversely, would cling to him for tho sake of this vory illusion. He helped her courage, ho helped her battle with her pain, he gave her, sometimes, some shadowy sense of shame for her passions and rebellions, but, more than all this, he yielded her a reassurance that life, precious, adorable, wonderful life, was yet for a little time to bo hers. He knew well enough the influence that he possessed, and when, as on this afternoon, ho felt it his duty to avail himself of it, he could not pretend that ho faced his task with any exultation. That ho should rouso her fury, as ho had one or twice already roused it, meant humiliation for him as well as for herself, and afterwards embarrassment for them both as they saw those scenes in retrospect. She glanced up at him carefully as he came in and knew him well enougt to realize that there was something that he must say to her. There had been other such occasions, she remembered them all. Sometimes she herself had been the 00 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE subject of them, something that was injuring hor health, some indulgence that he cguld not allow her. Sometimes tho battlo had been about others ; she had fought him and on occasions it had seemed that their relationship was broken onco and for all, that nothing could cover the words that had been spoken i — but always through everything she had admired his cour- age. The way had always been to stand up to her. For a little time they talked about her health, and then there fell a pause. She, leaning back in her chair with her thin, sharp hands on her lap, watched him grimly as ho sat on . the other side of the fireplace, leaning forward a little,' look- ing into the fire. " Well," she said at last. "What is it?" Her voice was deep, but every word was clear-cut, resonant. " There is something — two things," ho answered her slowly. " You can dismiss me for an interfering old fool, you know. You often have been tempted to do it before, I dare sav " " I have," she said. " Go on." But as she spoke she drew her hands a little more closely together. She was not quite so ready for these battles as she had once been. She was afraid a little now. A new sensa- tion for her; she hated that restricting awkwardness that would remain between them for days afterwards. She looked at his red, cheerful face and wondered im- patiently why he must always be meddling in other people's affairs. She hated Quixotes. " Your Grace," ho began again, " has only got to stop mo and I'll say no more." "Oh yes, you will," she said impatiently. " I know you,. Say what you please." " I want to speak about Francis Breton " He paused, but she said nothing, only for an instant her whole face flashed into stone. The firelight seemed for an instant to hold it there, then, as the flame fell, she was onco again indifferent. IN THE HEAET OF THE HOUSE 91 Christopher had grasped his courage now. He went on gravely : " I must speak about him. I know how unpleasant the whole subject is to you. We've had our discussions before and I've fought his battles with all the world more times than I can count. You must remember that I've known Frank all his life — I know his unhappy father. I've known them both long enough to realize that the boy's been heavily handicapped from the beginning = — — " "Must you," she said, looking him now full in the face, II must it bo this ? Have we not thrashed it out thoroughly enough already ? I don't change, you know." Ho understood that she was appealing to his regard for their own especial relationship. But there was a note of con- trol in her voice ; ho know that now she would listen : " I've cared for Frank during a number of years. I know he's weak, impulsive, incredibly foolish. He's always been his own worst enemy. I know that the other day he wrote a most foolish letter " " It was a letter beyond forgiveness," she said, her voice trembling. " Yes, I would give anything to have prevented it. I know that when he was in England before I pleaded for him, as I am doing now, and that by a thousand foolhardy actions he negatived anything that I could say for him. " I'm urging no defence for tho things that ho did, the shady, disreputable things. But he has come back now, I do verily believe, ready, even eager, to turn over a new leaf. I — — " Slio interrupted him, smiling. "Yes. That letter—" "~Oh, I know. But isn't it a very proof of what I say — would anyone but a foolhardy boy have done such a thing? Sheer bravado, hoping behind it all to be taken back to the fold — eager, at any rate, not to show a poor spirit, coward- ice." " Over thirty now — old for a boy " 92 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE " In years, yes. But younger, oh ! age9 younger than that in 'spirit, in knowledge of the world, in everything that mat- ters — I know," he went on more slowly, smiling a little, " that you've called me sentimentalist times without number — but really hero I'm not urging you to anything from scnti» mental reasons. I'm not asking you to take him back and kill the fatted calf for him. " I'm asking nothing absurd — only that you, his relations, all that he has of kith and kin, should not bo his enemies, should not drive him to desperation — and worse." " If you imagine," she said steadily, " that his fate is of tho smallest concern to mo you know mo very little. I care nothing of what becomes of him. Ho and I have been enemies for many years now and a few words from you cannot change that" " I'm only asking you," he replied, " to give him a chance. See what you can make of him, instead of sending him into the other camp — uso him even if you cannot care for him. There's fine stuff there in spite of his follies. The day might come, oven now, when you will own yourself proud of him—" But she had caught him up, leaning forward a little, her voice now of a sharper turn. " Tho other camp ? What other camp ? " He caught the note of danger. " I only mean," he said, choosing now his words with tho greatest care, " that if you turn Frank definitely, once and for all, from your doors, thero may be others ready to receive him " " His men and his women," she broke in scornfully ; " don't I know them ? I've not lived these years without knowing the raffish tenth-rate lot that failures like Frank Breton affect " " No — there are others," Christopher said firmly, " Mrs. Bronson, f° r instance " At that name she broke in. " Yes — exactly. Mrs. Bronson. Oh ! I know the kind of IN THE HEART OF THE HOUSE 93 crowd that Mrs. Bronson and her like can gather. They are welcome to Francis and he to them." — She paused. He saw that she was controlling herself with a great effort. For a little while there was silence and then she went on, more quietly: " There, now you have it. That is why there can never be any truce between Francis and myself. It is more than Francis — it is all the things that he stands for, all the things that will soon make England a rubbish heap for every dirty foreigner to dump his filth on to. Hate him? Why, I'll fight him and all that he stands for so long as there's breath in my body " " But Frank is with you," Christopher urged eagerly, " if you'll let him bo. He's only in need of your hand and back he'll come. Ho's waiting there now — longing, in spite of his defiance, for a word. Give him it and in the end I know as surely as I sit here that he'll bo worth your while " " What can ho do for me ? " "Ah! He'll show you. After all, he is one of the family; he's miserable there in his exile. Ho's got your own spirit — he'd die rather than own to defeat — but he'll repay you if you havo him." He saw then, as she turned towards him, that he had done no good. " Listen," she said, " I've heard you fairly. Let us leave this now, once and for all. I tell you finally no word that God Almighty could speak on this business could change me one atom. Francis Breton and I are foes for all time. I hate not only himself and the miserable mess that he's made of his life, I hate all this new generation that he stands for. " I hate those new opinions, I hate this indulgence now towards everything that any fool in the country may choose to think or say. In my day we knew how to use the fools. Took advantage of their muddle, ran the world on it. I loathe this tendency to make everyone as intelligent as they 94 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE can be ! Why ! in God's name ! Give me two intelligent men and a dozen fools and you'll get something done. Take a ■wastrel like Frank and turn him out. Take muddlers like my family and keep 'em muddled. Richard ran the country well enough for a time or two, and he's been a muddler from his childhood. " All this cry to educate the people, to be kind to thieves and murderers ! to help the fools — my God ! If I still had my say — Whilst there's breath in me I'll fight the lot of them." She leant back in her chair, waited for breath, and then went on more mildly : " You may like all this noise and clamour, Doctor. You may like your Mrs. Bronson and the rest — common, vulgar, brainless — ruling the world. Every decent law that hold society together is being broken and nobody cares. " Frank Breton may find his plaee in this- new world. Ho has no place in mine." Then she added : ." So much for that — what's the other thing?" But he hesitated. Her voice was tired, even tremulous, and he was aware as he looked across at her that her emotions now treated her more severely than they had once done. At the same time he was aware that giving fres play to her temper always did her good. " Well — perhaps — another day " " Xo — now. I may as well take my.scoldings together — • it saves time ! " Ho stood up and, leaning on the mantelpiece with one arm, looked down upon her. " Here," he said, '' I'm afraid I may seem doubly imperti- nent, but it's a matter that is closer to me than anything in the world. You know that I'm a lonely old bachelor and that all those sentiments that you accuse me of must' find some vent somewhere. I'm fonder of Rachel, I think, than I am of anyone in the world, and it's only that affection and the IN THE HEART OF THE HOUSE 95 feeling that, in some ways, I know her better than any of you do that give me courage to speak." He could see that now she was reaching the limits of her patience. " Well — what of Rachel ? " " I understand — I know — that you — that all of you intend that she shall marry young Seddon — : — " "Well?" " I know that it is impertinent of roe, hut, a9 I have said, I think I know Rachel differently from anyone else in the world. She is strange — curiously ignorant of life in many ways, curiously wise in others. Her simplicity — the things that she takes on trust — there is no end to it. The things, too, that she cannot forgive — she doesn't know how often, later on, she will have to forgive them — " But the first man who breaks her trust " " Thank you for this interesting light on Rachel's char- acter. What does it mean ? " " It means," he said abruptly, " that she mustn't be hurt Your Grace may turn me out of the house here and now if you will, but Seddon is the wrong man for her to marry " " What are his crimes \ " Her voice was rising, and her hand tapped impatiently on her dress. " I know him only slightly, but common repute — anyone who is in the London world at all will tell you — his reputa- tion is bad. I've nothing against him myself, but his affairs with women have been many. He is no worse, I dare say, than a thousand others. At least he's young — and I myself, God knows, am no moralist. But to marry him to Rachel will be a crime." He knew as he heard his own voice drop that the scene that ho dreaded was upon him. The air was charged with it. In tho strangest way_everything in the room seemed to be changed because of it. The furniture, the dragons, the tables, the very trifles of gold and silver, seemed to withdraw, leav- ing the air weighted with passion. 9o THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE She was trembling from head to foot. Her voice was very low. "You've gone too far. What business is this of yours? How dare you come to me with these tales ? How dare you ? You've taken too much on your shoulders. See to your own house, Doctor " He stepped back from the fireplace. " Please — to-morrow " "No. Here and now." Her words flashed at. him. " You've begun to think yourself indispensable. Because I've shown you that I rely upon you — Because, at times, ' I've seemed to need your aid — therefore you've interfered in matters that are no concern of yours." "They are concerns of mine," he answered firmly, " in so far as this affair is connected with my friend." " Your friend and my granddaughter," she retorted. " But it is not only that. I will return you your own words. You say that your friend is in danger — what of mine? You have dared to attack someone who is more to me than you and all the rest of the world put together. Some- one whom I care for as I have never cared for my own sons. It was bold of you, Dr. Christopher, and I shall not forget it" He took it without flinching. *' Very well," he said. " But my word to the end is the same. If you marry Seddon to your granddaughter you do your own sense of justice wrong." At that the last vestige of restraint left her. Leaning forward in her chair she poured her words upon him in a torrent of anger. Her voice was not raised, but her words -out the air, and now and again she raised her hands in a move- ment of furious protest. She spared him nothing, dragged forward old incidents, old passages between them that ho had thought long ago for- gotten, reminded him of occasions when he had been mistaken or over-certain, accused him of crimes that would have caused IN THE HEAET OF THE HOUSE 97 him to leave the country had there been a vestige of truth in her words; at last, beaten for breath, gasped out: "Sir Roderick Seddon shall know of what you accuse him. He shall deal with you " " I have nothing," Christopher answered gravely, " against Seddon — nothing except that he should not marry Eachel! " " You have attacked him 1 " she gasped out. " He — shall — answer." But her rage had exhausted her. She lay back against her chair, heaving, clutching at the arms for support. He summoned Dorchester, but when he approached the Duchess feebly motioned him away. " I've — done — with you — never again," she murmured. She seemed then most desperately old. Her dress was in disorder, her face wizened with deep lines beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. Christopher waited while Dorchester helped her mistress into the farther room. For some time there was silence. The room was stifling, and, impatiently, he pulled back the heavy red curtains. He sat, waiting, eyeing the stupid dragons, every now and again glancing at his watch. Even now the room seemed to vibrate with her voice, and he could imagine that the French novel, fallen from her lap on to the carpet, winked at him as much as to say : " Oh, we're up to her tempers, aren't we ? We know what they're worth. We don't care ! " At last Dorchester appeared. " Her Grace is in bed and will see you, sir," she said. Her face was grave and without expression. After another glance at his watch he passed into the bedroom. CHAPTER VIII THE TIGER - " For every Manne there lurketh bys Wildo Beast." Kabul's Aquinas (1612), BRUIT, meeting Christopher one day, had asked him to tea in his flat, and then, remembering his interest in the Beaininster history, invited him to bring Breton with him. " I haven't seen him for years. I'd like to see him again." Christopher had accepted this invitation, and now on a sultry afternoon in June found himself sitting in Brun's rooms. Brun's sitting-room had a glazed and mathematical appearance as though, from cushions to ceiling, it had been purchased at a handsome price from a handsome warehouse. It was not comfortable, it was very hot. . . . The narrow street squeezed between Portland Square and Great Portland Street lay oh its back, tho little windows of its mean houses gasping like mouths for air, tho hard sun pouring pitilessly down. No weather nor atmosphere ever affected Brun. His clothes as well as his body had that definito appearance of something outside change or disorder. Ho might have been, one would allow, something else at earlier stages before this final result had been achieved (as a painting is presonted to tho observer before its completion), but surely now nothing would ever bo done to him again. Surveying him, ho ap- peared less a man with a history, origins, destinies about hira than an opinion or a criticism. He was designed exactly by Nature for cynical observation, and was intended to play no other part in life. " Well, Christopher ? " said Brun. " Hot, isn't it? " " My word — yes,,- Breton's coming along presently." 98 THE TIGER 99 " Good. I've asked Arkwright the explorer. Nice fel- low." They sat in silence for a little. Then Brim said: " Interested in writers, Christopher ? " " Not very much. Why?" " Just been lunching with a young novelist, Westcott. What he said interested me. Of course, he's very young, got no humour, takes himself dreadfully seriously, but he asked my advice — and it is as a sign of the times over here that I mention it." " Go ahead." " He tells me that a number of young novelists are going t« band themselves into a kind of Artists' Young Liberty move- ment — artists, poets, novelists, some thirty altogether — go- ing to have a magazine, do all kinds of things. Some of tht older men will scoff. At the same time " " Well? " said Christopher. " They'd asked him to join. He wanted my opinion." " What did you say ? " " He interested me — he was a kind of test case. It would mean that, commercially, from the popular point of view, it would put him back for years. Those young men will all bo put down as conceited cranks. They will tilt at the success- ' ful popular men like Lawson and the others, will worship at the feet of the unsuccessful ' Great ' men like Lester and Cotton. The papers will hate 'em, the public will be indiffer- ent. The result will bo that, in the end, they may do a big thing — at any rate they'll have done a fine tiling, but they'll all die on the way, I expect." Brun spoke with enthusiasm unusual for him. " How was this a test of Westcott ? " asked Christopher. " Well — would ho go or no ? He's at the kind of parting of the ways. I believe success is coming to him, if ho wants it ; but he'll have to build another wall in front of his Tiger either before* the success or after. If he joins this crowd of men, there'll be no walls for him ever again." Christopher knew that when Brun had some idea that be 100 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE was pleasantly pursuing and had secured an audience nothing would stay or hinder him. He pushed a chair towards him. " What do you mean by your Tiger ? " he asked. " My Tiger is what every man has within him — I don't mean, you know, a nasty habit or a degrading- passion or anything of necessity vicious — only my theory is that every man is given at the outset of life a Beast in the finest, noblest sense witli whom through life he has got to settle. It may be an Ambition, or a Passion, or a Temptation, or a Virtue, what you will, but with that Beast he's got to live. Now it's according to his dealings with the Beast that the man's great or no. If ho faces the Beast — and the Beast is generally something that a man knows about himself that nobody else knows — the Beast can bo used, magnificently used. If he's afraid, pretends the Tiger isn't thero, builds up walls, hides in cities, does what you will, then he must bo prepared for a life of incessant alarm, and he may bo sure that at some moment or another the Tiger will make his spring — then there'll bo a crisis ! " Over here in England you're hiding your Tigers all the time. That's why you're muddled — about Art, Literature, Government, everything that matters — and an old woman like the Duchess of Wrexo — sharp enough herself, mind you — uses all of you. " No Beaminster has ever faced his or her Tiger yet, and they're down, like knives, on everyone who does and every- thing that shows the Tiger's bright eyes " But I sec — oh, Lord ! I see — a time coming, yes, here in England, when the Individual, the great man, is coming through, when the Duchess will bo dead and the Beaminster driven from power and every man with his Tiger there in front of him, faced and trained, will have his chance — " More brain, more courage, no muddlo — God help the day!" 44 You see things moving — everywhere t " THE TIGER 101 " Everywhere. These fellows, Randal and the rest, are bringing their Tigers with 'em. They're going to put them there for all the world to see. It's only another party out against the Duchess, she wants all the Tigers hidden — only herself to know about them — then she can do her work. She'll hate these fellows until they've made their stand and then she'll try to adopt them in order to muzzle them the better in the end. " If Westcott hides his Tiger, forgets he's there, his way's plain enough. He'll make money, the Duchess will ask him to tea. Let him join theso fellows and his Tiger may tear all his present self to pieces." " What about yourself, Brun ? " " Oh, I'm nothing ! I'm the one great exception. No Tiger thinks me worth while. I merely observe, I don't feel — and you have to feel to keep your Tiger alive." Brun's little lecture was over. He suddenly drew his body together, clapped his mental hands to dismiss the whole thing and was drawing Westcott to the door. "But I talk — how I talk! You bear with me, Christo- pher, because I must go on, you know. It means nothing — absolutely nothing. But they will have arrived now, so down we go. I go on in my sleep, exactly the same. And now tea — and I will talk less becauso Breton talks a great deal and so does Arkwright, and so do you. . . ." ii Arkwright came, and after a little, Breton. But the meet- ing was not a success. Arkwright had heard a good deal about Breton's reputation, and although, on the whole, he was tolerant of any backsliding in women, ho made what he called his liking for " clean men " an excuse for much narrow- mindedness. It is quite a' mistake to suppose that living in solitude and danger makes a human being tolerant. It has the precisely Dpposito effect. Arkwright was more frightened of a man 102 THE DUOHESS OF WREXE •who was not " quite right with society " than of any number of enraged natives. With natives one knew where one was. Whereas with a man like this ... Breton, anxious to please, made the mistake of showing hia anxiety. Seeing an enemy round every corner he was a little theatrical, too demonstrative, too foreign. Arkwright dis- liked his heard and the movement of his hands. " Ho wouldn't have come, had ho known. . ; ." Breton had, of course, at once perceived this man's hostil- ity. Returning to England had involved, as he had known that it must, a life of battles, skirmishes, retreats, wounds, and every kind of hostility. People did not forget and even had they desired to do so, his relationship family history pro- vented Breton's oblivion. He was ready for discourtesy, however eager he may have been for friendship. But what the Devil, he thought, is this fellow doing here at all ? If Bran brought him in he must have told him just whom he was to meet, and if ho camo with that knowledge about him, why then should he not behave like a gentleman ? Breton's half timid advance towards friendliness now yielded to curt hostility. Brun maintained his silence and only watched the two men with an amusement just concealed. Conversation at last ceased and the heat beat, in waves, through tho open windows and tho air seemed now to bo stiffened into bronze. Beyond the room all the city lay waiting for tho cool of tho evening. Christopher liked Arkwright and Arkwright liked Christo- pher. Christopher had read one of Arkwright's books and spoke of it with praise and also intelligence, and nothing goes to an author's heart like intelligent appreciation from an unbiassed critic. But Breton was not to bo won over. Ho sat deep in his chair and replied in sulky monosyllables whenever he was addressed. THE TIGER 103 Christopher soon gave him up and the three men talked amongst themselves. The heat of the afternoon passed and a little breeze danced into the room, and the hard brightness of the sky changed to a pale primrose that had still some echo of the blue in its faint colour. The city had uttered no sound through the heat of the day, but now voices came up to the windows: the distant crying of papers, tho call of some man with flowers, then the bells of the Round Church began to ring for evensong. Breton sat there, wrapped in sulky discontent. In his heart he was wretched. Christopher had deserted him ; these men would have nothing to do with him. As was his nature everything about him was exaggerated. He had come to Brim's rooms that afternoon, feeling that men had taken him back to their citizenship again. Now he was more urgently assured of his ostracism than before. Who were these men to give themselves theso airs ? Because he had made one slip were they to constitute themselves his judges t These Bea- minster virtues again — the trail of his family at every step, that same damnable hypocrisy, that same priggish assumption of tho right to judgo. Better to die in the society of those friends of his who had suffered as he had done, from the judg- ment of tho world — no scorn of sinners there, no failure in all Benso of true proportion. Christopher got up to go. He gave Arkwright his card. " Come in and dine one night and tell me all you're do- ing- " Of course I'll come," Arkwright said. " Only you're much too busy " " Indeed no," Baid Christopher. " One day next week you'll hear from me -" Breton got up. " I'll come with you," he said to Christo- pher. The two men went away together. 104 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE When they were gone Arkwright said to Brun, " Now that's the kind of man I like " "Yes," said Brun, laughing. "Better than the other fellow, eh t " Arkwright smiled. " More my sort, I must confess." in Christopher and Breton- did not speak until they reached Oxford Circus. Here everything, flower-women, omnibuses, grey buildings, grimy men and women — was drowned in purple shadow. It might be only a moment's beauty, but now beneath the evening star, frosted silver and alone in a blue heaven, sound advanced and receded with the quiet rhythm of water over sand. For an instant a black figure of an om- nibus stood against tho blue and held all the swell, the glow, the stir at a fixed point — then life was once more distrib- uted. Here, as they turned down Oxford Street Christopher broke silence. He put his arm through Breton's : " Well, Frank ? Sulks not over.yet ? " Breton broke away. " It's all very well, but I suppose I'm to pretend that I like being insulted by any kind of fool who happens to turn up. Good God, Chris, you'd think I was a child by the way you talk to me." "And so you are a child," said Christopher impatiently, "and a thankless child too. Sometimes I wonder why I keep on bothering with you." Christopher was, like other Scotchmen, a curious mixture of amiability and irascibility ; his temper came from his pride and Breton had learnt, many years ago, to fear it. In fact, of all tho things in life that ho disliked doing, quarrelling with Christopher was the most disagreeable. Then there were stubbornness and tenacity that were hard indeed to deal with. But to-day he was reckless ; the heat of the afternoon and now the beauty of the evening had both, in their different ways, contributed to his ill-temper. He knew, even now, that after* THE TIGER 105 wards he would regret every word that he tittered, but he let his temper go. " I wonder that you do bother," he said. " Let me alone and let me find my own way." " Don't be a fool," Christopher answered. " There's noth- ing in the world for us to quarrel about, only I can't bear to sco you giving such a wrong impression of yourself to strangers — sulking there as though you were five years old—" " All very well," retorted Breton ; " you didn't hear the way that fellow insulted me. I'll wring his neck if I meet hira again. I'll " " Now, enough of that ! " Christopher's voice was stern. " You know quite well, Frank, that you're hardly in a posi- tion to wring anyone's neck. You remember the account I gave you of my little dispute with your grandmother " " Thank you," said Breton fiercely. " You remind me rather frequently of the kind things you do for me." And nil the time something in him was whispering to him, " ]\liat a fool you are to talk like this! " Christopher's voice now was cold : " That's hardly fair of you. I'm turning up here " They paused. Breton looked away from him up into the quiet blue recesses of the side street. Christopher went on : "I only mean that if I were you I should drop hanging on to the skirts of a family who don't want you. I should set about and get some work to do, cut all those rotten people you go about with, and behave decently to strangers when you meet them. That's all. Good night." And Christopher was gone. Breton stood there, for a moment, with the tide of his misery full upon him. Then he turned down Oxford Street and drove his way through the crowds of people who were coming up towards the Circus. He was alone, utterly alone in all the world. Everyone else had a home to go to, he alone had nowhere. 106 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE Only a few weeks ago he had come back to England, with money enough to keep him alive and a fine burning passion of revenge. That family of his should lament the day of his birth, that old woman should be down on her knees, begging his mercy. Now how cold and wasted was that revenge! What a fool was ho wincing at the ill-manners of a stranger, quarrelling with the best friend man ever had. How evilly could Life desert a man and kill him with lone- liness. And then his mood changed; if .Christopher and the rest intended to cast him off, let them. There were his old friends — men and women who had been ostracized by the world a9 he had been — they would know how to treat him. He turned into the silence and peaco of Saxton Square and there met Miss Rand, who was also walking home. The statue was wrapped in blue mist, the trees were fading into grey and the evening star seemed to have taken Saxton Square under its especial protection. " Good evening, Miss Rand." " Good evening, Mr. Breton." " Isn't it a lovely evening ? " " Yes. But hasn't it been hot ? " Miss Rand did not look as though she could ever, under any possible circumstances, be hot, so neat and cool was she, but she said yes it had been. " Isn't it odd the way that as soon as it's fine people begin to complain just as they do when it's wet? " " It gives them something to talk about — just as it's giving us something now," said Miss Rand, laughing. Breton looked at her and liked her. She seemed so strong and wise and safe. She would surely always give one the kind of sensible encouragement that one needed. She would be a good person in whom to confide. They were on the top doorstep now. *' No. I've got a key." He let her pass him* They stood for a moment in the hall together. THE TIGER 10T He spoke, as he always did, on the instant's inspiration: "Miss Rand?" "Yes." " I'm alone such a lot — in my evenings I mean. I wonder — might I come down sometimes and just talk a little ? You don't know how had thinking too much is for me, and if I might " " Why, of course, Mr. Breton — whenever you like." Seeing her now, he thought, just now, with her sudden colour Bhe looked quite pretty. " I expect you could advise me — help me in lots of ways " " If there's anything mother or I can do, Mr. Breton, you'veonly got to ask — Good night " The door closed behind her. He went up to his room, a less miserable man. CHAPTER IX THE GOLDEN CAGE "She give* away because Bhe overflows. She has her own feelings, her own standards; she doesn't keep remembering that she must b« proud." — The Lesson of the Master. THOSE weeks were, to Rachel, a golden time. She did not pretend to deny or examine their golden quality — they were far, far hetter than she had imagined anything could ever he, and that was enough. She had never, very definitely, imagined to herself this " coming oui," hut it had been, at any rate, behind its possible glories, a period of terror. "All those people" was the way that, with fright* ened eyes, she had contemplated it. And now the kindness that there had been X All the Lon< don world had surely nothing to do but to pay her compli* jnents, to surround her with courtesies, to flatter her every wish. Even Aunt Adela had under the general enthusiasm, blossomed a littlo into good-will, even Uncle Richard had re- membered to wish her well, even the Duko had cracked ap> plauso, and as for Uncle John ! ... ho was like an amiable conjurer whose best (and also most difficult) trick had achieved an absolute triumph. And behind all this there was more. May, Juno and the early part of July showered such weather upon London as had surely never been showered before, and these brilliant days dressed, for Rachel, her brilliant success in cloth of gold and emblazoned robes. She felt the presenco of London for the first time, as the hot weather came beating up the streets and the brilliant whites and blues and greens and reds flung back to the burning blue their contrast and splendour. She felt, for the first time, her own especial London, and .108 THE GOLDEN CAGE 109 now the grey cool cluster of buildings at one end of blazing Portland Place and the dark green of the hovering park at the other end had a new meaning for her, as though she had only just come to live here and was seeing it all for the first time. In the streets that hung about Portland Place she noticed little shops — little bakers and little shoemakers and little tailors and little sweetshops — and they were all furtive and dark and shabby. < And these little shops led to the growth in her mind of an especial picture of her square of London life, Portland Place white and shining in the middle, with the Circus like a fair at one end of it, the park like a mystery at the other end of it, and, on either side, little secret shops and little dim squares hanging about it, and Harley Street sinister and ominous by its side. Every element of Life and Death was there, the whole History of Man's Journey Through This World to the Next. Behind all the joy and overflowing happiness of these weeks this sudden setting of London about her was consciously present II Since that meeting with Miss Hand on the day before the ball Rachel had often spoken to her. They met at first by accident and then Rachel had gone to Lizzie's neat little sit- ting-room to ask for something and, after that, had looked in for fivo minutes or so, and they had talked very pleasantly about the hot weather and the theatres and the ways of the world. Bohind all the splendour there was, for Rachel, the dark shadow of suspense. Was it going to last? What was to follow it? When would those awkward uncertainties that had once kept her company return to her? Now whatever else might be doubtful about Miss Rand, one thing was cer- tain, that sho would last, would remain to the end the same clean, reliable, honest person that she was now. 110 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Imagine Lizzie Rand unreliable and alio vanishes alto* gether ! Rachel welcomed this and she also admired the won* derful manner in which Miss Rand accomplished her gigantic task. To ran a house like this one and at the end of it all to remain as composed and safe as though nothing had been done! Rachel herself might carry off a difficult situation by rid' ing desperately at it, stringing her resources to their highest pitch, but afterwards reaction would claim its penalty. The penalties were never claimed from Miss Rand. So, gradually, without any definite words or events, almost without active consciousness, they became friends. Rachel, suddenly, on one afternoon early in July, deter- mined to go and pay Lizzie Rand a visit in her house. That house in Saxton Square had acquired a new romantio interest since Rachel had learnt that the abandoned, abomin- able cousin, who defied Grandmamma and whose name one was never to mention, lived there. Rachel had considered this cousin more than once during these last months. She had resented, from the first, the fact that he was to bo given, by the family, no chance of redemption. However bad he had been (and he had apparently been very bad indeed) his opportunity should have been offered to him. His life, she knew, had been hard, he was, like herself, an orphan, and he hated, as she did, her grandmother. Of course, then, he in- terested her. She did not now say to herself that if this romantic cousin had not been staying in that house sho would not have con- templated a visit to Lizzie., The Beaminster in her had just now the upper hand, and the Beaminster simply said that Saxton .Square would be a nice place in which Uncle John, ,.who"was, this afternoon, taking her out for a drive, might leave her whilst he went to the club; later he could pick her up and take her home. The Beaminster part of her did not acknowledge the cousin. Quite casually she said to Uncle John, " I want you to THE GOLDEN CAGE 111 leave me at Miss Rand's for half an hour this afternoon — eho is helping me about some clothes." Now Uncle John had during these last ■weeks continually, congratulated himself on the disappearance of Rachel's irritable, unsettled self. Always lately one had been pre- sented with her delightful young eager self and always she had been anxious to agree with Uncle John's proposals. The world had been, going smoothly for him in other ways of late, and no one had boon disagreeable. How pleasant to keep the world in this amiable condition and how dangerous to risk anyone's displeasure ! He had moreover almost (not quite) forgotten that his rascal of a nephew was living in the same house as Miss Rand, and, even if ho did remember it, well, it was quite another part of the house, and in all probability Miss Rand had never spoken to Frank Breton, nor so much as said good day to him. Finally it was so sumptuous a day, and Rachel was clothed in so radiant a happiness and so fluttering and billowing and chuckling a dress of white and blue, and he himself was look- ing so handsome in the most shining of top-hats, the broadest of black bow ties, the most elegant of pepper-and-salt trousers and the whitest of white spats, that complaining or arguing or disputing was utterly out of the question. " Miss Rand's, my dear ? What's the address ? . . . Right you are — " so off they went. She arrived to find Miss Rand, a round chubby lady in bright pink, and a stranger having tea together. The chubby lady was Mrs. Rand and the stranger was Francis Breton. She had not expected that her arrival would cause such a dis- turbance, nor that she herself would discover the right and easy words so difficult to say. The little room seemed to be crowded with furniture and tea-things, and she, quite de- liberately, put off any consideration of her cousin until the atmosphere had been allowed, a little, to settle around them. Miss Rand looked at her almost sternly and was, plainly, at a loss. Mrs. Rand was excited, and so nervous that her 112 THE BDOHESS OF WREXE tea-cup rattled in her saucer and she stayed for quite a long time with her finger in the tea under the delusion that she was using a teaspoon. Mrs. Rand's absence of mind was generally duo to the fact 'that she read one novel a day all the year round and that her thoughts, her hopes, her despairs were always centred in the book of the day, although when to-morrow came she could not teli you the author nor the title nor any of the incidents. Had she been to a play, then, for twenty-four hours following, it was the drama that held the field. She spent her life in an amiable desire to remember, for the sake of her friends, the plays and books of the past. Eut she wa3 never successful. As she said, " The attempt to keep up with the literature and drama of the day, although praise- . worthy, demands all one's time and energy." The Beaminster family alone of all other interests in the wide world might be calculated to draw her out of the realms of the imagination, and Rachel's entrance scattered all plots to the four winds. Rachel sat down and, for a little while, Mrs. Rand held the field. She told them all that this visit of Miss Beaminster wa3 the most wonderful and unexpected thing, that it was like a novel, and that she would never forget it. " But I always do say, Miss Beaminster, that it's the unexpected that hap- pens. Life's stranger than fiction is my opinion, and I don't care who contradicts me I shall still hold it." At length Rachel had leisure to consider her cousin and then was, instantly, convinced that she had met him before. She also knew that she could not have mot him before. In the strangest way he was connected with those early dream years which, now, she struggled so sternly to forget. The snow, the bleak sky, the silence, the sleigh-bells, some strange voice speaking high in air as though from a distant summit, and all this coming to her with a poignancy that, even now, brought the tears to her heart and filled it to over- flowing. THE GOLDEN CAGE 113 As she saw his thin body, his eyes, his head and the attitude of the boy in all his movements and gestures she knew that, for her, he belonged to that earlier world. She knew it so certainly that, although he had not yet spoken, she could, be sure of the exact qualitythat his voice would have. And confused with this recognition of him was the alarm that she always felt when her early life returned to her. Also she was young enough to be pleased at the agitation into which her coming had thrown him. It meant, plainly, so much to him; although he was silent he leant forward in his chair, with his eyes fixed upon her, waiting for his oppor- tunity. Miss Rand, watching him, saw how tremendously this meet- ing with one of the family excited him, and, seeing him, her heart filled with pity. . " He's so young. It is hard. He does want someone to look after him." Rachel's happiness had, now, returned to her. She liked them all so much, it was all so cosy, it was so good of them to wish to see her." She talked with Mrs. Rand aboutlhe thettre and the opera. " We're going to the opera to-night — the Meistersinger. I've heard it in Munich twice, but never with Van Rooy, who's singing to-night. I believe that's an experience one never forgets " Mrs- Rand did not really care about opera ; everything in opera happened so slowly, except in Carmen, and even that was better simply as a play. She liked musical comedy be- cause there you could laugh, or plays like The Mikado, for instance. She was vague as to the Meistersinger and she had never heard of Van Rooy, but she said, " I agree with you, Miss Beaminster. There's nobody like him." At that Breton struck in with something about music that he had heard in strange places abroad, and then Rachel, look- ing in his face for the first time, asked him about his travels. As their eyes and voices met she was again overwhelmed 114 THE DUCHESS OE WEEXE with the vivid consciousness of their earlier meeting. She thought, u If I -were to ask him whether he remembered that same snow and silence he would say yes — I know he would say yes." Miss Rand, with eyes that were kind but very, very sharp, watched them. She noticed the eagerness of Breton and wished that ho did not seem quite so anxious to please. " But that's because he's young," she thought again. And, now that he had begun, the words poured from him. With gesticulation that was faintly foreign, ever so little dramatic, he unpacked his adventures. He spoke as though this were, beyond all time, the moment when he must make his effect. He did it well, a born teller of tales. And yet Miss Rand wished that he had not had to do it at all, that there had been . more reserve, less drama, less volubility. Mrs. Rand, an older Desdemona, listened Spellbound. This was as good as getting a circulating library without paying a subscription. As she said to her daughter after- wards : " He really was as good as those novels by what's his name — you know who I mean — those delightful stories about those foreign places — and the sea." He spoke of the first time that he had actually been con- scious of tha jungle. " Of course I'd been into it dozens of times — often and often. But there was a day — I remem- ber as though it were yesterday — when we went up in a boat — some river or another — That river was the most secret and sleepy green, and the place all closed about it as though we'd gone into a box, and they'd closed the lid. Nothing but the green river and all the forest getting closer and closer and darker and darker, all blacker than you can imagine, and worse still when it wa3 lighter — a kind of twilight — and you could see enough to make you shiver — no sound but the animals, and the branches and the great plants and brilliant flowers all creeping and crawling — Suddenly — all in a flash — I wanted a lamp-post and a public house, a wet night THE GOLDEN CAGE* shining on Btreeta, the rattle of a hansom — I was suddenly ghastly frightened, and we got deeper and deeper intc it, and human beings further and further hehind, and only the beastly monkeys and the alligators and the hideous flowers. I can feel it still " Rachel was enthralled. He called up, on every side about her, that stern life of hers. He knew and she knew — ■ they alono out of all the world. All her gaiety, her happiness, her interest of the last weeks went now for nothing beside this experience. He was not now related to the Beaminsters — to Grandmother, to Aunt Adela, to Uncle John — but to her and to that part of her that had nothing to do with the Bea- minsters at all. The room, the commonplace furniture, tbe pictures of " Lodore Falls " and " The Fighting Temeraire," the little glimpses of the square beyond the window, these things shared in the mystery. Miss Rand had seen her caught and held. " She's very young too," she said to herself a little grimly and a little tonderly also — " All too sensational to be true," she thought. " There's a little bit of unreality in him all the way through." Mrs. Rand said : " What do you think of alligators, Miss .Beaminster? Don't you agree with me that they must he most unpleasant to meet? I always dislike their sluggish ways when I see them in the Zoological Gardens." Then upon them all broke the little maid with a husky " Miss Beaminstcr's carriage, please, mem." Rachel, as she said good-bye, was aware of him again as " her scandalous cousin." He too was now awkward and embarrassed. They said good-bye hurriedly and there was between them both a consciousness that no word of the family or their relationship had been mentioned. "Well," said Mrs. Rand, when the door was closed, "n» one in the world could have been pleasanter. . . ." 116 THE DUOHESS OF WREXE in They did not arrive at the opera that night until the begin- ning of the second act. It was Lady Carloes' box and she and Uncle John and Roddy Seddon were Rachel's companions. All the way home in the carriage Rachel had been silent and Lord John, perceiving uneasily that some of the old Rachel was back again, had said very little. Her mind was confused. At one moment she felt that she did not want to see him again, that he disturbed her peace and worried her with memories that were bettor forgotten. At another moment she could have returned, then and there, to ask him questions, to know whether he felt this or that: had he ever pictured such a place ? Had he ... ? And then sharply she dismissed such thoughts. She would think of him no more — and yet he did not look a villain. How delightful to persuade the family to take him back. Why should she not help towards a reconciliation ? She was herself so happy now that she could not bear that anyone should feel outcast or lonely — they wero all very hard upon him. It was not until she heard the voices of the apprentices that thought of her cousin left her. As she groped her way in the dark box and heard Lady Carloes' stuffy whisper (she had the voice of a cracknel biscuit), "You sit there, my dear — Lord John here. That's right — I know you'd bo late because . . ." she was gloriously aware that quite close, to her the music that she loved best in all the world was trnns- forming existence. She touched Roddy's hand and thon surrendered herself. She had been to Covent Garden now on four or five occa- sions and from the first the shabby building with its old red and gold, its air of belonging to any period earlier than the- one it was just then assuming, its attitude, above all, of in- difference to its aspect — all this had attracted her and won her affection. London, she discovered, was always best when THE GOLDEN CAGE 11T it was shabbiest and one could not praise it more highly than by declaring, with perfect truth, that it was the shabbiest city in the world. Now, feeling instinctively that English ap- prentices (she had had already some taste of the Covent Gar den chorus) would act too much or too little, she closed her eyes. Now, as the music reached her, the old red and gold seemed a cage, swinging, swinging higher and ever higher with old Lady Carloes and Roddy Seddon and all the brilliant people in the stalls, and all the enthusiastic people in the gallery, swinging, swinging inside it. She could feel the lift of it, the rise and fall, and almost the clearer air about her as it rose into the stars. Then there came to her the voice for which she had surely all her days been waiting. It enwrapped her round and comforted her, consoled her for all her sorrows, reassured her for all her fears. It filled the cage and the air beyond the cage, it was of earth and of heaven, and of all things good and. beautiful in this world and the next. For the second time to-day her early years came back to her; the voice had in it all those hours when someone's tenderness had made Life worth living. " Life is immortal," it cried. " And I am immortal, for I am Love and Charity, and, whatever the wise ones may tell you, I cannot die." She felt again the space and the silence and the snow, but novr with no alarm, only utter reassurance. And the cage swung up and up and there were now only the stars and the wind around and about them. Then, in an instant of time, the cage, with a crash, was upon the ground. Across her world had cut Lady Carloes' voice — " Oh yes, and there's Lord Crewner — no, not in that row — the one behind — next that woman with the silver tiling in her hair — four from the end " And Roddy Seddon's voice — " Yes, I see him. Who's he got with him ? " Lady Carloes again : " I can't quite see — Miss Mendle 118 THE DUCHESS OP WREXE as likely as not . - . You know, old Aggie Mendle'a daugh- ter. ..." ,^ Eachel felt in that moment that mufder was" assuredly no crime. Her hands shook on her lap and ono of those pas- sions, that she had not known for many months, caught her 60 that she could have torn Lardy Carloes' hair from her head had the chairs boon happily arranged. Fortunately the interruption had been accompanied by Beckmesser's entrance: that other voice was, for tho moment, still. Then, as Sachs caught up Beckmesser's serenade, there came again: " Well, of course if you can't go that week-end I dare say she'll give you another. Only I know she's settling her dates now." " Yes, but it's a bore havin* to fix up such a long way ahead and you don't know what old stumers you mayn't be boxed up with——" Ohl It was abominable 1 She had been seeing a great deal of Roddy during these last weeks, and ever since that visit to Uncle Richard she had been conscious of an intimacy that she had certainly not resented. But any favour that he may have had with her was cer- tainly now forfeited. His voice was again superior to Beck- messer : " And so of course I said that if they would go to such ehockin' rot I wasn't goin' to waste my evenin's " She pushed her chair back against his knees : " Beg par- don, Miss Beaminster, afraid I jolted you " ■ t " Oh ! Keep quiet ! Keep quiet I " Her whisper was so urgent, so packed with irritation that instantly there was, in the box, the deepest of silences. She sat forward again, anger choking her: she could not recover any illusion. Sho hated him, hated him! The crowd came on with a whirl. Then there was that last mo- ment when the old watchman cries to the genial moon and the silvered roofs. THE GOLDEN CAGE 118 Then the curtain fell. Without a word, her face white, her hands still trembling, she rose to leave the box. She passed out into the passage and found that Roddy was by her side. " I say, Miss Bearoinster, I am most awfully sorry, most awfully. I hadn't any idea, really, that I was kickin' up that row. I could havo hit myself." She walked down the passage and he followed her. She was superb, she was indeed, with her head up, that neck, those hands, those flashing eyes. He had never seen anyone so fine. She ought always to be enraged. That instant de- cided him. She was the woman for a man to havo for his own, someone who could look like someone at the head of your table, someone with the right blood in her veins, some- one . . . " I could beat myself," he said again. " How dared you " she broke out at last They were, by good luck, alone in the passage. "How could you! What do you comerfor if you care nothing for music at all? If you can hear a voice like that and then talk about your own Billy little affairs. . . . And the selfishness of it 1 Of course you think of nobody but yourself! " " Upon my word, Miss Beaminster ! " "No, I've no patience with you. Go to your musical comedy if you like, but leave music like this for people who can appreciate it ! " Oh ! she was superb ! Entirely superb ! She ought to be like this every day of her lifel To think that he should have the chance of winning such a prize ! Nevertheless she would not speak to him again and they went back to the box. She would not speak to 'Lady Carloes nor to her uncle. Then as the loveliest music in all opera flooded the building her anger began to melt. He had looked so charmingly repentant and, after all, the Meistersinger was long for anyone who did not really care for 120 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE music — and then they all did talk. It was only in the gal- lery that one found the proper reverence. Her anger cooled and then descended upon her tho quintet, and she was once again swept, in her cago, to the stars. Now she and all live things seemed to bo opening their hearts together to God — no shame now to speak of one's deepest and most sacred thoughts. No fear now of God nor the Archangels nor all the long spaces of Immortality. The cage had ascended to the highest of all the Heavens, and there, for a moment, one might stand, worshipping, with bowed head. The quintet ceased and Rachel felt that she could never be angry with anyone again. She wished to tell him so. At last, the revels were over, tho " Prieslied " had won its praises, Sachs had been acclaimed by his world, and they were all in the lobby, waiting for carriages, talking, laughing, : hurrying to the restaurants. Her face was lighted now with happiness. She touched his arm. • " I didn't mean to be angry — like that. It was silly and rude of me. Forgive me, please " He turned, stuttering. " Forgive you ! " He took her hand — " I ought to have been shot — Yes, I'll never forgive myself. You — you " And then ho could say no more, but suddenly, raising his hat, bolted away. As the door swung behind him Lady Carloea turned a per- plexed face — "Why! he said good night! And now I shall never find " But Lord John appeared just then and all was well. Going back, in the dark brougham, Rachel put her head on her uncle's shoulder and, exhausted with excitement and happiness and something more than either of them, cried her «yea away. CHAPTER X LIZZIE AND BRETON 'What of Adam cast out of Edenf (And the Bower and the hour!) Lot with care like a shadow shaken He kills the hard earth whence he waa taken." Daste Gabriel Rosbettl TO the ordinary observer Lizzie Hand waa, during that hot July, as she had ever been. The servants in 104 Portland Place could detect no change, but then they did not search for one, having long regarded Miss Band as a piece of machinery, symbolized by that broad shining bolt of hers, happily calculated to fit, precisely, the duties for which it was required. But Miss Band herself knew that there was a sharp, ac- curate, shrewd piece of machinery named Miss Band, and a breathing, emotional, uncertain human being called Lizzie. There had always been those two, but since the inadequacy of her mother and sister had been confronted with the stern necessity of making two ends meet, Miss Band had been in constant demand and Lizzie had only, by her occasional ob- trusion, made life complicated and disturbing. Miss Band had told herself that Lizzie was now almost an anachronism, that the emotions in life that aroused her were bad cheap emotions, and that this was an age that demanded increasingly of women a hard practical efficiency without sentiments or enthusiasms. These forcible arguments had for a time kept Lizzie in a darkened background; it was some years since Miss Rand bad been disturbed. But now in the warm weather of 1898 Lizzie had not only reappeared, but had leapt, an insistent, 121 122 THE DUOHESS OP WEEXE shining presence, into urgent life. Miss Band faced her — what had created her ? A little, the weather, the beauty of those brazen days — A little, Rachel's coming out into the world, an adventure that had stirred the whole house into a new and sympathetic excitement — a little, these things. But chiefly, and no pretence nor shame could conceal the fact, did this new Lizzie owe her creation to the appearance of , Francis Breton. Lizzie Band had had, from her birth, a romantic heart; she had had also a prosaic practical exterior, and a mind as hard and clear, if necessary, as her own most lucent type- writer. "" The romantic heart had, throughout these years, been there, and now this romantic, scandalous, youthful, engaging un- fortunate had called it out She was never so warmly attracted as by someone lacking, most obviously, in those qualities with which she herself abounded. That people should bo foolish, impetuous, care- less, haphazard commended them straight to her keeping. "Poor dears" had their instant claim upon her. Her mother and sister were "poor dears " and she had suffered from them now during many years. Francis Breton waa inosf assuredly a " poor dear ! " Here the Duchess a little flung her shadow and confused the mind. Although Lizzie had never seen that splendid figure she was, nevertheless, acutely conscious of her. She was conscious of her through her own imagination, through her mother, finally through Lady Adela. Her imagination painted the old lady, the room, the furni- ture fantastic, strangely coloured, always with dramatic ef- fect. Her picture was never precisely defined, but in its very vagueness lay its terrors and its omens. Miss Rand, the most practical and collected of young women, could never pass the Duchess's door without a "creep." Through her mother the Duchess came to her as the head of LIZZIE AND BRETON 128 society. Society had never troubled Lizzie's visions of Life. She had, in her years with the Beaminsters, seen it pass be- fore her with all its comedy and pathos, and the figures that had been concerned in that procession had seemed to her exactly like the figures in any other procession except that they were dressed for their especial " subject." But oddly enough when, through her own observation, this life, seen accurately at first hand, amounted only to any other life, seen through the eyes of her mother, it achieved another size. She knew that her mother was a foolish woman, that her mother's opinions on life were absurd and untrue, and yet that dim, great figure that the Duchess assumed in her mother's eyes, in some odd way impressed her. Lastly, and most strikingly of all, came Lady Adela's con- ception to her. Lady Adela was in terror of her mother; everyone knew it, friends, relations, servants. Lizzie herself Baw it in a thousand different ways — saw it when Lady Adola spoke of her, saw it in the way that Lady Adela ad- dressed Dorchoster when that grim woman was interviewed by her, saw it when Lady Adela was suddenly summoned to that room upstairs. Lizzie, during the hours when she was writing from Lady Adela's dictation or working with her, found her dry, stupid, sometimes kind, never emotional. It was to her, therefore, the most convincing proof of the Duchess's power, this emo- tion, this alarm drawn from so dry a heart. Now the influence that the Duchess had upon Lizzie was always a confused one. Persuasion from this source followed lines of reasoning that were false and led to some conclusions that were muddled and untrue. Through such minds as her mother's and Lady Adela's no clear truth could come, and yet it was through such minds as these that the Duchess's influence descended upon Lizzie. It descended now with regard to Francis Breton. It told Lizzie that Breton had been proved by society to be a scoun- drel, that he should be no worthy man's friend, that he be- 124 THE DUCHESS OF WBEXE longed to that world, the world of shadows and past mis- adventures, that no proper soul might, with honesty, investigate. This was what the Duchess told to Lizzio and perhaps by so doing increased her sympathy with the sinner. n It must not be supposed that Mrs. Band had not, at first, been unsettled by scruples. The fact that Breton was, in the eyes of the Eeaminster family, a ne'er-do-well who had brought disgrace upon the family name had,, for a time, distressed her, but the romantic Lope of being herself the agent of his restoration to his grand- mother, and the delightful manners of the scoundrel when he appeared, killed her alarm. Mrs. Rand's mind was a dark misty place except when the candles of romanco were lit; when they flamed, blown by tho wind though they might bo, there was, around the candlesticks at any rate, a real and even, splendid blaze. One afternoon, towards the end of July, Mrs. Band meetr ing Breton on their doorstep was moved to ask him whether he would come in and spend the evening with them, if ho had nothing better to do. They had only a simple little meal, and would he please not bother to dress ? Breton said that he would bo delighted. Mrs. Band had been, that afternoon, to a romantic comedy in which ladies and gentlemen with French accents had made love and escaped together and been caught together and been married together. Mrs. Band had gone quite alone into the pit and had returned with tears in her' eyes and affection for all the world. So she had asked Mr. Breton to dinner. After a while, however, she was a little uncertain. Daisy was away in the country with friends. How would Lizzie then like this unexpected visitor? Mrs. Band was, quite frankly, frightened of Lizzie and complained of her a good LIZZIE AND BRETON 125 many, times a week to Daisy. Lizzie was for ever interfer- ing with innocent pleasures ; Lizzie was mean and unroman- tie and unimaginative; Lizzie wa3 thoroughly tiresome. The fact that Lizzie worked incessantly for hor mother and her sister never occurred to Mrs. Rand at all. Lizzie objected to all innocent amusement and she would, in all likelihood, object now. However, when Mrs. Rand with a fearful mind said, " Oh, Lizzie dear, I've had such a delightful afternoon. I went to Love and the King and it was too charming — ^jou ought to go, really — and Mr. Breton's coming to dinner to-night," Lizzie only smiled a little and asked whether there was food enough. Lizzie was so strange. . . . Alone in her bedroom Lizzie wondered at her excitement She looked at her trim, neat figure in the glass, with the hair so gravely brushed, with her collar and her cuffs, with her compact businesslike air: what had she to do with excitement because a young man was coming to dinner ? " It must be because I'm tired — this hep.t," she said to the mirror. And the mirror replied, " You know that you are glad because your sister Daisy is away." And to that she had no answer. When he arrived he was grave and seemed sad and tired, she thought Dinner was a serious affair and Mrs. Rand, who disliked people when they refused to respond to her moods, wished, at first, that she had not asked him, and felt sure that there was much truth in what people said about his wickedness. Then, when dinner was nearly over, he brightened up and told stories and was entertaining. Mrs. Rand noticed that he drank much claret, but this was, after all, a compliment to hor housekeeping. By the end of dinner Mrs. Rand almost lov-ed him and wished that Daisy had been here to entertain him. Of course it must be dull for a man with only a plain cut- and-dricd girl like Lizzie for company. 128 THE DUOHESS OF WREXE Lizzie, meanwhile, knew that he was waiting for an oppor- tunity of speech. She had read an appeal in his eyes when he had first entered the room, and now she sat there, curiously, ironically amused at her own agitation. " Lizzie Rand," she said to herself, " you're only, after all, tho kind of fool that you despise other people for heing. What are you after in . . this galere ?" Nevertheless even now, in retrospect, how arid and sterile seemed all those other active useful days. One moment's little grain of sentiment and a life's hard work goes for noth- ing in comparison. After dinner, when the lamp hurnt brightly and the furni- ture seemed to be less anxious to fill every possible space and the windows were opened into the square with its stars and grey shadows, the room seemed, of a sudden, comfortable, and Mrs. Rand, sitting in an arm-chair, with a novel on her lap and spectacles on her nose, was almost cosy. She had left, before going to her matinee, Just a Heroine at one of its most thrilling crises, and Lizzie knew that the talk with Breton depended for its very existence on the relative strength of the play and the novel. If Love and the King were the more powerful, then would Mrs. Rand make a discursive third. But no, for a moment there was a pause, then, indecisively, Mrs. Rand took up her book. For a while sho talked to Breton over its pages, then tho light of excitement stole into her eyes, her soul was netted by tho snarer, Breton was for- gotten as though he had never been. Their chairs were by the open window and a very little breeze came and played around them. In tho square there was that, sense of some imminent occurrence, a breathless suggestion of suspense, that a hot evening sometimes carries with it. The stars blazed in a purple sky and a moon was full rounded, a plate of gold; beneath such splendour the square was cool and dim. " You mustn't think mother rude," Lizzie said with a little LIZZIE AND BRETON 127 smile. " If she once gets deep into a book nothing can tear her from it." He said something, but she could see that he was not think- ing of Mrs. Hand. It was always in the evening, she thought, when uncertain colours and shadows filled the air, that he looked his best He touched, now, as he had touched on that day of their first meeting, a note of something fine and strange — someone, very young and perhaps very foolish and impetu- ous, but someone armoured in courage and set apart for some great purpose. He sat back in his chair, flinging, every now and again, little restless glances beyond the window, pulling sometimes at his beard, answering her absent-mindedly. Then sud- denly he began, fiercely, looking away from her — " Miss Eand, I've got an apology to make to you " His voice was so low that she could only catch the words by leaning forward — " To me ? " " Yes — I've been wanting to speak all these weeks. It seemed right enough before, but since I've known you I've felt ashamed of it — as though I'd done something wrong." " What is it, Mr. Breton ? " Her clear grave eyes en- couraged him. " Why — I came to this house, took my rooms, simply because I know that you were here " "That I was here?" " Yes. I was looking about in this part of the world for rooms. I wanted to be' — near Portland Place, you know. I came hero and old Mrs. Tweed talked a lot and then, after a time, I said something — about my grandmother. And then she told me that someone who lived here did secretarial work for my aunt " He stopped abruptly. " Well ? " said Lizzie, laughing. " All this is not very terrible." " Then, you see, I determined to stay. I was full of 128 THE DUOHESS OF WREXE absurd ideas just at the time, thought that I was going to take some great revenge — I was quite melodramatic. And go I thought that I'd use yeu, get to know you and then, through you — do something or another." Lizzie eyed him with merriment. " Upon my word, what were you going to make me do? Carry homb3 into your aunt's bedroom or set fire to tho Portland Place house i Tell me, I should like to know — > — " " Ah," he said, " it's all very well for you to laugh. It's very kind of you to take it that way, but lots of women wouldn't have liked it. They'd have thought it another of the things I'm always accused of doing, I suppose." " No," said Lizzie gravely, " it was all perfectly natural. I understand. I should have done just the same kind of thing, I expect, if I'd been in your place." The fierceness of his voice showed her that ho had been brooding for weeks, and that life was, just now, harder than he could endure. " You can trust me a great deal farther than that, Mr. Breton," she said. " Tho other night," he began, " you said that I might talk to you. I've been pretty lonely lately — and it would help me if " " Anything you like," she assured him. "Besides, there's more than that," he went on. " You've heard — of course you must have heard all kinds of things against me. You're in the enemy's camp and I don't suppose they measure their words. I don't know why you've been so decent to me as you have after what you must have heard " " Don't worry your head about that," she said. " We all have our enemies." " No, but now that we're friends I'd like you to know my side of it all. I don't want to make myself out a hero or blacken all the other people, but there -is something to be said for me — there is — there is " LIZZIE AND BRETON 129 He muttered these last 'words with the deepest intensity. He seemed to fling them through the window into the square, as though he were standing out there, on his defence, before all those listening lighted windows. " I've been a fool — a thousand times. I've done silly things often and once or twice bad, rotten things, but all these others — these virtuous people who are so ready to judge me, have they been any better ? " My father was a scoundrel, although I loved him and would love him now if he came back — but he was just as bad as they make 'em and there's no use in denying it. He'd tell you so himself if he were here. He broke my poor mother's heart and killed her. I don't remember her — I •was no age at all when she died — but I've got an old picture of her, kept it always with me; she must have been rather like my cousin Rachel, who was here the other day " Lizzie watched his face. There had left him now all that hint of insincerity, of exaggeration that she had noticed when he had talked before. She knew that he was telling her now absolutely the truth as he saw it. " She died and after that I was taken about Europe with my father. We lived in almost every capital in Europe — Berlin, Paris, Borne, Vienna, everywhere. Sometimes we wero rich, sometimes poor. Sometimes we knew the very best people, sometimes the very worst. Sometimes I'd go to school for a little, then I'd suddenly be taken away. My father was splendid to me then; the best-looking man you ever saw, tall, broad, carried himself magnificently — the finest man in Europe, I only knew, bit by bit, the things that he used to do. It was cards most of the time, and he taught me to play, of course, as he taught me to do everything else. "When I was eighteen my eyes were opened — I tried to leave him — But I loved him and I verily believe that I was the only human being in the world that he cared for. Any- way, he died of fever and genera] dissipation whei I had iust 180 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE come of age, and I came home to England with a little mondy and great hopes of putting myself right with the world." As he had talked to her he had gathered confidence; her silence was, in some way to him, reassuring and comforting. Some p x>ple have the gift of listening without words bo warmly, with such eloquence that they reassure and console as no speech could ever do. This was Lizzie's gift, and Breton, depending, more than most human beings, upon th«* protection of his fellows, gathered courage. " My father had always taught mo to hate my grand- mother. He painted her to mo as I have since found her — remorseless, eaten up with pride, cruel. I came home to England, meaning to lead a new life, to be decent — as I'd always wanted to he. "Well, they wouldn't have me, not one of them. They pretended to at first ; and my Uncle John at least was sincere, I think, and was kind for a time, but was afraid of my grand- mother as they all were. Christopher — you know him of course — was a real friend to me. He'd stood up for my father before and ho stood up for me now. But what was the use? I was wild when I Baw that my grandmother was against me and was going to do her best to ruin mo. I just didn't care then — what was the good of it all ? Other peo- ple encouraged me. The set in London that hated my people would have done something with me, but I wouldn't be held by anyone. " I'm not excusing myself," ho said quietly, looking away Jrom the window and suddenly taking his judgment from her eyes. " I know you're not," she said, smiling back to him. " Cards finished me. I'd always loved gambling — I love it still — my father had given me a good education in it. There were plenty of fellows in town to take ono on and — Oh I it's all such an old story now, not worth digging up. But there was a house and a table and a young fool who losll all he possessed and — well, did for himself. It had all been LIZZIE AND BRETON 131 square as far as I was concerned, but somebody had to be a scapegoat and two or three of us were named. It was hushed up for the sake of the young fellow's people, but everyone knew. Of course they all said, as far as I was concerned, ' Like father like son,' and I think I minded that more than anything " " Oh! I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lizzie said. " I give you my word of honour that it had all been straight as far as I was concerned — gambling ju9t as anyone might. That's what mado me so mad, to think of the rest of them — all so virtuous and-good — and then going off to Monte Carlo and losing or winning their little bit — just as I'd dona " I tried to brazen it out for a bit, but it was no good. Christopher still stuck by me — otherwise it was — well, the Under Ten, you know " "The Under Ten?" " Yes — all the men and women who've done something — once — done one of the things that you mustn't do. It mayn't have been very bad, not half so bad as the things — the cruel, moan things — that most people do every day of their lives, but, once it's there, you're down, you're under. There's a regular colony of them here in London ; their life's amusing. There they are, hanging on here, keeping up some pretence of gaiety, some kind of decency, waiting! hoping that the day will come when they'll be taken back again, when everything will be forgotten. They pretend, bravely enough, not to mind their snubs, not to notice the kind people, once their friends, who cut them now. Every now and again they make a spring like fish to the top of the water, see the sun, hope that the light and air are to be theirs again, after all — and then back they are pushed, down into the dark, their ele- ment now, they are told. Oh ! there's comedy there, Mias Rand, if you care to look for it." She said nothing; the fierce bitterness in his voice had made him seem older suddenly, aa though, in this portion of his journey, ho had spent many, many years. 132 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE " I must cut it short — you'll have had enough of this. I couldn't stand it. I left. London and went abroad. After that, what didn't I do ? I was everywhere, I did everything. Sometimes I wa3 straight, sometimes I wasn't. I was always bitter, wild with fury when I thought of that old woman — of her complacency, sitting there and striking down all the poor devils that had been less fortunate than she. All thoso years abroad I nourished that anger and, at last, when I thought that I'd been abroad long enough, that people would have forgotten, perhaps, and forgiven, I came back. I came back to be revenged on my grandmother and to re-establish myself. I'd got some money, enough for a little annuity, and I was careful now — I wasn't going to make any mis- takes this time." He laughed bitterly. " One doesn't loam much with age. What a fool I was ! I've got the reputa- tion I had before, whether I'm good or bad. It would all be hopeless — utterly hopeless — if it weren't for one thing " She looked up, and as she glanced at him, could feel the furious beating of her heart. " I'd go back at once — I've almost gone back already — not abroad, that never again for long — but back to my friends, the unfortunates — -" He laughed. "They're anxious to have me. They'll welcome me. I can have my cards and the rest then, with no one to object or to lecture — and I'll be done for quite nicely, completely done for." Then he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders. " But one thing keeps me," he said. " Something's hap- pened in the last few weeks — I've met somebody " " Yes," she said almost in a whisper. " Somebody who's made it worth while for me to fight on a bit." She could feel his agitation : his voice, although he tried very hard to control it, was shaking. Then he laughed, raised his voice and caught and held her eyes with his. " But there, Miss Band. I've talked a fearful lot, only I wanted to tell you — I had to tell you. And now — if you LIZZIE AND BRETON 133 feel— -- that you'd rather not know me, you've only got to aay bo." She laughed a little unsteadily. " Thank you for taking me into your confidence. You shell never regret it. I'm glad you're going to hold on, and, after all, we're all doing that more or less." " It's done me a world of good talking like this. It's what I've been wanting for months." She quieted her emotion. Looking out into the stars she knew that sho believed every word that he had said. She thought that sho valued Truth above every other quality; the directness that there was in Truth; its honesty and clarity. He might not always be honest with her, but she would never forget that he had, on this night, at least, spoken no falsehood. Life — her work, her surroundings, Portland Place, her home — this was full of falsehood and deceit and muddle. Here, this evening, at last, was honesty. They said no more, hut sat there silently and listened to the echo of dance music from some house. Mrs. Hand, whom their conversation had lured into oblivion of them, was roused now by their silence. She looked up; " It's quite splendid," she said, " you must read it, Lizzie. The part about the Riviera is lovely." Then, slowly remembering, " Really, Mr. Breton, I'm afraid you must consider me very rude." He came towards her, assuring her that his evening had been delightful. Lizzie was happy, happier than she could ever remember to have been before. She felt her cheeks burn. She leant out of the window to cool them. She flung back, over her shoulder : " By the way, Mr. Breton — a piece of gossip. Your cousin is to marry Sir Roderick Seddon ! " She could not see him. He said nothing. Mrs. Rand said : 134 THE DUOHESS OF WREXE '' Reall y, Lizzie t How interesting ! How long's that been announced?" " Oh ! it isn't announced. I don't believe that he's even asked her, but all the house knows it. It's settled. I be* lieve she likes him immensely and, of course, the Duchess ia devoted to him." Anything would do to talk about. What did it matter? Only that she should keep on talking so that they should not see how happy she was — how happy 1 He said good night, rather sharply; his voice was con- strained as though he too were keeping in his emotion. After he had gone Mrs. Rand said, " I don't like him, my dear. I can't help it — you may laugh at me — but my im- pressions are always right. He hardly spoke to me all the. evening." " Why, -mother, you were reading. How could he ? " '^-That's all very well, but I don't like him. And I believe he's in love with his cousin. Ho went quite white when you spoke about the engagement." " Mother — how absurd you are. He's only seen her once " "Well, my dear, that's a book you ought to read; really, I haven't enjoyed anything so much for weeks. I simply " Up in her bedroom Lizzie flung wide her window and laughed at the golden moon. Then she lay, for hours, staring at the pale light that it flung upon her ceiling. Oh ! what a fool she was ! But she was happy, happy, happy. And he needed someone to look after him — he did, indeed! CHAPTEK XI HER GRACE'S DAT THE Duchess had suffered, during the last five or six years, from sleeplessness, and throughout these hot days and nights of June and July sleep almost deserted her, Grimly sho gave it no quarter, allowing to no one that she ■was sleeping 'hadly, pretending even to Christopher that all was well. Nevertheless those long dark hours began to tell upon her. She had known many nights sleepless through pain, certain nights sleepless through anxiety, hut they, terrible though they had been, had not worn so stern a look as these long black spaces of time when all rest and comfort seemed to be drawn from her by some mysterious hand. To herself now she admitted that she dreaded that moment when Dorchester left her ; she began to do what she had never in her life done before, to fall asleep during the daytime. Small mercy to anyone who might attract any attention to those little naps. She fell asleep often towards six or seven and, therefore, without any comment, Dorchester, seeing her fatigue, left her to sleep until late in the morning. She had not for many years left her room before midday, but she had been awake with her correspondence and the papers by half-past seven at tho latest. Now" it was often eleven before she woke. She found that she did not wake with the energy and freshness that she had always known before. About her there always hovered a great cloud of fatigue — something not quite present, but threatening at any moment to descend. On a certain morning late in July she awoke after two or three hours' restless sleep. As she woke she was conscious 135 136 THE DUCHESS OF WKEXE that those hours had not removed from her that threatening cloud : she heard a clock strike eleven. Dorchester was draw- ing back the curtains and from behind the blinds there leapt upon her a blazing, torrid day. Her bedroom carried on tbo touch of fantasy that her othor room had shown; she was lying in a red lacquer Japanese bed that mounted up behind her like a throne. Her wall- paper was an embossed dull gold and the chaira were carved Indian, of black ebony. Lying in bed she appeared very old and ugly; the sharp nose was exceedingly prominent and her white hair scattered about the pillow gave her face the colour of dried parchment. Dorchester brought her her chocolate and her letters uud The Times and the Morning Post. " Another terribly hot day, your Grace." " Yes — I suppose so." As she took her letters she felt, for the first time in her life, that it would perhaps be better to lie in bed for the rest of her life and conduct the world from there. She put the letters down and stared at the day — " Draw the curtains again, Dorchester, and kindly ask Lady Adela if she will be so good as to come and see me in a quarter of an hour's time." When Dorchester had gone she lay back and closed her eyes and dozed again, whilst the chocolate grew cold and the births and deaths and marriages grew aged and stale. She did not care, she did not want to see her daughter . . . she did not want to see anyone, nor was there anything now in the world worth her energy or trouble. Her body, being now at ease, was called back to days, brighter days, days filled with thrilling events and thrilling people, day3 when the world was a world and not a dried-up cindor. Those were men . . . those were women . . . and then, suddenly, she was conscious first that her daughter was speaking and then that her daughter was a tiresome fool. HER GRACE'S DAY 137 She sat up a little and her nightdress fell back showing a Beck bony, crinkled and yellow. " I said a quarter of an hour," she snapped. " It is a quarter of an hour, mother," said Lady Adela. Lady Adola hated and dreaded these morning interviews. In the first placo she disliked the decorations oTher mother's bedroom, thought them almost indecent, and could never be comfortable in such surroundings. She was also aware, by long experience, that her mother was always at her worst at this hour in the morning and many were the storms of temper that that absurd bed and those unpleasant black chairs had witnessed. Thirdly she knew that she herself looked her worst and was her weakest amongst these eccentricities and ehadowcd by this dim light. She waited now whilst her mother fumbled her letters. " There's your chocolate, mother," she said at last. " It'll bo cold." The Duchess was looking at her letters, but was absorbing only a little of their contents. She was summoning all her will to her aid; she wanted to order the blind to be pulled down, to command her daughter to avoid her presence for at least a week, to scatter her correspondence to the four corners of the earth, and to see none of it again ; at the same time she was driving into her brain the fact that before Adela, of all people in the world, she must be alert and wise and wonderful; Adela, the ugliest and most foolish of living women, must see no weakness. " Shall I read your letters to you, mother ? " She did not answer ; slowly, steadily at last, her will was flooding her brain. She could feel the warmth and the colour and the strength of it pervading again her body. The day did not now appear of so appalling a heat and the weight of the things to be done was less heavy upon her. Lady Adela, meanwhile, watching her mother was struck once again by that chill dismay that had alarmed her first on 188 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE that May evening, after the visit to the picture gallery. In that half-light her mother did seem very, very old and very, very feeble. Lady Adela had a dreadful temptation to say in a brusque sharp voice, " What do you let your chocolato got cold liko that for? Why don't you get someone to read your letters sensibly to you instead of groping through them like that ? " and at the mere horror of such a thought a shudder shook her and her heart began wildly to beat. Let onco such words as those cross her lips and an edifice, a wonderful, towering temple raised by submissions and subduals and self-denials, would tumble to the ground. For some momenta tho strugglo in Lady Adela's breast was sharp, then by a tenso dominion of her will she produced onco again for herself the Ceremonial, the Terror, the agitated, humble Submission. " Julia Massiter," the Duchess said, " has asked Rachel for the last week-end in July — She'll go of courso " " Yes," said Lady Adela. " Roddy Seddon is going — — " " Yes." " Roddy is going to marry Rachel. He's coming to see ma this afternoon." Lady Adela was silent. " A very suitable business. I'd intended it for a long time." Then, after a pause — " You may tell Dorchester I will drees now." Lady Adela, conscious, as she left the room, of the relief of her dismissal, joyfully yielded that relief as witness — The Terror was still there, and she was glad. II Very different, however, at three in the afternoon. Now she sat in her high black chair waiting for Roddy Seddon. Very difficult now to imagino that early discouragement of the morning. Magnificent now with her black dress and flashing eyes and white hair, waiting for Roddy Seddon. HER GRACE'S DAY 13» This that she had long planned was at length to come to pass. Roddy Seddon was to be united to the Beaminster family, never again to be separated from it. Of Rachel she thought not at all. She had never liked Rachel; indeed it was a more positive feeling than that Alone of all tho family was Rachel still in rebellion ; even the Duke, although he was so often abroad or in the country (bo hated London), was submissive enough when he was with them. But Rachel tho old woman knew that she had not touched. Frightened — yes. The girl hated that evening half-hour and would give a great deal to avoid it, but the terror that she showed did not bring her any closer to her grandmother's power ; she stood outside and away. The Duchess had attempted to influence the girl's brain, to eatch some trait, some preference, some dislike, that she could hold and use. Still Rachel's soul was beyond her grasp, beyond even her guessing at But she knew Roddy Seddon — she knew Roddy Seddon as no one knew him. And Roddy Seddon knew her. Even when he was a boy he had known her as no one else knew her. He had seen through all her embroideries and dis- guises, had known where she was theatrical and why she was bo, Lad discovered her plots and prides, her defeats and victories — and together they two, Pagan to the very bone of them, had laughed at a credulous, superstitious world. Tho London that knew Roddy Seddon thought him a country bumpkin with dissipated tastes and an amiable heart But she knew him better than that. He was not clever — no. He was amazingly innocent of books, he had no intellec- tual attainments whatever — yet had he received any kind of education, she knew that he might have had one of the finest brains in the country. He had preferred dogs and horses and the simple enjoy ments of his sensations. 140 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE Bowing to the outward rules and laws of the modem world ]>e was less modern than anyone she had ever known. Pagan — root and branch Pagan. In his simplicities, in his complexities, in his moralities and immoralities, in his kindnesses and cruelties — Pagan. When they .were together it was astonishing the number of trappings that they were able to discard. They were Pagan together. But Kachel ? Rachel ? Well, Eachel did not matter. It would bo a rather good sight to see Rachel suffer, to watch her proud spirit up against something that she could not understand. And meanwhile the Beaminster family was strengthened l>y a great addition and the campaign against this new gen-, eration, that refused to be led, that wished to lead, that thought itself so very, very brilliant, should go victoriously forward. . . . " Sir Roderick Seddon, your Grace." As she looked at the healthy and red-faced Roddy sitting opposite to her, for an instant, some sharp warning, some fore- ordained consciousness of trouble to. come, bade her pause. She knew that a word from her, now, would be enough to prevent the match. He would not prosecute it were she against it After all, ought Roddy to marry anybody? Could a girl, as ignorant of tbo world as Rachel, put up any ifight against Roddy's simple complexities ? What, after all, did Roddy think of the girl? Did he imagine that he was in love with her? Did he know her, traderstand her ? Then, looking at him, the affection that she had for him -* the only affection that she had for anyone in the world — swept over her. This marriage would bind him to her, would give her another ally before the world — yes, it should go on. She smiled at him. " Well, Roddy, have you no news for me t nowJ." HER GRACE'S DAY 141 He had been silent, gazing before him, his brows puckered, Now he smiled back at her. " Well, there's been the usual doin's the last week or two. I've been dancin' every night till I'm tired. 'Bout time for the country agen " " Have you been down to Seddon at all ? " '"Yes. Two nights last week — all dried up; — Place wants me a bit of tener down there " " What's this I hear about young Olive Ormond marrying Besset Crewe's daughter ? " " So they say — can't imagine it myself. The girl's about eighty-four and a half and he's the most awful kid. Saw them at the opera the other night " " What about Scotland this summer, Roddy ? Are you going?" " Don't think so. Depends " Then there was silence. The little conversation had been as stiff as it was possible a conversation could be. The China dragons must have, wondered — never before so constrained a dialogue between these two ! Now another pause, then suddenly Roddy, his hands clutching one another, his face redder than ever — " I want — I wonder — dash it — have I your leave to ask your granddaughter to marry me ? " She laughed. " Really, my dear Roddy, you've been very long about it— coming out with it, I mean. Didn't- you know and didn't I know that that's what you came for to-day ? " "Well then, may I?" She paused and watched his anxiety. Between both of them there hung, now, the recollection of so many things — conversations, and deeds and thoughts known to both of them, bo many, many things that no others in all the world could know. She waited for his eyes, caught them and held them. " Are you in love with her ? " ft Yes — that is — she's splendid " 142 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE "You haven't known her very long and you're a little impulsive, ain r t you, Roddy, about these things ? " " No •— I don't know her now. But we've seen a lot of one another these last months — a fearful lot. She's — oh ! hang it ! I never can say things — hut she's a brick." " Do you think she'll accept you ? " " How can any feller tell ? I think she likes me — she's odd—" " Yes — she' is — very. She's a mixture — she's very young — and she won't understand you." His eyes were suddenly troubled and, as she saw that trouble, she was alarmed. He really did care. . . . " Yes, I know — I don't understand myself. I'm. wild sometimes — I wish I weren't " " Marriage is going to make you a model character, Roddy. Of course I'm glad — but it won't be easy, you know. And she won't be easy." " I want her though. I've never thought of marriage be- fore. I do want her." " My dear Roddy, you speak as though she were a sheep or a dog. It's only her first season. Don't you think you'd better wait a little?" " No. I want her now." " Well, you're definite enough — " She paused and then, in a voice that had, in spite of her, real emotion, " You have my consent. You've got my blessing." He rose and came clumsily towards her. "You don't know — I'm no use at words, but I'm dam' grateful — Rippin' of you 1 " For a second ho touched her dried, withered hand — how cold it was ! and in this hot weather, too. " You'll ask her at Julia Massiter's next week ? " " Expect so — I say you are " Then he sat down again. The room was relieved of an immense burden ; once more they were at easo together. HER GRACE'S DAY 143 " The other night — " he said, hending forward and chuck- ling ever bo little. in Lady Carloes, Agnes Lady Farnet, and old Mrs. Brunning were coming to play bridge with her. The ceremonial was ever the same ! They arrived at half-past nine and at half- past eleven supper for four was served in the Duchess's little green room, behind her bedroom (a little room like a box with a green wall-paper, a card-table and silver candlesticks). They played, sometimes, until three or four o'clock in the morning; the Duchess played an exceedingly good game and Mrs. Brunning (a bony little woman like a plucked chicken) was the best bridge player in London. The other two were moderate, but made mistakes which allowed the Duchess the free use of her most caustic wit and satire. Lord John came just before dinner as he always did for a few minutes every evening. He stood there, fat and smiling and amiable and, as always, a little nervous. "Well, John?" She liked John the best of her children, although he was, of course, the most fearful fool, but she liked his big broad face and he was always clean and healthy; moreover, she could use him more easily than any of them. " Bridge to-night, mother, isn't it ? " " Yes. Not so hot this evening. Just give me that book. Turn the lamp up a little — no — not that one. The de Goncourt book. Yes. Thank you." " Anything I can get for you, mother ? Anyone I can send to you ? " He was thinking, as he smiled down at her, " She's old to- night — old and tired. This hot weather. . . ." She looked up at him before she settled herself — " Roddy Seddon came this afternoon " " Yes. I know." 144 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Suddenly bis heart began to beat. He bad known, during all these last weeks, of what the common talk had been. Ha knew, too, what his conscience had told him, and he knew, too, how perpetually he had silenced that same conscience. " He asked me whether he had my permission to propose to Rachel " "Yes." " Of course I gave it him. I thought it most suitable in every way." Now was Lord John's moment He knew, even as it de- scended upon him, what was the right thing to do. He must protest — Roddy Seddon was not the right man to marry Rachel, Rachel who was to him more than anyone in the world — He must protest — And then with that impulse went the old warning that because his mother seemed to him older and feebler to-night than he had ever known her, therefore if he spoke now, it would involve far more than the immediate dispute. There was a sudden impulse in him to risk discomfort, to risk a scene, to break, perhaps, in the new assertion of his authority, all the old domination, to smash a tradition to pieces. He glanced at his mother. She met his eyes. He knew that she was daring him to speak. After all to-morrow would be a better time — she was tired now — he would speak then. ' His eyes fell, and after a pause and a word about some in* different matter, he said good night and went. IV Once, in some early hour of the morning when the candlea were burning low, the thought of Rachel came to her. Even as she noticed that her hand shone magnificently with hearts she was conscious that the girl stood opposite to her, there against the green wall, straight and fierce, all black and white, looking at her. Christopher ? John ? . . . HER GRACE'S DAT 145 For a second her brain was clouded. Might she not have attempted some relationship with the girl ? Given her some counsel and a little kindness? She must have been lonely there in that great house without a friend. She was going now into a very perilous business. She pushed the weakness from her. Her eyes were again upon the cards. " Hearts," she said. The odd trick this game and it was her rubber. The dying flame rose in the silver sconces and the four old heads bobbed, wildly, fantastically, upon the walL CHAPTER XII DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER — I RACHEL sat in the train with Aunt Adcla and Uncle John: they were on their way to Trunton St. Perth, 'Lord Massiter's country house. It was a July day softened with cool airs and watered colours ; trees and fields were mingled with sky and cloud ; through the counties there was the echo of running streams, only against an earth fading into sky and a sky bending and embracing earth, sharp, with hard edges, the walls and towers that man had piled together showed their outlines cut as with a sword. Over all the country in the pale blue of the afternoon sky a great moon was burning and the corn ran in fine abundance to the summit of the hills. Kachel, as the train plunged with her into the heart of Sussex, was gazing happily through the window, dreaming, almost dozing, feeling in every part of her a warm and grate- ful content. Opposite to her Aunt Adela, gaunt and with the expression that she always wore in trains as of one whoso person and property were in danger, at any instant, of total destruction, read a life of a recently deceased general whoso widow she knew. Uncle John, with three illustrated papers, was interested in photographs of people with one leg in the air and their mouths wide open ; every now and again he would say (to nobody in particular), " There's old Reggie Cutler with that foreign woman — you know " — or " Fancy Shorty Monmouth being at Cowes after all this year — you know we heard " Rachel had been having a wonderful time — that was the great fact that ran, up and down, through her dozing thoughts. Yes, a wonderful time. It was surely, now, a century ago, 146 DEFIANCE OP THE TIGER — I H7 that strange period when she had dreaded, bo terribly, hes plunge. That day, after her visit to the Bond Street gallery, -when it had all seemed simply more than she could possibly encounter, those talks with May Eversley (who, by the way, had just announced herself as engaged to a middle-aged baronet) when the world had frowned down from a vast, incredible height upon a miserably terrified midget. Why ! the absurdity of itl It had all been as easy, simply as easy as though she had been plunged in the very heart of it all her life. Followed there swiftly upon that the knowledge that Roddy Seddon was to be, for this same week-end, at Lady Massiter's. Rachel did not pretend that, ever since that ifeistersinger night at tho opera she had not known of his attentions to her — impossible to avoid them had she wished, impossible to pretend ignorance of tho meaning that his inarticulate sen- tences had, of late, conveyed, impossible to mistake the laugh- ing hints and suggestions of May and the others. She did not know what answer she would give did he aak her to marry him. At that concrete suggestion her doze left her and, sitting up, staring out at the wonderful day into whoso heart muffled lights were now creeping, she asked her- self what, indeed,, was her real thought of him. He was to her as were Uncle John and Dr. Christopher— safe, kind, simple. He appealed to everything in her that longed for life to be clear, comfortable, without danger. She loved his happiness in all out-of-door things — horses and dogs and fields and his littlo place in Sussex. Ever since that visit to Uncle Richard's fans she had suspected him of other appreciations and enthusiasms, perhaps she might in time encourage those hidden things in him. Above all did she find him true, straight, honest lies, little mannerisms, disguises, these were not in him, he was as clear to her as a mirror, she would trust him beyond anyone she knew. lie did not touch in any part of him that other secret, wild. 148 THE DUOHESS OP WKEXE unreal life of hers, and indeed that was, in him, the most reassuring thing of all. The Rachel who was in rehellion, to whom everything of her London life, everything Beaminster, was hateful, whose iudden memories and instincts, whose swift alarms and fore- warnings were so shattering to every clinging security that life might offer — this Rachel knew nothing of Roddy Seddon. Ho was there to take her away from that, to drive it all into darkness, to reassure her against its return, and marriage with him would mean release, security, best of all freedom from her grandmother who knew, so well, that life in her and loved to play with that knowledge. Her colour rose and her eyes shone as she thought of what this so early escape from the Portland Place house would mean to her. Already, in her first season, to be free of it all — to be free of humbug and deception — Oh ! for that would she not surrender everything in the world ? Roddy, as she pictured him, with his clean life, his love of nature, his kindliness, seemed, just then, the safest refuge that would ever be offered to her. And at that, without reason, she saw before her her cousin Francis Breton. Several times she had met him since that first occasion at Lizzie Rand's. Once again at Lizzie's and twice in Regent's Park when she had been walking with May. .Yes — that was all. Thinking of it now the meetings appeared to her almost infinite. Between each actual en- counter intimacy seemed to leap in its progress, and although, on at least two of them, he had only walked with her for the shortest period, yet, always with them, she was conscious of the number of things that, between them, did not need to be said — knowledge that they shared. In all this there was, with her, a confusion of motives and sensations that, at present, refused to bo disentangled. For one thing there was, in all of this, a furtiveness, a secrecy, that DEFIANCE OP THE TIGER — I 14ff she loathed. Against that was the persuasion that it would be the finest thing in the world for her to bring him back into the Beaminster fold, not, of course, that he should remain there (he was far too strong and adventurous for that), but that, accepted there, he could use it as a springing-off board for success and fortune. Let her once, as the situation now was, say a word to Uncle John or the others, and that of course was the end. . . . She knew, quite definitely, that now she wished that she had never met him. Ho had been, during these weeks, the only influence that had drawn that other Rachel to the light. It was always that other Rachel that met him — someone alarming, rebellious, conscious of unhappiness, and apprehensive, above everything, that in some hidden manner she was being untrue to her real self. At such moments it was as though she had blinded some force within her, muffled it, stifled it, because her way through the world.was easier with it so muffled, so stifled. At some future time, what if there should leap out upon her that muffled figure, bursting its bonds, refusing any longer to bo silenced, proclaiming the world no easy, comfortable place, but a battle, a fierce, unresting war ? When she thought of Breton it was as though she knew herself for a coward, as though ho had threatened to expose her for one, and as though (and this was the worst of all) something in her was eager that he should — Against this there was the peace, the security that Roddy could offer her. . . . Beaminster security, perhaps — nevertheless. ... They were at Trunton St. Perth. The little station glit- tered in the evening air. It was all suddenly thrilling. Who would be there ? What might not happen before Monday ? 150 THE DUCHESS OF WKEXE In the high beautiful hall where they all stood about and had tea she could see who they were. There waa a girl whom she had met on several occasions this season, Nita Raseley, there was a largo florid cheerful person who was, she dis- covered, Maurice Garden, the well-known and popular novelist, there was his wife, there was a thin intellectual cousin of Lady Massiter's, Miss Rawson, old and plain enough for her cleverness to have turned to acidity, Roddy Soddon and, of course, Lord and Lady Massiter. Lord Massiter was largo and florid like the novelist, and when they stood together by the fireplace foreign customs and languages were suddenly absurd, so English was the atmosphere. Lady Massiter was also large, but she had the kind and warm placidity that makes some women the type of all maternity. She would be, Rachel felt, a sure resource in all time of trouble and she would also bo entirely un- satisfactory as an intimate personal friend. She would, like philanthropists and clergymen, love people by the mass, never by the individual. Nita Raseley was pink and white, with largo blue eyes that confided in everyone they looked at. Her laugh was a little shrill, her clothes very beautiful, and men liked her. So there they all were. She had said good day to Roddy and then had moved away from him, governed by some self-consciousness and the con- viction that Nita Easeley's blue eyes were upon her. It was all very cheerful and very English as they stood talking there, and the doors beyond tho hall showed through their dark frames green lawns and terraces soaked in evening light. It was all very, very comfortable. As she dressed for dinner Rachel had her windows open, so hot was tho night, and she could watch tho evening star that shone with a wonderful brilliance above a dark little wood that crowned a rise beyond the gardens. She had a maid DEFIANCE OP THE TIGER — I 1S1 who was very young indeed ; this was her first place, hut she hud, during the three months, learnt with great quickness and had attached herself to her mistress with the most burning devotion. She was a silent, unusual girl and kept herself apart from the rest of the servants. Rachel as she sat before her dressing-table could see in that mirror the dark reflection of tho twilit garden. " It's a lovely place, Lucy " " Yes, Miss Rachel." " Are you glad to get away from London t " " It has been hot there these la3t weeks." Rachel met in the glass the girl's black eyes. They were searching Rachel's face. "Lucy, would you rather live in London or in the coun- try?" " I don't mind, Miss Rachel." Then after a little pause: "I hope I've given satisfaction these last weeks?" " Why, yes, of course." " Then I hopo, miss, that you'll allow me to stay with yon whether — in London or the country." Tho colour mounted to Rachel's cheeks. " I hope there'll be no need for any change," she said. She found when she came down to the drawing-room that Monty Carfax had arrived. Monty Carfax was the chief of tho young men who were, just at that time, entertaining London dinner-tables. About half a dozen of God's creatures, under thirty and perfectly dressed, with faces like tomb- stones and the laugh of the peacock, went from house to house in London and mocked at the world. They belonged, as the mediaeval jesters belonged, each to his own court, and Monty Carfax, certainly the cleverest of them, was attached to the Bcamin9ter Court and served the Duchess by faith, if not by sight. Rachel hated him and always, when she found herself next to him, wrapped herself in her old farouche manner and be- haved like an awkward schoolgirl. 152 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE She was terribly disappointed at discovering that he was going to take her in to dinner to-night ; he knew that she dis- liked him and felt it a compliment that a raw creature fresh from the schoolroom should fail to appreciate him; on thia occasion he devoted himself to the elderly Massiter cousin on this other side — throughout dinner they happily undressed the world and found it sawdust. Hachel meanwhile found Maurice Garden her other com- panion. He genially enjoyed his dinner and talked in a loud voice and prepared tho answers that ho always gave to ladies who asked him when ho wrote, whether he thought of his. plots or his characters first, and " she did hope he wouldn't mind her saying that of all his books the one " He frankly liked these questions and was taken by surprise when Eachel said : •" " I've never read any of your novels, Mr. Garden, so I won't pretend " He asked her what she did read. " Have you ever read anything by an author called Peter Westcott?" "Westcott? Westcott? ... Let me see .. . Westcott? . . . Well now — One of the young men, isn't he ? " " Yes. He wrote a book called Reuben Ilallard." " Ah yes. I remember about Reuben Ilallard — had quite a little success as a first book. He's one of your high-brow young men, all for Art and the rest of it. We all begin like that, Miss Beaminster. I was like that myself onc&- " She looked at him coolly. " Why did you give it up ? " " Simply didn't pay, you know — not a penny in it. And why should there be ? People don't Want to know what a young ass thinks about life if he can't tell a story. All young men think the same — green leaves, moons and stars and lots of symbols, you know — all good enough if they don't expect people to pay for it." '• J think Reuben Ilallard's a fine book," she said, " and so DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER — I 153 are some of the others. After all, everyone doesn't want only a plot in a hook." He looked at her with patronizing kindness. " Well, you see if your Mr. Westcott doesn't change. Every writer wants an audience whatever he may pretend, and the heat way to get a audience is to give the audience what it wants. It needs unusual courage to sit on a packing-case year after year and shave in a hroken looking-glass " She looked round the tahle. Everyone was happy. The hutlcr was fat and had the face of a Roman emperor, the food was very, very good, Nita Raseley and Roddy laughed and laughed and laughed — Suddenly Rachel's heart jumped in her body. Oh! she was glad; glad that Roddy cared for her and would look after her, because otherwise she didn't know what violence she might suddenly commit, what desperations she might not engage upon, what rebels and outlaws she would not support — What Outlaws! And then, looking beyond the thickly curtained windows, she could fancy that she could see one gravely standing out there on the lawn, standing with his one arm and his pointed beard and his eyes appealing to be let in. Then there was an ice that was so good that Peter Westcott and Francis Breton seemed more outcast than ever. ni After dinner, when the men had come into the drawing- room, they all went out into the gardens. It was such a night of stars as Rachel had never seen, so dense an army that all earth was conscious of them ; the sky was sheeted silver, here fading into their clouded tracery, there, at fairy points draw- ing the dark woods and fields up to its splendour with lines of fire. The world throbbed with stars, was restless under tho glory of them — God walked in all gardens that night. At first Nita Raseley, Monty Carfax, Rachel and Eoddy went together, then, turning up a little path into the little 154 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE wood that rose above the garden, Raohol and Roddy were alone. They found the trunk of a troo and sat down — Behind them the trees were thin enough to show the stars, below them in a dusk lit by that glimmering lustre that starlight flings — aglow that would be flame were it not dimmed by distance im- measurable — they could see the lawns and hedges of the garden and across the dark now and again some white figure showed for an instant and wa3 gone. The house behind the shadows rose sharp and black. Roddy looked big and solid sitting there. Rachel sat, even now uncertain that she did not see Francis Breton in front of her, looking down, as she did, into the shadowy garden. " I hope," she said abruptly, " that you don't like Monty Carfax." " I've never thought about him," he said. " He's cer- tainly no pal of mine — why ? " " Because I hate him," she said fiercely. " What right has he got to exist on a night like this ? " " He's always supposed to bo a very clever feller," Roddy said slowly: " But I think him a silly sort of ass — knows nothin' about dogs or horses, can't play any game, only talks clever to women " " I can't bear that sort of man and I don't like Mr. Garden either. He's so fat and he loves his food." " So do I," said Roddy quite simply. " I love it too. It was a jolly good dinner to-night." She said nothing and then, when he had waited a little, he said anxiously : " I say, Miss Beaminster, we've been such jolly good friends — all these weeks. And yet — sometimes — I'm afraid you think me the most awful fool " She laughed. " I think you are about some things, but then — so am I about a good many things — most of your thinijo " DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER — I. 155 " Look here, Miss Beaminater — I wish you'd help me about things I'm an ass in. You can, you know — I'd be most awfully glad." " What," she said, turning round and facing him, " are the things you really care about ? " "The things? . . . care about?" "Yes — really " " Well ! Oh ! animals and bein' out in the open and shootin' and ridin' and fishin' — any old exercise — and comin' up to town for a buck every now and again, and then goin' back and seein' no one, and my old place and — oh ! I don't know," he ended. " You wouldn't tell anyone a lie, would you, about things you liked and didn't like? " " It wouldn't be much use if I did," he said, laughing. " They'd find mo out in a minute " " No, but would you ? If you were with a number of peo- ple who thought art the thing to care about and knew nothing about dogs and horses, would you say you cared about art more than anything ? " " No," ho said slowly. " No — but sometimes, you see, pictures and music and such do please me — like anything — I can't put into words, but I might suddenly be in any old mood — for pictures, or your uncle's fans, or dogs or the Empire or these jolly old stars — Why, there, you see I just let it go on — the mood, I mean, till it's over " Then he added with a great sigh, " But I am a dash fool at ex- plainin' — ■ — " " But I know you wouldn't be like Mr. Garden or Mr. Carfax — just pretending not to like the thing because it's the thing not to. Or like Aunt Adela, who picks up a phrase about a book or picture from some clever man and then uses it everywhere." " I should never remember it — a phrase or anythin' — I never can remember what a feller says " " Oh ! I know you'd always be honest about these things. 160 THE DUCHESS OE WKEXE I feel you would — about everything. It's all these lies that aro so impossible : I think I've come to feel now after this first season that the only thing that matters is being straight. It is the only thing — if a person just gives you what they've got — what they've got, not what somcono else is supposed to have. May Eversley used to say that people's minds are like soup — thick or clear — but thoy'ro only thick because they let them get thick with other people's opinions — you don't mind all this ? " sho said, suddenly pausing, afraid lest he should be bored. " It's most awfully interestin'," he said from the bottom of his heart. " There are some men and women — I've met one or two — who're just made up of Truth. You know it. the minute you're with them. And they'll bave pluck too, of course — • Courage goes with it Our family," sho ended, " aro of course the most terrible liars that have ever been — ever " " Oh ! I say " he began, protesting. " Oh ! but yes — they run everything on it. My uncle Richard ran through Parliament beautifully because he never said what he meant. And Aunt Adola — and Unclo John, although he's a dear. But then my grandmother brought them up to it. My grandmother would have about three clever people and then muddle all the rest so that the three clever ones can have everything in their hands " " Look here," he broke in, " I'm most awfully fond of your grandmother — - we're tremendous pals " " You may be — I hate her. Oh 1 I don't hate her with melodrama, I don't want to stranglo her or beat her face or burn her, but I'm frightened of her and she's always making me do things I'm ashamed of. That's the best reason for hating anyone there is." " But she's such a sportsman. One of the old kind. One ." " Oh ! I know all that you can say. I've heard it so many DEFIANCE OP THE TIQER — I lit times. But she's all wrong. There isn't any good in her. Sho's just remorseless and selfish and stubborn. She thinks she ran the world once and she wants to do it still." " That's all rather fine, / think," said Roddy. " I agree with her a bit I think most people have got to be run — they just can't run themselves, so you have to put things' into them." " Well, that's just where we differ," she said sharply. " It isn't so. That's where all the muddle comes in. If everyone were just himself without anything borrowed — Oh I the brave world it'd be " Then she laughed. " But I'm all wrong myself, you know. I'm as muddled as anyone. I've got all the true, real me there, but all the Bcaminster part has slurred it over. But I've got a horrid fear that Truth gets tired of waiting too long. Ono day, when you're not expecting it, it come3 up and says — ' TCow you choose — your only chance. Are you going to use mo or not ? If not, I'm going '-— How awful if ono didn't realize the moment was there, and missed it" She was laughing, but in her heart that other woman in her was stirring. For a startled, trembling second the wood seemed to flame, the gardens to blaze with the challenge : " Aro you, for the sake of the comfort and safety of life, playing false ? Which way are you going ? " She burst into laughter, she caught Roddy by the arm. " Oh I I've talked such nonsense — It's getting cold — ■■ we've got to go in. Don't think I talk like that generally, Sir Roderick, because I don't — I " She was nervous, frightened. The stars were so many and it was so dark and Rcddy no longer seemed a protection. " I know it's late — Look here, I'm going to run — Race . mo " She tore for her very life out of the little wood, felt him pounding behind her, seized, with a gasp of relief, the lights and the voices — She knew, with joy, that Roddy was closing the door behind 158 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE her and that the garden and the stars and the wood were shut into silence. For a little while, in the drawing-room, she talked excitedly, laughed a groat deal, even at Monty Carfax's jokes. She knew that they were all thinking that she was pleased because she had been with Roddy. She did not care what their thoughts were. At last in her room she cried to Lucy — -" Pull the curtains tight — Tighter — Tighter — Those stars — they'll get through anything." When at last Lucy was gone sho lit her candle and lay there, hearing the clocks strike the hours, wondering when the day, would come. CHAPTER XIII DEFIANCE OP THE TIGER— II RODDY, dozing after a night of glorious sleep, lay on his back and swung happily to and fro. The footman who was valeting him had pulled up the blind and drawn aside the curtains, and the garden came to him, not as on last evening, weighted with its canopy of stars, but now asserting its own happiness and colour and freshness. The man said : " The bathroom is the last door down the passage on your right, sir. Breakfast is at half-past nina It has just gone eight. What clothes, sir?" Roddy stared at him and smiled. After a little time, the man enquired again : " Which suit will you wear this morn- ing, sir ? " " Dark blue." Roddy, still happily floating somewhere near the coiling — floating with delicious lightness — " Dark blue — Dark blue — Dark blue " For a little while the man, a strange vague shape, pulled out drawers and closed them and walked about the floor, like Agag, delicately. Roddy, from the ceiling watched him and resented the fact that every sharp click of a drawer pulled him nearer to the carpet. The man's final shutting of the bedroom door plumped Roddy into his bed, wide awake. - " Damn him ! What a wonderful day! " Ho lay back and watched how waves of light danced on the walls. A fountain splashed in the gardens and the long mirror on the right of the bed had in.it the corner of the green lawn and the cool grey stones of an old wall. Roddy lay on his back and allowed his sensations to run up and down his body. It was for moments such as this that 159 160 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE his life was intended. He lived, deliberately and without any selfishness in the matter, for the emotions that the good old god Pan might choose to provide for him. He did not know Pan by name except as a silly fancy dress that Monty Carfax bad once worn at a fancy-dress dance and as Someone alluded to every now and again, vaguely, in the papers, but even though he did not call him by name he, nevertheless, paid, without question, his daily homage. When, as on this beautiful morning, one had only to lie down and be instantly conscious of a thousand things — sheep moving slowly across hills, cattle browsing in deep pools, those Downs that ho loved rising, slowly, like aged men, to greet a new day — then one questioned nothing, one argued nothing, one needed no words, one was happy from the crown of one's head to the toes of one's feet. On this especial morning these delights were connected with the fact that, during the day, he intended to propose marriage to Rachel Beaminster. He thought of her, now, aa she had looked last night, sitting in that wood, in a pale blue dress, with tho stars behind her, staring, so seriously, down into the garden. She had been very beautiful last night, and it had been a splendid moment — not more splendid than other moments that he had had, but splendid enough to remem- ber. He was always prepared for the necessity of the short dura- tion of his sensations. He had discovered, when he was very young, that nothing lasted and that the things that lasted the shortest time were generally tho best things, and therefore ho had, quite unconsciously, trained himself to store his memory with splendid moments ; now, although lie had no memory at all for any sort of facts or books or histories, he could recall precisely, in all their forms and colours, scenes, persons, ad- ventures that had,. at any time, thrilled him. He could remember days; once when, as a little boy, he had been overtaken by night on the Downs and had sheltered in a deserted house, black and evil, that had, ho afterwards dis- DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER — II 161 (covered, been, in the eighteenth century, a private mad-house; once when the sea had been green and purple, the sky black, and he had discovered a star-fish for the first time (very young on that occasion) ; once when hia horse had run away with him and the daUger had been exceeded by the glorious speed through the air . . . many, many others, all to be counted by him to their very least detail, and now, of some of them, Rachel Beaminster was the central figure. He had had relations of many kinds with many different women and never until now had he supposed, for an instant, that these relations would be permanent. Even now, although he was intending to marry Rachel Beaminster, he was not so foolish as to imagine that the freshness and novelty of the fooling that ho now had for her would last more than a very short time. Quite deliberately he treasured up in his mind a thousand pictures of her, as he had seen her during the last two months, so that when the time came for seeing her no longer in that way, he would have his memories: there was tho time of her first ball, all excitement and happiness, the day at her uncle's when she had looked at him over the top of the fans, the night at tho opera when she had been so angry with him, last night — She had, through all this time, remained elusive. He did not know her, could not reconcile one inconsistency with an- other — but he thought that she cared about him and would marry him. Ho had always known that ho must one day marry. That necessity was, in no way, connected with tho emotional sido of him, it rather had its relationship with the common sense of him, tho part that believed in the Bcaininsters and all their glory. He must marry because Seddon Court must have a mistress, because he himself must have children, because he would like to have someone there to be kind to. That need in him for bestowing kindness upon someone was always most urgent, 162 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE and all sorts of animals and all sorts of persons had shared it — now one person would have it all. He could not bear to hurt anyone or anything, and the crises of his life were pro- vided by those occasions when, in the delight of one of his emotional moments, hurting somebody was involved — there was always then a conflict. He knew that it was just here that the Duchess failed to understand him. She liked hurting people and expected him to be amused when she told him little stories about her having done so. He had now a kind of dim feeling that it was be- cause the Duchess hoped that he was going to hurt Rachel that she had prosecuted so strenuously his marriage. He trusted with all his heart that he would never hurt Eachel, he intended always to bo very, very kind to her; it was indeed a thousand pities that the present quality of his attitude to her must, like all attitudes, eventually change. But he was always — he was sure of this — going to be good to her and give her everything that the mistress of Seddon Court should have. At the same time, vaguely, he wished that the old Duchess had had nothing to do with this; sometimes he wondered whether the side in him that found pleasure in her was really natural to him. Whenever he thought of her, she, in some way, confused his judgment and made life difficult. She was doing that now. . . . ii When he came down to breakfast he found that he was the last. He sat next to Nita Raseley and was conscious, after a little time, that she was behaving with a certain reserve. He had known her in the kind of way that he knew many people in his own set in London, pleasantly, indifferently, without curiosity. She had, however, attracted him sometimes by the impression that she gave him that she was too young to know many men, but, however long she lived, would never find DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER — II 163 anyone .is splendid as he: she had certainly never been re* served before. Finally he realized that she expected to bear of his engagement to Rachel Beaminster at any moment " Well, so she will," he thought, smiling to himself. Mean- while he avoided Rachel quite deliberately. He was now self-conscious about her and did not wish to be with her until he could ask her to marry him. No more un- certainty was possible. He felt, not frightened, but excited, just as ho_ would feci were ho about to ride a dangerous horse for the first time. He seized, with relief, upon the proposal of church; he wanted tlio morning to pass ; his prayer was that she would not walk to church with him, because he had now nothing to say to her except the one thing. When he heard that she was staying behind and walking with Nita Raseley he was sur- prised at his own sense of release. Lady Adela was kind to him this morning in a sort of motherly way and apparently seized on his going to church as an omen of his future married happiness. " They're all waiting to hear," he said to himself. They were to walk across the park to the little village church, and when they set out he was conscious that Lord John, like a large and amiable bird, was hovering about him : finally, Lord John, nervous apparently, most certainly em- barrassed, settled upon him. " Going to church, aren't you, Roddy ? " w Yos, Beaminster." " Well, let's strike oil together, shall we ? " Roddy liked Lord John best of the Beaminster brothers; the Duke ho could not endure and Lord Richard was so superior, but Johnny Beaminster was as amiable as an Easter egg and fond of race meetings and pretty women, and not too dam' clever — in fact, really, not clever at all. But Johnny Beaminster embarrassed was another matter and Boddy found soon that this embarrassment led to his own confusion. 164: THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Lord John flung out little remarks and little whistles be- cause of the heat and little comments upon the crops. He obviously had something that he very much wanted to say — ; " Of course," thought Roddy, " this is something to do with Rachel — he's very fond of Rachel." Although Johnny Beaminster had not, in strict accuracy, himself the reputation of tho whitest of Puritans, yet Roddy wondered whether perhaps ho were not now worrying over some of Roddy's past history-, as rumoured in London soci- ety. " Doesn't want his girl to be handed over to a reg'lar Black Sheep, shouldn't wonder," thought Roddy, and this led him to rather indignant consideration of the confusion of tho Bea- minster mind arid its muddled moralities. The walk to the church was not very long, but it became, towards the close of it, quite awful in its agitation. " Dam' hot," said Lord John. " Very," said Roddy. " Wouldn't wonder if this weather broke,sooir— — " " Quite likely." " Makes you hot walking to church this hour of the morn- ing." " "Yes- — don't it? Farmers will be wantin' rain pretty badly. Down at my little place they tell me it's dried up like anythin'- " Rc^lar Turkish bath " " Well, tho church ought to bo cool " " You never know with these churches " Roddy thought " He's afraid of his old mother. Doesn't want mo to marry Rachel, but he's afraid of his old mother." " Massiter's getting fat " This was Lord John's con* tribution. " Yes — so's that novelist feller — ■. — " " Oh ! Garden ! Yes — ever read anything of his ? " " Never a line. Never read novels." " Not bad — good tales, you know." DEFIANCE OF THE TIGEB — II 165 " He's probably," Roddy thought, " had a row with the old lady about me •= " Then, strangely enough, the notion hit him — " Wish it was he wanted me to marry Rachel and the Duchess didn't — Wish she didn't, by Gad." As they entered the church Roddy might have seen, had be been gifted in psychology, that there was in Lord John's face the look of a man who had fought a battle with his dark angel and been, alas, defeated. rn After luncheon Roddy said : " Miss Beaminster, come for a walk ? " " A little way," she said, looking at him with her eyes in that straight direct way that she had. " She must know," said Roddy to himself, " that I'm going to do it now. They all know. It's awful ! " Some of the others had gathered together under a great oak that shaded the central lawn, and now as he climbed the hill with his capture ho felt that from beneath that tree many eyes watched them. They did not go very far. At the top of the hill, above the little wood and the gardens and the house, there was a grassy hollow, and under this grassy hollow a great field of wheat, a sheet of red-gold with sudden waves and ripples in it as though some hand were shaking it, ran down to the valley. " Let's stop here," Rachel said. " I was out all this morn- ing with Nita Raseley and it's too hot for any exertion what- ever." 1 A tree shaded them and they sat down and watched thief corn. " What sort of a girl do you think she is — Nita Raseley, I mean ? " asked Rachel. • --'J "Oh I 1 don't know — the ordinary ' kind of girl — why?" >*n " Shd seems to want to know me. Says that she hain't many friends. Is that true ? I thought she had heaps — —- ■ * 168 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE " You never can tell with girls. You're all w uncertain about one another — devoted one moment and enemies the next." " Are we ? " said Rachel slowly. " I don't think I'm like that — Oh ! how hot it is ! " She lay back against tbo grass with her arms behind hor head. " Do you like mo ? " Roddy said suddenly. "I? . . . You!" She slowly sat up and ho saw at once that she knew now what he was going to 9ay. At that moment, sitting there, staring at him, with her breasts moving a little beneath her white dress and her hands pressing flatly against the grass, in her agitation and the look in her eyes of some suddenly evoked personality that ho did not know at all she was moro elusive to him than sho had ever been — She was frightened — and also glad — but the chango in her from the girl he had known all the summer was so start- ling that he felt that ho was about to proposo to someone he had never seen before. " Do I like you ? " she repeated slowly, and her lips parted in a smile. " Yes," he said, looking at her hands that seemed to belong to the earth into which they were pressing — " Because I want you to marry me " The moment of her surprise had come before — now she only said very quietly — " Why — what do you know about me ? " " I know — enough — to ask you," he said, stumbling over his words. He was now afraid that, after all, she intended to refuse him, and the terror of this mado bis heart stop. No words would come. He stared at her with all the fright in his eyes. "Roddy" (she had never called him that before), "do you care -" Then she stopped. She began again. " I don't want to talk nonsense. I wanfi DEFIANCE OF THE TIGER — II 167 to say exactly what I feel. I suppose most girls would want to be free a little longer, would want to have a good time an- other two or three seasons — but I don't — I hate being free — I want somebody to keep me, to prevent my doing silly things, to look after me . . . and ... I'd rather you did it — than anybody else . . ." Then she went on quickly — " But it is more than that. I do like you most awfully, only I suppose I'm not the kind of girl to be frantically excited, to bo wild about it all. I'm not that. I do like you — better than any other man I know — Is that enough ? " " I think — wo can be most awfully good pals — always," he said. " Oh ! " she cried suddenly, putting her hand on his and looking straight into his face. " That's what I want — that, that — If that's it, and you think wo can, why then, I'd rather marry you, Roddy dear, than anyone in the world." " Then it's settled," ho said. But he did not take her hand or touch her. They sat for quite a long time, looking at the rippling corn and the house, that was like a white boat sail- ing on the green far below them. They said no word. Then, without speaking, they got up from the grass and walked down the path to the little wood. But when they came to the place where they had been the night before he caught her to him so furiously that his own body was bent back, and ho kissed her again and again and again. . BOOK II RACHEL CHAPTER I THE POOL AND THE SNOW " For now doors open, and war is waged with the mow. And trains of sombre men, past tale of number. Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken." Robert Bamota. IN the early days of the December of that year, 1898, the first snow fell. Francis Breton, standing at his window high up in the Saxton Square house, watched the first flakes, as they came, lingering, from the heavy brooding sky ; as he watched a great tide of unhappiness and restlessness and discontent swept over him. His was a temperament that could be raised to heaven and dashed to hell in a second of time ; life never showed him its true colours and his sensitive suspicion to the signs and omens of the gods gave him radiant confidence and utter despair when only a patient quiescence had been /in- tended. During the last three months he had risen and fallen and "risen again, as the impulse to do something magnificent somewhere interchanged with the impulse to do something desperate — meanwhile nothing was done and, standing now staring at the snow, he realized it. Ho had never, in all his days, known how tolnoderate. If ho might not bo the hero of society then must he be the famous outcast, in one fashion or another London must ring with his name. And yet now here had he been in London since the end of 171 172 THE DUCHESS OP WEEXE April and nothing had occurred, no steps, beyond that first letter to his grandmother, had he taken. He had not even responded to the advances made to him by his old associates, he had seen no ono save Christopher, Bran once or twice, the Rands and his cousin Rachel. - " Throughout this time he had done what ho had never done before, he had waited. For what ? A little perhaps ho had ospccted that the family would take some step. Looking back now he knew that the shadow of his grandmother had been over it all. He had always seen her when ho had contemplated any action, seen her, and, deny it as he might, feared her. She confused his mind ; ho had never been very readily clear as to reasons and instincts — ho had never paused for a period long enough to allow clear thinking, but now, through all theso weeks, ho had been conscious that that same clear thinking would havo como to him had not his grandmother clouded his mind. Ho felt her as ouo feels, in a dream, somo power that prevents our move- ment, holds us fascinated — bo now ho was held. Tho othor great forco porsuoding him to innotion was Rachel Bonminster, now Rachel Seddoii. Long beforo his roturu to England tho thought of this cousin of his had often como to him. Ho would speculate about her. She, liko himself, was by birth half a rebel, sho must bo — Sho must bo. Ho had sometimes thought that bo would writo to her, and then ho had felt that that would not be fair. Behind nil his dreams and romances ho always saw some destiny whoso colours woro woven simply for him, Francis Breton, and this confidence in an especial personally constructed God had been responsible for his wildest and most foolish mistakes. Often had he seen this especial God bringing his cousin and himsolf together. Always ho had known that, in somo way, they two wero to bo chosen to work out, together, vongeanco and destruction against all the Benminstors. When, there- fore, that meeting in tho Bands' drawing-room had taken placo THE POOL AND THE SNOW 173 he had accepted it all. She was even more wonderful than he had expected, but he had known, instantly, that she was his companion, his chosen, his fellow-traveller ; between them he had realized a claim, implied on some common knowledge or experience, at the first moment of their meeting. From the age of ten, when he had been petted by one of his father's mistresses, his life had been entangled with women ; some he had loved, others he had been in love with, others again had loved him. He did not know now whether he were in love with Rachel or no — he only knew that the whole current of his life was changed from the moment that he met her and that, until the end of it, she now would be intermingled with all his history. At first so sure had he been of the workings of fate in this matter that ho had been contont (for the first time in all his days) to wait with his hands folded. During this period all thought of action against tho Bcaminstcrs on the one hand or a rolapso into tlio company of the friends of his earlier 1/iik1((ii days on tho other, hud beon out of tho question. This certainty of Itnehol's futuro alliunco with himself had made such tilings impossibly absurd. Then hud como tho announcement of her engagement to Seddon, For a- moment tho shock had been terrific He had suddenly scon tho face of his especial God and it was blind and stupid and dead. . . . Then swiftly upon that had como thought of his grand- mother. This was, of course, her doing — Rachel was too young to know — Sho would discover her mistake: the engago lncnt would bo broken off. During this time he had met Rachel on several occasions, and although tho meetings had been very brief, yet always he had felt that same unacknowledged, secret intimacy. Aftor every meeting his confidence had risen, once again, to the skies. Then had come tho news of her marriage. M THE DUCHESS OP WREXE From that moment he had known no peace. At firet he had wildly fancied that this had happened hocanse he had not come to her and more plainly declared himself ; his picture of her idea of him was confused with all the dramatio untruth of his idea of her ; then, interchanging with that, had come moods when he had soon, things more plainly as they were, and had told himself that all relations hetween herself and him had heen invented by himself, that any kindness that she had shown him had been kindness sprung from pity. During the early months of the autumn Rachel and her husband were abroad, and during this time, Breton told him- self that he was waiting for her return before taking any action. Then a certain Mrs. Pont, a lady whoso beauty had been increased but her reputation lessened by several scandals and a tiresomely querulous Mr. Pont, had suggested to Francis Breton a continuation of certain earlier relation- He knew himself well enough to be sure that one evening in Mrs. Pont's company would put an end to his struggles, so weak was he in his own knowledge that the only possible evading of a conflict was by the denial of the enemy's very existence. Ho denied Mrs. Pont and, throughout those dark gloomy autumn weeks, clinging to Christopher and Lizzie Rand, waited to hear of Rachel's return. Although he would confess it to no man alive, he longed now, with an aching heart, for some sort of reconciliation with the family. He would have astonished them with his humility had they given him any sign or signal. He fancied that Lord John or even the Duke might como. . . . Once admitted to his proper rank again and what a citizen he would be! Vanish for ever Mrs. Pont and her tribe and all that dark underworld that waited, like some sluggish but confident monster, for his inevitable descent. Wild phantasmic plans crossed his brain every hour of every day — nothing came of THE POOL AND THE SNOW 175 it all ; only when at last it was announced that Sir Roderick and Lady Scddon had returned to England he discovered that he had nothing to do, nothing to say, no step to take. That return had been at the end of October; from then until the end of November he waited, expecting that she would write to him ; still, by this anticipation, were Mrs. Pont and Mrs. Pont's world kept at bay. No word came. Driven now to take some step that would shatter this silence, ho wrote to her a long letter about noth- ing very much, only something that would bring him a line from her. For ten days now he had waited and there had come no word. Aa these first flakes of snow softly, relentlessly, fell past his window the nebulous cloud of all the uncertainties, disappointments, rebellions, of this pointless wasted thing that men called Life crystallized into form — " I'm no good — Life, like this, it's impossible — I'm no good against it — I'd better climb down. . . ." And here the irony of it was that he'd never climbed up. The awful moments in Life are those that threaten us by their suspension of all action. " Just feel what's piling up for you out of all this silence," they seem to say. Breton'4 trouble now was that he did not know in what direction to move. His relation to Rachel was so nebulous that it could scarcely bo called a relation at all. He only knew that she alone was the person for whom now life was worth combating. He had told her in his letter that she could help him, and the absence of an answer spoke now, in this threatening silence, with mighty reverberating voice. " She doesn't care." Well then, who else is there? Almost he could have fancied that his grandmother, there in the Portland Place house, was withdrawing from him all the supports in which be trusted. Now the snow, falling ever more swiftly, ever more stealth- 176 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE ily, seemed to be with him in the room, stifling, choking, blinding. He felt that if he could not find company of some kind he •would go mad, and so, leaving the storm 'and the silence be- hind him in his room, he went to find Lizzie Rand. II Lizzie Rand did not conceal from herself now that she loved him. So long had her emotional life been waiting there, un- desired, that now it could be kept by her utterly-apart from her daily habit, but it became a flame, a fire, that lighted with its splendid warmth and colour the whole of her accustomed world. She indulged it now without restraint, through tho long dark autumn she had it treasured there; she did not, as things then were, ask for more than this splendid knowl- edge that there was now someone upon whom she loved to spend her care. She had not loved to spend it upon her mother and sister, but that had been a duty defined and necessary. Now everything that she could do for Breton was more fuel to fling to her flame. That further question as to whether he might care for her sho kept" just in sight, but nevertheless not definite enough to risk the absolute challenge. At least, now, as the weeks passed, ho sought her company more and more. She helped him, she cheered and comforted him, enough for her present need. Even, beyond it all, could she survey herself humorously. This the first love affair of her life made her smile at her capture and defeat. "Well, I'm just like the rest — And oh! I'm glad, I'm glad that I am." Finally she knew that there was still a step that might be taken, between them, at any moment. He had, she knew, something to tell her. Again and again lately he had been about to speak and then had caught the impulse back. This too she would not examine too closely, but from the moment that he should demand from her definite concrete THE POOL AND THE SNOW 177 assistance, from that moment she -would be to him what she knew no one now living could claim to be. Breton was glad when the little maid told him that Mrs. Band was out, but that Miss Lizzie was at home. He saw her in the warm cosy room, sitting before the fire with her toes on the fender and her skirts pulled up, drying her shoes. She looked up and smiled at him and told him to sit down, but did not move from her position. " Mother's out at a matinee with Daisy. I got away early this afternoon. Do you hate snow, Mr. Breton f " " I hate it to-daj, I've got the dumps. I had to find someone to talk to or I'd have gone screaming into the street " " Couldn't find anyone better, so took me — thank you for the compliment But I like the snow. Your pool's more like a pool now than ever, Mr. Breton." He went across to the window and stood there looking at the little square now white with the gaunt trees rising black from the heart of it and the grey houses that hemmed it in. Over it the snow, yellow and grey and then delicately white, swirled and tossed. He came back and sat down beside her and wondered at her neat comfort and air of calm control of all her emotions and desires. 'She, looking at him, saw that he was ill. Dark line3 be- neath his eyes, his cheeks pale and an air of picturesque melancholy that made her want first to laugh at him and then mother him. " I know what's the matter with you," she said, nodding her head. " What ? " " Something to do. That's what you want" She turned towards him, looking at him with a little smile and yet with grave seriousness in her eyes. " Oh! Mr. Breton, why don't you? What is the use of sitting here month after month, doing nothing, just waiting for something to happen — some" 178 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE thing that can't happen unless you make it? Things. don't fall into people's mouths just because they sit with them open." He coloured. " Everybody's always scolding me," he said. u Christopher — you — everybody. Nobody understands — how difficult . . ." He broke off. So intangible were his difficulties that no words would define them, and yet, God knew, they were real enough. " I know — " she said, nodding her head. " It's the thought of them all at Portland Placo that's holding you back. You began by fancying that you wanted to cut their throats, and you still wouldn't mind slaughtering them if only they in their turn would do something definite. It's their doing nothing that just holds you up. But really as long as your grandmother's alive I'm afraid that it's no good thinking of them. When she's dead — and she can't live for ever — any- thing may happen. Meanwhile why not show them what you can do? " " But what can I do ? " he answered her fiercely. " I've never been brought up to do anything — except what I oughtn't — There's my arm and one thing and another — Besides, there's more than that in it, Miss Band. It's the fact that — well, that there's nobody that cares that's — so freezing. If only somebody minded " -As he spoke Bachel rose, beautifully, wonderfully, beforo him. There, as she had been on that first day when she had had tea there, bending forward, listening, her dark wondering eyes on his face. Lizzie at the sound of the appeal in his voice had felt her heart expand, beat, so that her body seemed to hold, sud- denly, some great possession that hurt her by its force and urgency. But she answered almost sharply: " Nonsense, Mr. Breton. Excuse me, but I've no patience with that kind of thing. People are meant to stand alone, THE POOL AND THE SNOW. 179 not to go leaning about for other people's support You're cursed with too much . imagination, Mr. Breton, and you remember too clearly everything that's happened before. Begin now, as though you were born yesterday, and startle tho family by your energy " " Now you're laughing at me," he said hotly. " I dare say I deserve it, but I don't feel as though I could stand — very much of it from anyone to-day " Then he was astonished by the sudden softness of her voice. "No, no, please," she said; "I understand so well. But indeed you have got friends who believe in you. Dr. Christo- pher, myself, if you'll count me, and lots more. You'll win everyone in time if you're not impatient and don't despair. Don't think of your grandmother too much. The mere fact of your not seeing her makes you imagine her as something portentous and dreadful, and she weighs you down, but she isn't really anything at all. She can't stop one's energies if one's determined to let them go. Please, please don't think I'm laughing. I only want to help " " I know you do," he answered warmly, " I owe you more than I can say. All these last weeks you and Christopher have been the two people who've held the world together for me. But there's more than you know, Miss Band. There's " He bent towards her. She knew that the confidence was at last to be hers. It needed her strongest control to prevent the trembling of her hands. His eyes were alight, his whole body eloquent. At the thought of what he might be about to tell her tho room turned before her. Voices in the little hall. Then the door opened and in came Mrs. Band and Daisy. They had been to the play — Such nonsense. One of these new, serious plays with long, long conversations — Mrs. Band wanted tea. Daisy wanted admiration. Between Lizzie and Breton the precious cup had fallen, smashed to the tiniest atoms. 180 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Meanwhile aimless conversation was more than he, in his present mood, could endure. He made some excuse and, scarcely knowing what he did, found his hat and coat and went out into the square. m There had come to him one of those agonies of loneliness that no argument, no reasoning can destroy. The absence of any letter from Rachel seemed to show that she had abandoned him. In all this vast thickly peopled world there was now no one to whom his presence or absence, his fortunes or disasters mattered. The snowstorm gathered him into its folds ; the snow fell against his mouth, his eyes, and before him, behind him, around him there was a world deserted of man, houses blind and without life. The snow might fall now to the end of time. It would creep up and up, falling from the heavens, rising from the earth, swallowing all creation — the end of the world. He pressed into the park and there under the trees stretch- ing like gallows against the throttling sky temptation to give it all up, to go under and have done with it all, leapt, hot and fierce, nipon him. Mrs. Pont and the others were waiting for him. They would be good to him. The Upper World would not hear nor see nor think of his disasters, and slowly, with the others, life would recede, ho would crumble and decay and cease to care, and death would come soon enough. Then the wind smoto his face and tore at his coat: the snow died away, beyond the black bare trees a very faint . yellow bar threaded the thick grey — promiso that the storm was at an end. Suddenly with the cessation of the storm the long field of white seemed good and restful, and beyond the park the houses showed light in their windows. The yellow spread through the sky, and stars, very slowly, came and the wind died away. Courage filled him. Rachel might never come or write or THE POOL AND THE SNOW 181 care, but he would make the thought of her the one true thing in his heart, and with that he would do battle so long as he could. Christopher and Miss Band ... he thought of them as he trudged his way home — and when he saw the white silence of Saxton Square and the golden sky breaking above its peace and quiet he thought that, for a time longer, he would keep his place and hold his own. CHAPTER II A LITTLE HOUSE " Each in the crypt ' would cry, 'But one freezes here! and wbjrt * When a heart, as chill, ' At my own would thrill ' Back to life, and its fires out-fly t 'Heart, shall we live or diet The rest . . . settle by-and-by! * " Rouebt Browning. RACHEL at Sedden Court watched, from her window, that first fallen snow. Seddon Court is about three miles from the town of Lewes and lies, tucked and cornered, under the very brow of the Downs. It is a grey little house, old and stalwart, with a courtyard and two towers. The towers are Norman; the rest of the house is Tudor. Beyond the actual building there are gardens that run to the very foot of tho Downs, with only a path and an old stone wall intervening. Above tho house, day and night, year after year, the Downs are bending; everything, beneath their steady solemn gaze, is small and restless; as the colours are flung by the sun across their green sprawling limbs the house, at their feet, catches their reflected smile and, when the sun is gone and the winds blow, cowers beneath their frown ; every- thing in that house is conscious of their presence. Rachel had been at Seddon Court for a month and now, at, the window of her writing-room, looking across tho garden, up into their dark shadows, she wondered at their indiffer- ence and monotony. Anyone who had known her before her marriage would bo struck instantly, on seeing her now, by a chango in her. 1 89 A LITTLE HOUSE 183 Her whole attitude to the world, during her first season in London, had been an attitude of wonder, of expectation, of the uncertainty that comes from expectation. With that expectation were also alarm, distrust, and it was only when some sudden incident or person called happiness into her face that that distrust vanished. Now she was older, that hesitation and awkwardness were gone, but with their departure had vanished, too, much of her honesty. Her dark eyes were as sincere as they had ever been, but to anyone who had known her before her attitude now was assumed. Nothing might catch her unprepared, but what experiences were they that had taught her the need for armour ? Sitting in her room looking on to a lawn that would soon be white and to Downs obscured already by the thick tumbling snow, she knew that she was unhappy, disappointed, even alarmed. Suddenly to-day the uneasiness that had been gathering before her throughout the last weeks assumed, on this afternoon, the definite tangibility of a challenge. " What's the matter — with me, with everything f . . . What's happened ? " Her room, dark green and white, had no pictures, but a long low book-case with grave handsome books, an edition of someone in red with white paper labels and another edition of someone else in dark blue and another in gold and brown, an old French gilt mirror, square, with a reflection of the garden and the foot of the Downs in it, an old Queen Anne rosewood writing-table, some Queen Anne chairs, a gate- legged table : — a very cool, quiet room. At her feet with his head resting on her shoe there lay a dog. This dog about a fortnight ago she had found in a field near the houso with a kettle tied on to his tail, and his body a confused catastrophe of mud and blood. She had carried him home; it had needed some courage to introduce him into the household, for Roddy possessed many dogs, all of the -finest breeds, and this was a mongrel 184 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE ■who defied description.. He was very short and shaggy and stumpy. He was much too large for a Yorkshire terrier and yet that was undoubtedly his derivation. There was some- thing of a sheep-dog in him and something of a Skye; his hair fell all over his face and, when you could seo them, his eyes were brown. His noso was like a wet blackberry and his ears were long and full of emotion ; when he ran his short tail, on which the hairs were arranged like branches on a Christmas tree, stuck up into the air and he resembled a rabbit. In the confusion of the moment Eachel had called him Jacob, because she thought that Jacob was, in the Bible, the " hairy one." . . . After all, you could not call a dog Esau. Yes, to retain him had needed courage Thinking of Eoddy's attitude to the dog brought so many other attendant thoughts in its train. Roddy in his devotion to animals (and oh! he was devoted), had no room for those that wero not of the aristocracy. Concerning dogs who were mongrels he was kind but thought them much better dead. Unkind he would never be, but the way in which he ignored Jacob was worse than any unkindness. Jacob, sensitive perhaps from early suffering, knew this and avoided Eoddy, ran out of the room when ho came into it, showed in every way that he must not expect to rank with the other dogs. Very characteristic this attitude of Eoddy, but very char- acteristic, too, the affection that Jacob was now receiving from his mistress. There was something that Jacob drew from Eachel that none of the fine, noble dogs of the houso ■was able to secure. . . . Why ? . . . What, again, was tho matter ? Why was Eachel unhappy ? Rachel was unhappy, and tho answer came quite clearly to her as the room was darkened by the great storm of snow now falling over - the Downs and the garden, because mar- riage with Roddy had not lessened in any way that uneasy A LITTLE HOUSE 185 disquiet that had stirred, without pause, heneath her life be* fore her marriage; that uneasiness had, indeed, during the last three months, increased. . . . Was this her fauk-or Roddy's ? ^ Attacked now by a scrutiny that refused dismissal she delivered herself up to the investigation of these months of her married life. She knew that she had only once been happy since her marriage — that was on the first evening, when, the noise and clamour of the London wedding having died away, she lad walked with Roddy in the peace of the Massiter garden (Lady Massiter had lent her house for the first weeks of the honeymoon), had felt his arm about her, had believed that there had really come to her that comfort and safety for which she longed. After that there had followed a fortnight of great un- reality — the strangest excitement, the most adventurous wonders, but a wonder and excitement that were from her- self, the real Rachel Beaminster, most absolutely removed. It was as though she had watched closely but detached the experiences of some other girl. Eoddy had, during those times, been a most ardent and passionate lover; she had tried to respond and had hidden, as best she could, her fail- ure. Then, suddenly, with the time of their going abroad, pas- sion had loft him; it had left him as swiftly as the passing of wind over a hill. It was there — it was gone. But he remained the perfect husband. His kindness, his charm, his simplicity, his affection for her — an affection that could never for an instant be doubted — these things had delighted her. He was now the friend, the strong re- liant companion that she had wanted him to be. During those firut weeks in Italy and Greece happiness might have come to her had she not beep stirred by her remembrance of the earlier weeks. The passion that had been in him, al- though it had not touched her, now in retrospect lit fires foB 18'6 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE her imagination. Instantly back to her had come the whole disquiet . and unrest. The things that Eoddy called from her now, she suddenly discovered with a great shrinking alarm, were all the Beaminster things. All the true emo- tions, qualities, traditions that made up hor secret life were roused in her by their own inherent vitality, nover by his evocation of them. He was Beaminster — Roddy was Bea- minster. With his kindness and courtesy his eyes saw tho world with the eyes of his ancestors, his tongue spoke tho lan- guage that had in it no sincerity, his heart wished for all the ceremonies and lies that the Beaminster had believed in since the beginning of time. But her discovery did not lead her much further. She had, in her heart of hearts, always known that Roddy was a Beaminster. Why then had she married him? She had married him because she had been untrue to herself, because she had herself encouraged the Beaminster blood in her to blind her eyes, . because she had desired deceit rather than truth, because she had wanted the comfort that the man could give her rather than the man himself, because she had muf- fled and stifled and silenced that Power in her — the Power that made her restless and unquiet; the Power that was as hostile to the Beaminster faith as heaven is to hell — And yet this vehemence of explanation did not altogether explain Roddy. Roddy was not simply a Beaminster like Uncle John or Uncle Richard or Aunt Adela. There was an elemental direct emotion in Roddy that was exactly opposed to Beaminster conventionality. These two elements in him puzzled and even frightened her. His attitude during that first fortnight of their mar- riage she saw, again and again, in lessor degrees during their time abroad. She had seen him so primitive in his joy and excitement over places and people and moments — colour, food, storms, towns, passers-by, anything — that she had been astounded by the .force of it. Emotions swept over him and were gone, but, whilst they were there, she know that she A LITTLE HOUSE 187 counted to him for nothing. Strangest of ironies that when he was least a Beaminster, then was she farthest from him — strangest of ironies that her link with him should he the Bea- minster in him. She was frightened of his primitive passions. She had in her the instinct that one day they would touch his relation- ship to her and that that contact would rouse in her the full tide of the unhappincss of which she was now so conscious, and that then . . . what might not happen ? . . . And yet behind it all she felt a strange, almost pathetic satisfaction bccauao he, after all, had in him, just as she had, his two natures at war. There at least they found some common link ; her eagerness to find some link was evidence enough of the affection she had for him. After their return to England the wilder nature in him had extended and broadened. Everything to do with Seddon Court drew it out of him ; his passion for the place was won- derful to witness. Every stone of the little grey building was a jewel in his eyes; the servants, the cattle, the horses, the dogs, the flowers, the villagers, even the townspeople of Lewes drew sentiment from him. " My old place," he would say, cuddling it to himself; he was never " sloppy " about it, but direct and simple and straightforward. It was obviously the great emotion above all other emotions. He was most anxious that Rachel should share this with him, and during her first weeks there she thought that she would do so. Then the disquiet in her spread to the place. The house spread itself out before her now as the lure that had from the beginning tempted her. " It was for this place and quiet that you were false to yourself " Boddy felt that she did not share his enthusiasm, and their difficulty over this was exactly their difficulty over everything else; simply that Boddy was the least eloquent person in the world. He could explain nothing whatever of 188 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE the vague unhappiness or dissatisfaction at his heart. Rachel could have explained a great many things, but Roddy, she felt, would only look' at her in his kind puzzled way and •wonder why she couldn't-take things as they were. Perhaps during these, last weeks he had himself felt that all was ' not f well.' , Rachel thought that sometimes now through all his kindness she detected a floating, wistful spec- ulation on his part as to whether she were happy. He wanted, her , to be happy — most tremendously ho wanted it — and did she explain to him that she was not happy because she Was; now, for ever attended by a sense of her own disloyalty to all that was best in her, ho would have suggested a doctor or. have made her a present. Had she been some "stranger and had the case been pre- sented to him-he would have probably dismissed it by saying that " having made ,her bed she must lie on it." " After all, she married the feller — Well then, that's her look-out." So, perhaps, if this, had been simply her trouble she would have done her bravdst best to endeavour. But there was -more behind it all — far, far more. She saw her marriage to Roddy, her struggling for self- respect, her present- morbid introspection as a stage in what was now developing into a duel between herself and her grandmother. , »..».-.?- Her grandmother had planned this marriage. Her grand- mother was determined to destroy the honesty and truth in her and had chosen a Beaminster for her agent and now waited happy for the death of Rachel's soul. But Rachel's, soiil should not so readily diel During all these weeks the thought of her grandmother had been con- tinually with her.,, How she hated her, and with what fervour did Rachel return that hatred ! There was no melodrama in this hatred. When she had been a very little^girl Rachel had somehow believed that her grandmother had-been very cruel, to her mother and father — > She had hated her for that. Then she had seen that her A LITTLE HOUSE 189 ■ grandmother disliked her and wished to tease her — so she had hated her for that also. Her older amplification of this into principles and instincts had not altered the original vehemence of the passion, it had only given it grown-up reasons for its existence. And so, thinking of her grandmother, she thought also of Francis Breton. Some weeks ago she had received a letter from him and that letter was now lying in the desk of her writing-tahle. She had thought that her marriage would have snapped her interest in her cousin because it would have broken that hostility with her grandmother upon which her relationship with her cousin so largely depended. But now when she saw that marriage had only intensified her hostility to the Duch- ess, so therefore it had intensified her perception of Breton. His letter had aroused in her, just as contact with him aroused in her, everything in her that now, for her own peace of mind, she should keep at bay. His letter had amounted to this: " You are a rebel as I am a rebel. We have said very lit- tle, but you have recognized in me the things that I have rec- ognized in you. You have escaped through marriage, but for mo there is no escape, and if you would, for the sake of those things that we have in common, keep me from going utterly under, then you must help me — as only you can." Ho did not say this nor anything at all like this. He only, very quietly, congratulated her on her marriage, hoped that sho would be very happy, said that London was a little desolate and difficult, hoped that she would not think more harshly of him than she could help, and, at the very end, told her that meeting her made him feel that he was not entirely abandoned by everybody. It was the letter of a weak man and she knew it, but it was the letter of a man who was weak exactly in the places where sho also failed. And this, more than anything else, moved her. 190 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE They two alone, it seemed, were struggling to keep their feet in a world that did not need them. It had been, through these months, Eachel's sharpest unhappiness, the consciousness that Roddy and indeed everything at Seddon Court could get on so very well without her. Nobody in London needed her — nobody here needed her. If you accepted the" Beaminster doctrine, then no wife would demand more from a husband than Roddy gave Rachel — but was this not simply another proof that Rachel had made a Beaminster marriage ? ' Rachel had been flung straight from the schoolroom into marriage and the sensitive agonizing cry of a child to be loved by somebody — tho cry that had always been so urgent in her — was urgent still. It was exactly this comfortable sense of being a help that Roddy had not given hor. Now this lottor gayo.it to hor. But if tins letter wus an appeal, just as the mongrel Jacob, now at Iter foot, was an uppoal, on tho part of boiiioouo Wounded and outcast, to hor pity, so also was it an invitation to rebellion. It was also a temptation to deceit and, did she answer the letter, she encouraged Breton to write again ; she opened up not only a new relationship to him, but also a new relation- ship to all the forces that were most hostile to Roddy and hor married happiness. May Eversloy had once said to her: " Sit down and see, without any exaggeration or false colour- ing, what you've got Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you imagine that you've got but haven't. Take away ruth- lessly everything that you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident of securing — See what's happened to you in the past — Take away ruthlessly any sentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quite resolutely from your ugly mistakes." Long ago she had written this down — now was the first necessity for applying it. The doctrine of Truth -r- Truth to Oneself, the one thing A LITTLE HOUSE 191 ihat mattered. She knew that the pursuit of Truth was to her, and to every rebel against the Beaminsters, the restive Tiger. In marrying Roddy she had been untrue to herself. In writing to Breton she would be true to herself but untrue to Roddy. She was fond of Roddy although she did not love him, nor did he, really, love her. The anxiety on both their parts to avoid hurting one another was proof enough of that, she thought There then was the whole situation. As she felt Jacob's warm head against her foot a great agitation of loneliness and dismay and helplessness swept over her. Tears were in her throat and eyes — Then with a strong disdain she pushed it all from her. She was growing mor- bid, losing her sense of humour and proportion. Here in the house there was Nita Raseley staying; in the county there Avoro pcoplo to bo called upon, to bo invited, to bo interested in, tlioro was Roddy, a perfect husband. Slip strangled that othor Ruchol, thero in hor room. " Now you'ro dond,!' sho folt, and seemed to fling a lifoloss, crumpled figure out into tho snow — Sho looked at herself in the glass. " You're not Rachel Beaminster now — you're Rachel Sed- don. Act accordingly and don't whine — " She washed her face and brushed her hair, and combed Jacob's hair out of his eyes, and then, determined to be sensible and cheerful and civilized, went down to tea. The room called the Library was the pleasantest room in the house; an old, long, low-ceilinged room with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, with a large stone open fireplace and book-cases running from end to end and old sporting prints above them. Before the great fireplace the tea was waiting and there also was Nita Raseley, very charming and fresh and pink in the face and golden in the hair. It was strange that. Nita 192 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Raseley should have been their first guest since their mar- riage, because Rachel, most certainly, did not like her; but, after that meeting at the Massiters' the girl had flung a pas- sionate and incoherent correspondence upon Rachel and had ended by practically inviting herself. Roddy liked her ; Rachel knew that — so perhaps after all it had been a good thing, to have her there. Rachel's dislike, of her was founded on a complete distrust. " She's all wrong and insincere and beastly. I'll never have her hero again. . . , f * And yet, really, Miss Raseley had behaved herself, had been most quiet and decorous and most affec- tionate. The electric light was delicately shaded, the curtains were drawn, outside was the storm, here cosiness and shining com- fort " Oh ! darling Rachel — I am so glad you've come — I do so want tea " "Where's Roddy J" " Just come in — He'll be here in a minute " Rachel came over to the fire and was busy over the tea- table. " Well, Nita, what have you been at all the afternoon I " " Oh 1 that silly old book. Rachel, how could you tell me " "What book?" " Oh ! you know — you lent it me. Something like drink- ing — you know. By that man Westcott — such a silly name." "The Vines! — Didn't you like it!" " Like it ! My dear Rachel, why, they go on for pages about each other's feelings and nothing happens and I'm sure it's most unwholesome. They're all so unhappy and always hating one another. I like books to be cheerful and about people one knows — don't you ? " " Well, Nita dear, it's a good thing we don't all like the same things, isn't it ? Sugar ? " A LITTLE HOUSE 195 a Yes, dear, you know — lots — Darling, nave you got a headache? You do look rotten — you do really." Rachel knew that she must keep an'especial guard to-day: ■he was irritable, out of sorts. She would have liked im- mensely to send Nita to have her tea in the nursery, were there one. ....... . " No, I'm all right. But I wanted to get out and this storm stopped me." '; • " You do look dicky ! Oh ! what do you think ! Roddy's taking us over to Hawes to-morrow to lunch if the weather's anything like decent He's just fixed it up — sent a wire " '"' • " To-morrow ? But I can't. ... He knows. I've got Miss Crale coming here " " Only old Miss Crale ? Put her off ■ " I can't possibly — I've put her off once before. She wants to talk about her Soldiers' Institute place — " Then Rachel added more slowly, "But Roddy knew " " Oh ! he said you'd got some silly old engagement, but he knew you'd put it off ! " " He knows I can't. He was talking about it this morning. Ho knew how " Then she stopped. She was not going to show Nita Raseley that she minded anything. But Roddy had always said that they would go over to- gether to nawes — one of the loveliest old places in the world — He had always promised. . . ; ' ' * Sho knew perfectly well what had occurred. Nita had caught Roddy and clung on to him and persuaded him — Roddy was such a boy — But she was hurt and she despised herself for it. ( " Oh," she said, laughing. "That's all right. You two must just go over together — that's all 1 I'll go another time " " Well, you see, Roddy did send a wire and the Rocking- tons would hate being put off at the last moment . . .Oh I You beastly dog! He's been licking' my shoe, Rachel 194 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Really he oughtn't to, ought he ? So funny of you, Rachel, •when he's such a mongrel and Roddy's got such lovely darlings — Of course Jacob's a dear, but he is rather absurd to look at " Jacob glanced at her, shook his ears and then, hearing a step that he knew, retired, instantly, under a sofa in a far corner of the room. Roddy camo in and stood for a moment laughing across at them. He was in an old tweed suit with a soft collar and his face was brick-red; looking at him as he stood there, tho absolute typo of health and strength and cleanly vigour, Rachel wondered why she folt irritable. She certainly was out of sorts. "Hullo, you two," Roddy said, "you do look cosy! Talkin' secrets, or will you put up with a man ? " "Oh! Roddy," said Nita Rascley, "why,^of course. Rachel's only just come down, hasn't been" any time for se- crets. Come and get warm." Room was made for him. Rachel smiled at him as she gave him his tea. " Well, Roddy, what have you been doing ? I've been trying to write letters and Nita's been abusing a novel I lent her. I hope you've been better employed " " I've been botherin' around with Nugent over those two horses he bought last week. And — oh ! I say, Rachel, you'll come over to Hawes to-morrow, won't you ? " "You know I can't. I've got Mies Crale coming to luncheon " " Oh, I say 1 Put her off " " Can't — I've put her off before and she doesn't deserve to be badly treated " "Ohldasb.it! But I've gone and wired. The Rocking- tons won't like my changin' " " Well, don't change — you and Nita go over " " No, but you know we'd always arranged to go over to- gether. You see, I felt sure you'd put old Miss Crale on to another day. She won't mind " A LITTLE HOUSE 1»S " No, Roddy, thank you. That's not fair on her. It can't be helped. You go over ■with Nita." Then there occurred between them one of those little situa- tions that were now so frequent. Rachel was hurt, but was. determined to show nothing ; Roddy knew that she was hurt, but was quite unable to improve relations, partly because he had no words, partly because " a feller looks such a fool tryin' to explain," partly because there was in him a quality of sul- len obstinacy that was mingled, most strangely, with his kind- ness and sentiment. He was absolutely ready to fling Nita and the Rockingtons into limbo, but he was quite unable to set about such a business. Moreover now there was Nita Raseley — It was at this mo- ment that Jacob, having fought in the dark recesses of the sofa between his dislike of Roddy and his love of tea, de- clared for his stomach and walked slowly, and with the dig- nity required by the presence of an enemy, across the room. " Hullo 1 there's the mongrel — " Roddy endeavoured to cover earlier awkwardness by easy laughter, but the laughter was not easy and his attempt to pat Jacob was frustrated by a sidling movement on the dog's part. Then Nita Raseley laughed. Roddy now thought that women were damnable, that his wife had no right to drag a mongrel like that about with her, that he'd show them if they laughed at him, and that if Rachel couldn't come to-morrow, why then, she must just lump it — The last thought of all was that Rachel was always finding a grievance in something. He waited a little while, talked in a stiff and unnatural fashion and then went. " This weather is very trying, dear, isn't it ? " said Nita. '" If I were you I really-would go and lie down. You do look so seedy ! " " I think I will," said Rachel. As she went slowly upstairs to her room she knew that she would answer Francis Breton's letter. CHAPTER III FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE "He began to love her so soon as he perceived that she was passing sot of his control." Janc Austen. N EXT morning Rachel wrote the following letter to Fran- cis Breton: " Deak Mb. Breton, It was good of you to write to me and I must apologize for allowing your letter to remain so long un- answered, but, on my return from abroad, there were naturally a great many things to do and a great many people to see. My husband and I enjoyed our time abroad im- mensely : it was my first visit to Greece and Italy and I loved every bit of it — Athens is to mo more wonderful than now, hero so snugly in England, seems possible; Florence and Rome very beautiful of course but spoilt, don't you think, by tourists and the modern Italian who has learnt American habits — How is London? I've not yet had a good look at it since I came back, but wo shall be coming up soon, I ex- pect, and havo taken a flat in Elliston Square, between Portland Place and Byranston Square. Your letter sounds a littlo dismal ; it is kind of you to say that I can holp you, but, indeed, if writing to mo lielps do do ho. It is only fuir to say that at present my husTmnd shares tho family point of viow and, so long as that in ho, 1 cannot iihIc you In coino and hod mo, hut T hopo that soon lio will boo tho wholo iiIFhU' more sensibly. Yours vory sincerely, Kaoiiux Shddon." 180 FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE 19? She was not proud of this letter when she read it. She whose impulse was for truth seemed to he flung, at every turn, into direct dishonesty. No, she would not seize on the ex- cuse of some vague tyrannical fate. She was herself her own agent in this affair and she bit- terly, from her heart, condemned herself ... and yet, strangely, this letter to Breton seemed, in obedience to some inward impulse, her most honest action since her marriage. Yet why did she not go to Roddy now and say to him that she had written to Breton and was determined to act as his friend ? Roddy would forbid any further relationship; she knew that. And then ? . . . No, she could not see beyond — She banished the letter from her mind, saw the two of them off to Hawes, and entertained Miss Crale to luncheon. Miss Crale was a broad and shapeless old maid with huge hoots, a bass voice and a moustache. She was behind most of the charitable affairs in the county, was popular everywhere, and the most energetic character Rachel had ever met — Rachel liked her and she liked Rachel, and after she had departed, breathless and red-faced, on some further visit con- cerned with some further charity, Rachel felt braced and in- vigorated and happier than she had been for many weeks.. It was a day of frosted blue and the sun flashed fire on to the great field of snow that stretched from sky to sky. The Downs lay humped against the blue and tho wholo world was frozen iuto silence. Tho only sounds woro the soft stir tho snow, falling from branches or walls, made and tho sharp cries of some children playing in a field near at hand. When Mian Oralo had gono Rnehol wont off for a walk, Jacob wus with hot*. Shu struck up tho winding path on to tho Downs. Tho snow was hard and yielded a ploasant friendly crunch beneath her feet. Shadows that woro dark iniil yet woro filled with colour lay across tho snow; beneath 198 THE DUCHESS OP WREXE her a white valley against which troea and buildings scorned little wooden toys and, in the far distance, hills rising, cut, with their iridescent glow, tho blue sky. - No clouds; no movement; no sound: and soon tho sun would be golden and then hard and red, and then across all the snow pink shadows would creep and tho evening stars would burn — In tho heart of tho snow, a valley between tho shoulders of the Downs, a black clump of trees clustered ; she could see, now, Seddon Court like a grey box at her feet, very tiny and breathing rest and peace. Some of her trouble slipped from her under this clear sky and in this sharp air ; from these quiet bills sho saw all her introspection as an evil thing, morbid, cowardly; from hero it seemed to her that her trouble with Roddy had been bo- cause he did not know what introspection meant and could not understand the appeals that she made to him. But was it not unfair that men should have so many things that could take the place of love ? Eor Eoddy there wero a thousand emotions to give meaning to life: for Rachel all experience seemed to come to her only through people and her relations with people. Soon the valley and the little toy houses were behind her and she had only the white rise and fall of the hill on every side. Dropped into a hollow was a little dark deserted house with bare trees about it; otherwise there wa3 no dwelling- place to be seen. This absence of human life suddenly drew up before her, as sharply and with as living an actuality as though some mirage had cast it there — London — Three months in the country had flung the London that she knew into a vivid perspective that was quite novel to her. By the London that she knew she did not mean the London of parties and theatre, the London of Kita and her kind, but rather the actual London of, the streets and squares and f oun- FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE 19? tain and parka and dusty plane trees and tinkling organ* grinders. She felt now quite a thrill of excitement to think that, in another week or two, she would bo back in it all and would see all the lamps coming out and the jingling cabs and the heavy lumbering omnibuses, and that she would hear again the sharp crying of the newspaper boys and the ringing of church bells and tho thud of the horses down the Row and the hum of voices above the orchestra during the intervals of some play. She thought of Portland Place and tho park and the Bound Church and tho little shops and Oxford Circus and the buses tumbling down Regent Street into Piccadilly and then tum- bling down again into Pall Mall. From Portland Place she seemed to look down over the whole of London and to see it like a jewel, with its glow dazzling the night sky — She knew now that although she hated her grandmother she did not hate the Portland Place house and she was glad that Roddy had taken a flat near there. No other part of London would ever bo quite tho same to her as that was: it would always be home to her more than any other place in the world, with its space and air and sense of life crowding around it. And, as she walked, she was fired with the desire to have some real active share in the London life; not in the sham life of pleasure and entertainment, but to be working, as all kinds of men must be working, with London behind them, influencing them, sometimes depressing them, sometimes ex- alting them, always moving within them. That was a fine ambition to work towards a greater London, a greater, finer, truer world, and whether you were politician or artist or journalist or merchant or novelist or clerk or philanthropist, still by your working honestly y«u would de- serve your place in that company. If she could have some share in such things, then her mi*- 800 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE erable doubts and forebodings would vanish in a vision too bright and glorious to contain them — As she walked her faco glowed and her body moved aa though it could continue thus, swinging through the clear air, for all time. She determined that on this very evening she would tell Roddy about Breton. Whatever might bo the result life in the future should be clear of Beaminster confusions. Sho would even ask Roddy to help her about Breton, to influence, perhaps, her grandmother with regard to him — Then, in a few days, Nita Easeley would be gone, and, afterwards, she would discipline all her wit and energy to- wards establishing a fine relationship with Roddy. Something had, throughout all these months, been wrong; sho would discover where that wrong lay — Sho would curb her own impatience, would fling herself into his interests, would learn the things that Roddy wanted from her and give them to him — Then, as the sun sank lower and the yellow shadows crept up the sky, she felt desolate and lonely. Vigour left her — She had descended now into the valley and had come to the deserted house with the stark frowning trees. This place, sho had heard, had in the eighteenth century been a privato mad- house, and now behind its darkened windows she could have fancied shapes and down the wind the echo of voices. She fought with all her might against a great tide of loneli- ness that was now sweeping up about her. There had always been so many people around her and yet she had always been lonely. Even May and Dr. Christopher had not helped her there. She had a sense now of all the people in all the world who were waiting for the other people who could understand them ; they were always missing one another, so near some- times, sometimes touching, and then, after all, going through life alone. Those were the people with feelings and emotions — and as /or tho people without them, of what use was life to them? FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE 201 Either way, except for tEe fortunate way, Life was a futile business. Then, climbing up from that sinister little valley and seeing that the sky had turned to violet and that the evening star was there burning as she had known that it would, she laughed at hor morbidity. She shook herself free from it, thought once more of the things that she would do with Roddy, thought of London and the fun that she would have there, thought of Christopher and Uncle John and even Aunt Adela ; then, as she turned down the little crooked path towards the house, she thought again of her cousin ; she would work without ceasing to bring him back into the family. That, at any rate, was work upon which she might com- mence on her return to London, and as she clicked the little wicket-gate, a side-entrance to the garden, behind her, she was almost happy again. The dusk was deepening into darkness, the moon had not yet risen above the hill. She had entered the garden on the further side of the house and passed through a long laurel path, her feet silenced by the snow. Jacob had stayed, some way behind. She could see the white lawn and beyond it the lighted house ; she was about to step out of the dark shadow of the laurels when she found, just in front of her, almost touching her, hidden by the black depth of the trees, two figures. She was upon them with a startled cry. A man had his arms about a woman ; bending back a little he had pulled her forward against him and was kissing her so fiercely that' her hands were buried deep in his coat to steady herself. Rachel knew them instantly; they were her husband and Nita Raseloy — Sho stepped past them on to the lawn and at that instant they were conscious of her — Then sho walked swiftly into the house. 202 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE ii She went up to her bedroom. No thought came to her, her mind was blank, but she noticed little things, put some of the silver things on her dressing-table in order, pulled her blind a little lower, moved to the firo and pushed the logs into a blaze. She sat there for a long, long time. When the dressing-bell echoed through the rooms she was still sitting there, thinking nothing-— Her maid came to her ; she told her the dress that she would wear and after a while sat staring into her mirror whilst her hair was brushed. Lucy said, " The snow's begun again, my lady. Coming down fast " Then some absence of light in her mistress's eyes fright- ened her and she said no more. .Someone knocked on the door: a note for her ladyship. Rachel read it : " It was all a horrible, horrible mistake. ; Darling Rachel, you know it was only fun — just nothing at all. Shall I come and explain i If you'd rather not see me just now say so and I shall quite understand. I've been so upset that I think I won't come down to dinner, if it isn't too much bother having just a little sent up to me. It was all such a silly mistake, a3 you'll see when we've explained. Your loving Nita." When she came to " we " Rachel coloured a little. Then •he said, " Lucy, bring me the local railway-guide. In mj writing-room." Lucy brought it to her. Then she wrote : " Deae Nita, No explanations necessary. There is a good train up to town from Hawes at 9.30 to-morrow morning. Yours, Rachel Seddon'. w FIRST SEQUEE TO DEFIANCE 203 u I want this taken to Miss Raseley, Lucy — now. Sbe'j; not very well, so ask Haddon to see that dinner is sent up to her room, please." Then sho finished dressing and went down to Roddy. ni He had perhaps expected that she would not come down, but there was no opportunity given them for speech because the butler announcing dinner followed her into the library. They went in. He sat opposite her, looking ashamed, with, his eyes low- ered, and the red coming and going in his sunburned cheeks. They talked for the sake of the servants, and she asked him whether Hawea had been as lovely as ever and whether ladjj Rockington's nerves were better, and how their youngest boy (delicate from his birth) was now. Whilst she spoke her brain was turning, turning like & wheel; could she only, for five minutes, think clearly, then might much after disaster be avoided. She knew that in the conversation that was to come Roddy would follow her lead and that it would be she who would be responsible for all con- sequences. Sho knew that and yet she could not force her brain to be clear nor foresee what the end of it all was to be. The dessert and the wine came at last and she went — u I'll be in the library, Roddy," she said. He gave her a quarter of an hour, and in that pause, with 1 the house quite silent all about her and the fire crackling and the lights softly shining, she strove to discipline her mind. She had known as soon as she had seen them there that the most awful element in it was that this had in no way altered the earlier case — it merely precipitated a crisis and de- manded, a definition. Nothing could have proved to her that she had never loved Roddy so much as her own feeling at this crisis towards him. Therein lay her own sin. It was simply now of the future that she must think. Tbd 204 ^TflK DUUHESS OV WHEXE awful chasm that might divide them after this night, were uot their words most carefully ordered, shook her with fear ; peril to herself, for she could stand aside and see herself quite clearly : and she knew that if to-night she and he were to say things that they could neither of them afterwards forget, then, for herself, and from her deep need of love and affection, there was temptation awaiting her that no disguise could cover. Then, as more clearly she figured the scene in the garden, patience seemed difficult to command. She hated Nita Raseley — that was no matter — but she despised Roddy, and were he once to-night to see that con- tempt she knew that his after remembrance of it would divido them more completely than anything else could do. When he came in she had still no clearer idea of what she intended to say, or how she wished things to go. She was sitting in an arm-chair by the fire with her hands shielding her face, and he sat down opposite her and stared at her and cleared his throat and wished that she would take her hands down and then finally plunged : " Rachel — I don't know — I can't — hang it all, what can I say ? I've been a beastly cad and I'd cut my right hand ofl to have prevented it happening " She took her hand down and turned towards him — " Let's cut all the recrimination part, Roddy," she said. " It was very unfortunate — that was all. It was rather beastly of you, and as for Nita " Here he broke in — " No, I say, you mustn't say anythin' about her. She wasn't a little bit to blame — It just " " Well, we'll leave Nita. She isn't of any importance, any- way. The point is that things have been wrong for months between us, and as we haven't been married very long that's a pity. This has ju9t brought things to a head, that's all " " No," said Roddy firmly. " No, Rachel, that ain't fair to Nita. I know it isn't nice, but I must put that out fair and Kmare — fair and square to Nita. FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE 205 " We'd had a jolly old drive to Hawes — Tippin' day, cold as anythin', with the horse just spankin' along, and then the Rockingtons wore jolly and the lunch was jolly and hack we came. We looked about the house for you and heard you were still out walkin', bo we just strolled about the garden a bit and then — Well, anyway, Nita simply had nothin' to do with it. It was so rippin' and jolly after the drive and all, that I just kissed her. All in a second I just felt I had to . . . beastly weak of me," he finally added in a contempla- tive tone. " Well, that disposes of Nita," said Rachel. " Don't let's mention her again. Meanwhile what sort of life am I going to have if ' things ' are going to sweep over you like this continually? Besides, it's rather early days, isn't it? We haven't been married half a year yet" " No," said Roddy slowly, " no, we haven't and it's simply beastly. I'm a perfect swine. Whon I married you the ono thing I meant to do was to be just as kind to you as I jolly well could bo, and give you a perfectly rippin' time, and here I am hurtin' you like anything " She moved impatiently. " Never mind that, Roddy. You have been very kind and I'm sure you'd have given any : thing for me not to have come into the garden just when I did, so as to have avoided hurting me. But what I do know is that you're not straight with me. You know I told you be- fore wo were married that the one thing that mattered was Truth — truth to oneself and truth to everyone else — Well, we haven't .been straight with one another for a single instant. You've done any number of things that would be wrong to you if I knew about them, but wouldn't be in the least wrong if I didn't." " Of course," said Roddy, " no feller tells his wife every- thing — that would be absurd. I think things are worse if people know about 'em whom it hurts to know — much worse." She was suddenly confronted now with a Roddy whose 206 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE assurance and confidence in his own personality startled her. Because he had never heen gifted with words and liked to he in the company of dogs and horses she had. fancied that he had no ideas about anything. Eachel was a great deal younger than she knew and a great deal more contemptuous of the other half world than her experience of it justified. Strangely enough this confidence on Eoddy's part angered her more than anything else could have done. " The fact is that since our marriage we've never got to know each other in the least We talk and go to places together and you give me things and I give you things — and that's all. I don't know you and now, after to-day, I can't trust you " He coloured a little at that, hut said nothing. She went on, rather fast and her breath coming between her words: tc But I'm not going to be so silly as to make a scene because I saw you kissing Nita Raseley. She's simply not worth thinking about, — hut you ought to be straighter to me all the way round. If you've wanted to be kind to me as you say, then you might have taken me more into your life " j " Well," said Roddy slowly, " if you'd managed to love me a bit, Rachel, things might be different" This answer was so utterly unexpected that it took her like a blow. That Roddy should attack her when he had, only a few hours before, been discovered so abominably ! "What do you mean, Roddy?" she stammered angrily. "Love you? But " " Yes," he persisted doggedly, " I know when you accepted me you said you didn't and I know that I hadn't any right to expect it, but I believe if you hadn't thought me such a silly ass and hadn't looked all tho time as though you wore just indulgin' my silly fancies until somethin' more sensible had come along, things might have been different. I'm the sort of feller," Roddy 'said, choosing his words carefully, "that FIRST SEQUEL TO DEFIANCE 20% you could have made anythin' out of, Rachel. I'm weak in some ways — most men are — and when a thing comes dancin' along lookin' ever bo temptin', why, then I generally have to go after it. But you could have kept me, Rachel, more than anyone I've ever known " She was not touched nor moved, only angered that he, bo obviously in the wrong, should attempt justification. " Yes," she said hotly. " And I suppose in another mo- ment you'll be telling me that it's silly of me to be angry at what I saw this afternoon ? " He thought it out a moment, then answered: "No, it was perfectly natural of course — only I don't think you ought to mind much. If you really cared, you wouldn't. It don't matter really so much what I do if I still like you hest. Moments don't count — it's what goes on all the time that matters. Why, I might kiss a hundred women and still you'd he the only woman who mattered to me. I've never cared for one so long before," he added simply. Then as she said nothing he went on: "I've never been sort of educated — never cared enough for anyone to give things up. I would have given things up for you if you'd Wanted me to, but you didn't really " " Aren't we a little off the point, Roddy ? " she flung back. " The point is how are we going to get along all the years and . years we've got in front of us ? What are we going to do ? " " Everybody's just the same," said Roddy quietly. " It takes a lot of years before married people settle down. We can't expect to be any different " But although he spoke so quietly he watched her, hoping for some yielding on her part ; in an instant, had she come to him, she would have seen a Roddy whom she had never seen before and from that moment onwards would have had a power over him that nothing could have shaken. So delicately hung the balance between them. But she was filled with a sense of her own wrongs, her loneliness, the in* justice of it all. At that moment all affection for Roddy had 208 THE DUCHESS OP WREXE left her, she would only have been glad if she had known that she was never to see him again. His slow voice, his way of thinking out his sentences, his thick clumsy hands and his red face, everything came to her now as a continuation of the chains that she had worn all her days. _ She got up and confronted him — " Yes," she said fiercely, " that's exactly it. Life is to he like everyone else. We're to say the things, do the things that our neighbours Bay and do. Because your friends at Brooks's kiss their wives' friends, therefore you are to do so. Because the men you know never say what they mean and lie about everything they do, therefore you do the same. Oh! I know ! Haven't I heard it all my life? Haven't my" precious family lived on lies ? You've caught it all from my delightful grandmother ! I congratulate you 1 " " What if I have? " ho said. " She's a friend of mine, Bachel. She's been dashed good to me — You're not to aay a word against her." " I hate her," Rachel cried passionately. " All my life she's been over me — for years she's been my enemy. If she itands for everything that you believe, then it isn't any won- der that we have nothing in common, that you should be proud of this afternoon, that — that " She was biting her lips to keep back the tears. Over his face had crept a sulky obstinate look that might have told her, had she seen it, that she was driving him very far. " She's fine," he said. " She's made England what it is. You're all for ideas, Rachel, and for Truth and lots of things, but you're difficult to live with." " Very well, Roddy. Thank you. Now we know how we stand. I at least owe Nita a debt for having cleared up the situation. If you find it difficult with mo I can at least re- turn tho compliment — and I have at any rate this added advantage, that I speak the truth." As he looked at her across the room he saw in her that same figure that he'd seen once just before proposing to her — ■ FIRST SEQUEL TO. DEFIANCE 209 someone foreign, unknown — He felt aa though he were quarrelling with a stranger. . . . She turned and went. For a long while he stood gazing into the fire, his hands in his pockets. " How had it all happened ? Wbjrjiad they let it come to that kind of quarrel when they might so easily have prevented it? And she, crying bitterly in her room, asked herself the same question. CHAPTER IV RACHEL— AND CHRISTOPHER AND RODDY CHRISTOPHER had snatched his first holiday for two years and was abroad during the January of 1&99 when the Seddons were in town. February, March and April they spent at Seddon Court, and it was not therefore until early in May that Chriatopbei saw Rachel. She had dreaded with an almost fantastic alarm this meet, ing. No other human being knew her so honestly and accu« rately as did Christopher, and the change in her that he would at once discern would, when she caught the reflection of it in his eye3, mark definitely the sinister country into which these last months had carried her. It had seemed as though some malign spirit had been determined to make the most of that quarrel that Nita Rase- ley had provoked. Both Roddy and Rachel hated scenes — upon that, at least, they were agreed — and from their determination never to have another arose a deliberate avoidance of any plain speak- ing. Rachel, longing for honesty, found herself caught in a thousand deceits -r— Roddy, avoiding any kind of analysis, foundthat everything that he provided in conversation seemed to lead to danger. He was now always ill at ease in Rachel's company; he had stood on that fatal evening, more strongly for the Bea- minster interest than he had intended, but from his very determination to maintain his new independence, ho pro- duced the Duches3 for Rachel's benefit at every turn of the road. Roddy knew that the Duchess feared that Rachel would 210 RACKED— AND CHRISTOPHER 211 lead him from her side and that she received with rejoicing every sign on his part of irritation against Rachel. She had ■wanted him to marry her granddaughter because that bound him more closely to her, hut she had not, perhaps, been pre- pared for the probable effect of Rachel's character upon him. The Duchess therefore made, throughout these months, a third member of their company. Roddy, finding Rachel's society a growing embarrassment, spent more and more of his time with his animals and his tenants and labourers. But all this time he was conscious, in a dumb way, of unhap- piness and a puzzled dismay, so that his very affection for Rachel produced in him a growing irritation that it should be so needlessly thwarted. Things were all wrong and his resentment of his own failure to right them reacted, without his will, upon the very person whom he wished to propiti- ate. For Rachel these months were baffling in their hideous dis- comfort. Her affection for Roddy was there, but it was swallowed by her desperate efforts to analyse a situation that was, in definite outline, no situation at all As Roddy withdrew, her loneliness wrapped her round, and in every day that added to her distance from Roddy she saw the active and malignant agency of her grandmother. She was intelligent .enough, to be aware that in this constant vision of the Duchess she waa outstepping the probabilities; but her early years and the precipitation with which she had been shot out of them into an atmosphere that unexpectedly resembled their own earlier surroundings seemed to point to some diabolical agency. " Oh! when I get free of this," had been her earlier cry, and now the foreboding that she was never to be free of it until she died terrified her with its possibility. Imagine ber brought up in a stuffy house with windows tightly closed, in full vision of a high road, imagine her promised the, free- dom of the road at a future time ; imagine her liberated, at 212 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE last,, rushing into the new life and finding that, after all, the walls of the house were still about her, and about her now for ever. Her one reserve during the early months of the year at Seddon had been her letters to Francis Breton. His letters to her had been a series of self-revelation ; ho had restrained himself in so far as appealing to her simply on the scoro of their relationship and his enmity to the head of the house. She had replied revealing her sympathy, hinting at rebellion on her own side and feeling, after the writing of every letter, a hatred of her own deceit, a curiously heightened sense of affection for Roddy, above all a conviction that impulses were, of their own agency, working to some climax that she could not, or would not, control. The foreign blood in her, the English blood in him, baffled their advances toward one another. Everything that Rachel did now seemed to Eoddy so close to melodrama that it was best to use silence for his weapon. All Roddy's actions were to Rachel further illustrations of Beaminster muddle and second-rate personality. Had Roddy called out of Rachel the great depth of passion and reality that she inherited from her mother her own love of him would have solved everything — but that he could not call from her, nor ever would. For Rachel, she saw in him now a possibility of perpetual infidelity, and at every suspicion of it her disgust both at herself and him grew because that possibility did not move her more. They came up to .London at the beginning of May and hid, very successfully from tho world, the widening breach. To Rachel, it was sheer terror to discover the thrill that the adjacence of Elliston Square to Saxton Square gave her. In this one self-revelation there wa3 enough to present her with night after night of sleepless misery. She visited tho Duchess and found that her presence was continually de- manded. Every visit was a battle RACHEL — AND CHRISTOPHER 213 " Show me how you are treating him, whether he cares for you. Have you found him out ? Tell me everything " " I will tell you nothing. I will come here day after day and you shall gather nothing from me. I have escaped you." " Indeed you have not escaped me. My power over you is only now beginning " No word between them but the moat civiL There was no trace in the old woman now of her earlier irony — no sign ia Rachel of irritation or rebellion. But the girl knew that war was declared, that her only ally was one in whose alliance lay, for her, the very heart of danger. .AIL these things she might hide from the world — from Christopher she knew that she could hide nothing. ir It was on an early afternoon in May that Christopher had tea with RacheL He had waited for his visit with very real anxiety; the letters that he had had from her had been un- satisfactory, not because they were actively expressive of unhappiness, but because there was an effort in every word of them — Rachel had never found it difficult to write to him before. Ho was also uneasy because he had been against this mar- riage from the beginning. He did, as ho said to the Duchess, know Rachel better than anyone else knew her; he knew her from his love for her, and also from that scientific study that he applied in his profession. And he had found, too, in her, as ho had found in Breton, somo strain of fierce helplessness, us of an animal caught in a trap, that especially moved his interest and affection — Was Rachel's marriage a disaster ? If so she had certainly managed to conceal it, for even the Duchess did not know — •■ of that he was sure. If Rachel were indeed unhappy would she come to him as alio used to come to him ? 214 THE DUCHESS OP WREXE What change had marriage wrought in her? It was one of those May days when the weather is hofl before London is ready. It was a day of tension ; buildings, streets quivered beneath a sun in whose gaze there was no kindliness nor comfort. Christopher drove from Eaton Square, where, for some hours he had been engaged in pre- venting an old man from dying, when both the old man him- self and all his friends and relations were convinced that death was the best thing for him — Sloane Street ran like white steel before his eyes, not dimly veiled as he had so often seen it; Park Lane offered house9 that stared with haughty faces upon a world that would, they knew, do anything for money — Elliston Square itself was white and sterile ; the town was, on this afternoon, irritated, sinister . . . feet ached upon its pavements and hearts were suddenly clutched with fore- boding. As he ascended in the lift to her flat he knew that, did he (find that this marriage was, truly, a misadventure for Rachel, then, until his death, he would reproach himself for some weak inaction, some hesitation when first he had heard that it was to be. He had protested, but now he felt that he should have done more. Soon he had his answer to all his questions. He saw at once that Rachel was no longer the impulsive, nervous girl whom he had always known. She was a girl no longer. Her eye9 greeted him now steadily, she seemed taller and her body was in perfect control — very tall and slim and dark, her cheeks pale but shadowed a little, with the shadow deepen- ing beneath her eyes. Her mouth, that had always been too large, had had before a delightful quality of uncertainty, so that smiles and frowns and alarm, distress and happiness all hovered near. It was now grave and composed. Her limbs had always moved unsteadily and with the RACHEL— AND CHRISTOPHER 215 awkward lack of control of a child, now there was no kind of impulse, every movement was considered, and that was the first thing that Christopher saw, that nothing that Rachel now did or said was. spontaneous. There was less in her now to remind him of her foreign blood. The flat was comfortable, but more commonplace than it would have been had it been Rachel's only. He kissed her, as he had always done, and he fancied that ehe clung for a moment to him, as her hands went up to hia eoat. He settled his big loose body and looked across at her. Christopher was no subtle analyser of other people's emo- tions. His own feelings were never complicated and he ex- pected life to run on plain and simple lines of likes and dislikes, sorrow, anger, love and hatred. If someone of whom he was fond made a direct appeal to him his simple remedies were often wonderfully useful — he was no fool and he had been brought, during a. great number of years, into the most direct relations with men and women, but, if that direct appeal was not made, then he was frightened and baffled. He was frightened of Rachel now ; he knew instantly that instead of appealing she would defend herself from him. . . . Some mysterious conviction seemed to forebode that he would not be able to help her. He was, essentially, of those who, believing in goodness and virtue and the glorious Millen- nium, are contented, quite simply, with that belief and might, if they stated those simplicities, irritate the scoffers. But he was saved because he made statement on the rarest occa- sions and lived his life instead. ' Here, however, was a crisis in his relations with Rachel thai no platitudes could satisfy. Did he not touch her now he might never touch her again. In a situation that was beyond him he was always hope- lessly self-conscious. His love for Rachel was so tremendous a thing in him that a statement of it should surely have been 216 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE the simplest thing in the world. But he saw in her eyes that to challenge her with — " My dear, you know how I love you. Tell me what's the matter," would frighten her to absolute silence. " I'm going to tell you nothing," she seemed to any to him, " unless you move mo in spite of myself. But, if I don't tell you now I shall never tell you." " Well, my dear," he said, smiling at her, " how are you after all this time ? " " I'm all right," she answered, smiling back at him. " It is good to see you again. Tell mo all about your holiday." " Tell me about yours first." " Oh ! There isn't very much to tell. I enjoyed it all enormously, of course." " What did you enjoy most ? " " Oh ! some of the smaller towns r— Rapallo, for instance. — Oh! yes, and Bologna was fascinating." . " Not Rome and Florence ? " " In a way. But there were too many tourists. Rome one's got to stay in, I'm sure. That first view was disappoint- ing." " And how did Roddy — if I may call him Roddy — enjoy it?" "Immensely, I think. He liked the -country better than the towns though." " You saw lots of pictures ? " " Heaps. Roddy enjoyed them enormously. I'd no idea he knew so much about them. Oh! it was all lovely, and such colours, such light — London seems like a cellar, even in June." There followed then a pause that swelled and swelled be- tween them until it resembled some dreadful monster, hor- ribly stationed there to separate them. Christopher looked at Rachel) but she refused to meet his eyes. " I've lost her. I shall never see her again ! " he thought with despair. Two years ago he would have gone to her, put RACHEL — AND CHRISTOPHER 817 his arms around her, kissed her and drawn from her at once her trouble. He could not do that now. " Your turn, Dr. Chris dear. Tell me about your holi- days." " Oh, mine don't count I went to Brittany first, then up to St. Andrews with another man to play golf." " You're looking splendidly well and you're thinner. What was Brittany like?" " Delightful. Have you ever been there? " " Never. I must get Roddy to take me. Just suit him, I should think." To Christopher's intense relief tea was brought. He came to the table and then, for an instant, he did catch her eyes, saw tears in them, and behind the tears some appeal to him to help her. Her hand was shaking. " How silly of me to spill your tea. I'm so sorry. Let me pour it back. . . ." " Rachel " he began, but a servant entered with something and he waited. When they were alone again, standing over her as though he were afraid that she would escape him, ho plunged. " Rachel dear. We're talking as though we'd never met before. You've never been shy with me like this. If mar- riage is going to make a stranger of you, I shall break young Seddon's neck — — " " No," she said in a voice that was between laughter and tears. "Of course, Dr. Chris. Thing3 are just the same between us, only, only — well, I'm married and — one thing and another, you know." Ho caught both her hands. " You're perfectly happy ? " She met his eyes. " Perfectly." " Happier than you've ever been in your life f * She dropped her eyes. 218 THE DUCHESS OP WBEXE " Happier than I've ever been in my life." " And you'll come to me just the same if there's, any kind of trouble?" " Of course." "You promise?" " I promise." They talked then, for "a little time, of other things. But he was not satisfied. Rachel's soul, caught away in alarm, waa-still beyond his grasp! At last, feeling that the moments were precious and that Roddy might at any instant appear, he sat down on the sofa beside her. "Rachel dear. Something's worrying you. You won't tell me?" " Nothing's worrying " " Ah, but I know — well, if you won't you won't — but if you knew how much I loved you you'd feel that you were cruel not to let me help you." " Dear Dr. Chris — but there is nothing" But her eyes were full of tears. " Look here," he said. " Perhaps you'll feel later on you can talk to me. Just come straight away if you do feel that" He went on. " Don't be frightened, my dear, it there are a whole heap of new emotions, new instincts, stirred in you by marriage. Just take them all as they come. It's all progress, you know. Don't be frightened of anything. Just take the animal by tho head and look at it." That led him to speak about Bran's Tiger. He explained it — the force in people, the way they either grappled with the creature, and at last trained it to help them with their work in the world, or ignored it, silenced it, allowed it at last to die, and so, cosy and lazily comfortable, passed to their day's end, but had, nevertheless, missed the whole pur- pose of life. He enlarged on that and showed the connection of the in- RACHEL— AND CHRISTOPHER 219 dividual Tiger with the welfare of the world, so that every- one who denied his Tiger added to his world's muddle and confusion, and at last there would come an inevitable crisis when war would spring up between those who had grappled with their Tiger and those who had not. " One knows one's own Tiger — absolutely of oneself one knows it and has, of oneself, the choice whether to grapple or not — at least that's what I gathered he meant — I know it struck me at the time." " Oh," she said, with a sigh that quivered through her whole body. " It's so easy to talk. . . . But it's true what he says. I know it." At last Christopher got up to go. He did not know whether he had done any good ; he felt that he was a miser- able failure, and he had a foreboding that one day he would be ashamed indeed that he had not helped her. " Do something," a voice seemed to tell him; " You'll regret ... all your life you'll regret" He turned and held again her hands in his. ..." Rachel — dear — tell me " Her hands were chill and lifeless. Her voice caught "Oh! Dr. Chris 1 »' . ." Then she suddenly stepped back from him — "It's all right . . .I'm all Tight." Come again soon, Dr. Chris dear — come soon." Ho left her and found his way into the hot, breathless street. After he had gone Rachel sat, staring beyond the room out on to the white walls of the houses and the green branches of the trees in the square. Roddy came in. All the afternoon he had been thinking about her; at one moment he was furious with the discomfort that life was now becoming to him, at another moment he was imagining little plans that would sweep all the discomfort away. All this spring they had been miserable together. Now 220 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE -was beginning a time that was always jolly in London and yet he could not enjoy a moment of it. Did she dislike him instead of liking him, or did he like her instead of loving her, it would all be so easy — just the same as any other couple. Ever since that silly Nita incident there had been this restraint, and yet how could that be the cause ? Rachel had made nothing of it; it was because it had meant so little to her that ho had chafed so at the remem- brance of it She was fond of him — he knew that — she was miserably unhappy. He loved her — and he was miserably unhappy. Damn this weather. He looked at her, wondered what would happen did he cross over and suddenly kiss her, knew that he would see her struggle to be kind, to give him what he wanted, knew that that would hurt most damnably, and that he would be in a bad temper for the rest of the evening and would wonder why— . _ ... - So, with a muttered word he went out and up to his dress- ing-room, had a bath, and then lay reading with serious brows The Winning Post until his man told him that it was time to dress. Slowly and with the absorbed care that he always gave to these preparations he made himself ready for the Beamin- ster dinner. CHAPTER V UZZIE'S JOURNEY — I " So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making; Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter In sleep a king; but waking no such matter." William Shakesrabl DURING this year Lizzie Rand was glad that she had so much to do. As she had never until now given the romance in her an opportunity for freedom, so had she never before realized the amazing invasion upon life that that same romance might threaten. Indeed hy the early summer months of 1899 " threaten " was no longer an honest definition, for, now this same Romance had invaded, had conquered, had confronted the very citadels of Lizzie's heart, citadels never surveyed nor challenged at any time before. Nevei theless, oven now, Portland Place noticed no change in Miss Rand. Norris, Mrs. Newton, Dorchester would still, had they been challenged, have protested that Miss Rand had no conception of the softer, more sentimental side of life; she was there for discipline and order — Norris had been known to be led a fearful dance by young women " time and again " — Mrs. Newton had passionately adored the late Mr. Newton until a sudden chill had carried him to St Agnes, Bare Street Cemetery, whither Mrs. Newton, every Sunday, did still make her stately pilgrimage — even Dorchester had once, it was said, paid grim attentions to a soldier who had, unhappily, found in some fluffy young woman a more hopeful comfort. Here, above and below stairsj passion had marked its vic- tims . . . Miss Rand only could have felt no touch of it. 221 222 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE She sometimes wondered at herself that she could so calmly and dispassionately separate the one life from the other. Never, within that neat stern room at Portland Place, was there a shudder or sudden invading thrill at some flashing recollection or imagination. To her work every nerve, every energy was given. Now, indeed, more than ever before in her experience of it did 104 Portland Place demand her presence. Increasingly throughout these months of 1899 was the solemn heavy air unsettled. Lizzie, to whom all impression came with sharpening acute- ness, had seen in the appearance, success and marriage of Rachel Beaminster the disturbing elements at work — " Things will never be the same here again " — she had said to herself. It was, of course, through Lady Adela that Lizzie studied the house. The Duchess she never saw, but it was Lady Adela's attitude, before and after those interviews with her mother, that told their story. Lady Adela had never until now appeared an interesting figure to Lizzie, but now, forth from the dry sterile husk of her, a life, pathetic, struggling against heritages of dumb years, tried to come. Lady Adela was unhappy; the very foundations vi her existence threatened to dismay her, at any moment, by their insecurity. Within her the Beaminster tradition urged, be- fore Lizzie Rand at any rate, the maintenance of dignity and indifference, but the novelty to her of all this disturb- ance brought with it a hapless inability to deal with it, and again and again little exclamations, little surprised wonders at what the world could be coming to, little confused clutch- ings at anything that offered stability, showed Lizzie that trouble was on every side of her. Then through the house rumour began to twist its way — Her Grace was not so well — " The Old Lady was breaking up " (this in the close se- curity of shuttered rooms below stairs). No one could say whence these whispers gathered. Dor- chester would admit nothing. Her own position in the ser- LIZZIE'S JOURNEY — I 223f vants* hall was that of a lofty uncompromising female Jove, and she knew well enough that her supremacy over Norm and Mrs. Newton depended on her mistress's supremacy over the world in general. Not for her then to admit ill health. " Indeed no — Her Grace has been better of late than for years past." But Norris and Mrs. Newton were not to he taken in. They were truly proud now of their alliance with the Bea- minster family royal, but, supposing Her Grace were to leave this world to rule in a better one (" Here to-day, gone to- morrow 'igh or low," as Norris remarked), why, then " Le Roi est mort — Vive le Roi," and the Crown might, in the meanwhile, have passed elsewhere. "You mark my words," Mrs. Newton said to Norris, a 'er Grace will go, old Victorier will go, and where'U the Bea- minster crowd be then, I ask you? Times are movin' too quick. I wouldn't give a toss for your Birth and Debrett and all in another twenty years." To Lizzie also there came other signs of the times. She noticed that now the relations and friends of the family gathered more frequently together than ever before within her memory. The Duke, Lord Richard were continually in the house, and the adherents, Lady Carloes, Lord Crewner, the Massiters and all the others, called, dined, came to tea. Throughout it all there was no expression of any change in the family policy. To Lizzie Lady Adela admitted noth- ing, only there were occasions when, almost against her will, she asked for advice, was uncertain a little, vague a little, even appealing a little. Here Lizzie was exactly right, assisted and yet admitted no need for assistance. Her tact was perfect. Lizzie had also Lady Scddon to besiege her attention. To her considerable surprise Rachel had written to her three times during this year. On each occasion there had been some definite reason for writing, but behind the reason there had been some implied friendliness and Lizzie had, in 224 THE DUOHESS OP WREXE her turn, sent answers that were more than businesslike re- plies. Lizzie had seen Rachel several times in January and at each meeting her impression of Rachel's unhappiness had grown. "There've been three of you," Lizzie said to herself. " There was the girl in the schoolroom, and a fierce awkward difficult creature she was,. There was tho girl in her first season, and a delightful, joyful, radiant creature she was. And now — well, there's a girl married, fierce again, suffering again — above all, afraid of herself." In May Rachel asked Lizzie to go and see her, and Lizzie went. That meeting was in no way personal : Rachel seemed less friendly than she had been on that day, a year ago, when she had been to Lizzie's, but behind all that outward stiffness the appeal was there. " She wants mo to help her," thought Lizzie. " She's too proud now to ask me : the time will come though." All this was connected, she knew, with tho fortunes of the house. Through Lord John, Lord Richard, the Duke, Lady Adela, Dorchester, Norris, Mrs. Newton, tho spirit of uneasi- ness was abroad. Tho Duchess, during these months, more than ever before, wa3 present in every room and passage of the house — The shadow of some coming event hovered. ii ..— ' Over Lizzie's other life, also, the Duchess hovered. Were any disaster to snatch Her Grace from the domination of thif, world into a comparatively humble position in the next, Lizzie did not doubt that the Beaminsters would once more take Francis Breton into their ranks. It was the Duchess who held the gate against him. The romantic side of her did not hold complete dominion. She knew that were Francis Breton once more accepted by the family, his distance from her would be greatly increased. LIZZIE'S JOURNEY — I 225 Were he, on the other hand, to marry her whilst he was yet an exile, then had she no fear of after consequences. She could hold her own with anyone. ' She had now very little doubt that he loved her. She had seen, during the last year, the flame of some passion burning in his eyes, increasingly ho depended upon her and found opportunities for being with her. There was no other woman whom ho saw, of that she was convinced. Often he had been about to tell her some secret and then hud refrained ; she thought that he was waiting until he could be quite assured that she loved him, and she had fancied that since that day in la3t December when the first snow had fallen and they had had that little talk together he had been much happier, as though ho were now convinced of her love for him. The spring passed and still his confession did not come. With the early summer he seemed to be once more unhappy and unsettled, and throughout May she scarcely saw him. Then in July he asked her whether she would dine with him and go to the theatre. He had two dress circle tickets for Mrs, Lemiter's Decision. Something told her that on this evening he would speak to her. As she dressed her fingers trembled so that buttons and hooks and laces were of terrible difficulty. In the glass she saw her checks flaming; she wished she were taller, not so sturdy. Tho lines of her face, she thought, were all so set as though they knew well for what purpose they were there. " Business we're hero for . . ." they seemed to say. For once she envied her sister's fair rounded fluffiness. Her black evening dress was fashionable, almost smart, but just a little stern: she fastened some dark red carnations into her waist and hung around her throat a chain of tiny pearls, her only piece of jewellery. Her hair was restrained and disciplined — she could not extract from it any waves or soft indulgences. 226 THE DUCHESS OE WREXE At the end, staring at her reflection, ehe let herself go. ■" He's seen me all this time as I am. How silly to try to alter things I " Her face glowed, the pearls and carnations seemed to smile encouragement to her. What possibilities had this new, this wonderful Lizzie Rand ! What a life might be hers ! What a happy, fortu- nate woman she was! God, how grateful she was ! Mrs. Rand saw them off in a four-wheeler with an air of reluctance. It always hurt her that anyone should go to the theatre without her. Of course Lizzie was old enough by now to look after hor- eelf, but at the same time this Mr. Breton was no safe char: acter and it would have been altogether "nicer" if Lizzie had suggested her company — Lizzie had not suggested it; with a shiver Mrs. Rand re- signed herself to an evening made hideous by a vision of a world crowded with theatres through whose portals gay au- diences were pouring — " Of course it's selfish of her," she said again and again to Daisy — " Selfish is the only word." Meanwhile the cab was, for Lizzie, a chariot of happiness. He looked splendid to-night, more romantic than he had ever been, with his pointed beard, his armless sleeve buttoned across on to his coat, his top-hat shining, his clothes fitting so perfectly. Poor though he was, he always stood up as smart as anyone, the Duke or Lord John were no smarter. Did he realize, she wondered, that the edge of his hand touched the silk of her dress ? Did ho notice the absurd way that the pearls jumped up and down on her throat ? Did he feel the little shiver of happiness that ran through her body and out at her toes and fingers ? The chariot was dark, but beyond it there were piled lighted buildings ; before these ran streets that flung dark figures, here one by one, now inthrongs, against the glittering colour. LIZZIE'S JOURNEY — I 227 She could not believe that anyone there by the lumbering cab could show happiness that could equal hers. Had she been coldly surveying, from the careful distance of an outside observer, these emotions in some other woman she would have demanded her reasons for such expectation of happiness, but it was her very inexperience of any other such affair in her life that allowed her now to rest assured. As he touched her hand to help her into the restaurant she was sure, by the beating of her heart, that she could not be deceived. The restaurant was in Pall Mall, and as she went in she noticed the string of faithful people waiting round the corner of Her Majesty's Theatre; she was glad that there were so many others enjoying themselves to-night. They sat at a little round table on a balcony and below them other happy people were laughing and talking — Flowers, lights, women not so beautiful that they disheartened one, and, from the open windows, a whir, a rattle, a shout, a cry, a bell, a hurdy-gurdy, a laugh — Oh 1 the world was turn- ing to-night! There was a beautiful dinner, but she was far too happy to cat much. He seemed to understand. They both talked a little, but it was, it appeared, implied between them that their real conversation should bo postponed. She was, to herself, an utterly new Lizzie Band to-night, in- articulate, uncertain, confused. " What's this the papers say about South Africa ? " " Yes, it looks as though there were going to be trouble there. But you can trust Milner — a strong man " " Yes, I suppose so — but it seems a pity that this Confer- ence that they hoped so much from has all fallen through, doesn't it ? They do seem obstinate people." " Well, they are. I was out in Pretoria in '95 — obstinate as mules. But there won't be much trouble — a troop or two of our fellows have only got to show their faces " " Yes, of course. Isn't that a pretty woman down there I 228 THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE There to the light — with the black hair and the diamonds — tall—" But tall women with black hair and Boers in South Africa were merely points to catch hold, and, for an instant, the thrill of the contact and the anticipation and the glorious vision of the wonderful future. Him all this time she closely observed. He was not en- tirely at his ease, when she had been in public with him beforo she had noticed it, his glance at every new-comer, his con- scious summoning of control lest it should be someone whom he had once known, someone who might now, perhaps, not know him. It made him in her eyes all the younger, all the mora happily demanding her protection; how terribly she loved him she had never, she thought, realized until this moment. The Haymarket Theatre, where Mrs. Lemiter's Decision had been given to a grateful world for nearly two hundred nights, was next door. In a moment they were there and the band was playing and the lights were up, and then tho band was not playing and the lights were down, and she was instantly conscious of the places where his body touched hers and of his hand lying white upon his knee. She, Lizzie Rand, most perfect of private secretaries, most sedate and composed of women, found it all that her self- control could secure that she should not then and there have touched that hand with her own. It was not really a good play. There was a lady, Mrs. Lemiter, who had once done what she should not have done. There were a number of ladies and gentlemen, placed round her by tho author, in order that she should, for tho benefit of as many audiences as possible, confess what she had done. During the first and second acts Mrs. Lemiter made little dashes towards escape and the author (naturally omniscient) always placed someone in front of her just in time and there were cries of " Not this way, my good woman." At the end LIZZIE'S JOURNEY — I 229 of the third act, Mrs. Lemiter, thoroughly bored and exas- perated, turned on them all and, fdr a good twenty minutes, told them what she thought of them. During the fourth act they all assured her that they liked her very much and that, as it was now eleven o'clock and she'd lost her temper so successfully that the house would certainly bo filled for many months to come, they'd all better have tea or dinner, whilst a young couple, who had throughout the play loved one another and quarrelled, made it up again. When the play was at an end Lizzie did not know what it had been about. She took his hand and when he was about to hail a cab stopped him. " Let's walk," she said, " it's such a lovely night." He eagerly agreed and they started. ni She knew that her moment had come ; he knew too — she could tell that because all the way up the Haymarket he said nothing. Piccadilly Circus was a screaming confusion. A music- hall invited you to come and hear " Harry and Glare, draw- ing-room entertainers." Lights — red and green and gold — flashed and advised drinks and hair-oil and tobacco. Ladies, highly coloured and a little dishevelled, stared haughtily but inquisitively about them, boys shouted newspapers and dived under horses and appeared, miraculously delivered from tht wheels of omnibuses. It was a rushing, whirling confusion and through it his arm led her, happier in his secure guard than in anything else under heaven. Regent Street was quiet and softly coloured above the mael- strom into which it flowed. He suddenly began : " I've got something I want to tell you — something I've wanted to tell you for a long time. You must have seen " Her voice, coming to her as though it were a stranger's, said, 230 THE DUCHESS OP WREXE " Yes." At the same time, looking about her, almost un- consciously, she registered her memory of the place and the hour — the shelving street, rising with its lamps reflected, be- fore them, a bank of dark cloud that had suddenly appeared and hung, sinister against the night sky, behind the white houses, a slip of a silver moon surveying this same cloud with ' anxiety because it knew that soon its darkness would engulf it " I've wanted to tell youj" he began again, " this long time. It's needed courage, and things during this last year have rather taken my courage away from me." "You needn't be afraid," she said with a little laugh. " You ought to know by this time that you can tell me any- thing, Mr. Breton." " Yes, I do know," he said earnestly. " Of course I know. What you've been to me all this last year — I simply can't think how I'd have kept up if it hadn't been for you." " Oh, please," she said. " No, but it's true. Even with you it's been a bit of a Sght" He paused. She saw that the black cloud had already swal- lowed up the-moon and that a few raindrops were beginning to fall. He went on: " You must have seen that all this time some- thing's been helping me. I've never spoken to you, but you've known " The moment had come. Her heart had surely stopped its beat and she was glad, in her happiness, of the rain that was now falling more swiftly. " I don't know — " he stammered a little. " B'b so diffi- cult. It's come to this, that I must speak to somebody and you're the only person, the only person. But even with one'a best friends — one knows them so slightly — after all, per- haps, you'll think it very wrong " At that word it was as though a great hammer had, of a LIZZIE'S JOURNEY — I 231 sudden, hit her heart and slain it. The street, shining with the rain, rose ever so little and bent towards her. " Wrong? " she said, looking up at him. " Yes. I don't know about your standards — you've been always so kind to me and put up with my faults and so I've been encouraged " Her relief should have awaked the gods of Olympus with its triumph. " I've meant everything I've ever said " " Yes, I'm sure you have and that's why I think you'll understand. As I say, I've got to tell someone or I'll burst. It's j ust this — it's my cousin Rachel — Lady Seddon. Ever since wo first met in your room she's been my whole world. Nothing else has mattered. It's she that's kept me all these months from going under. She's my life, my whole exist- ence now and in the world to come, if there is one. Oh!. Thank God ! " he cried. " I've told someone at last. - If you don't approve I can't help it. I know you'll keep my secret and, after all, it's nothing very terrible. I'm content to go on like this, just seeing her sometimes, writing to her some- times. Now you know, Miss Band, what's been my secret all this time. I've felt it's been between us and that's why I had to tell you. We'll be twice the friends that we were now that I've told you. And I must, I must have someone to talk to about her sometimes. It's been killing me, getting along without it" Now that he had begun words poured from him. He did not know that it was raining ; he saw only Rachel with her white face and dark hair. Lizzie pulled her wrap about her; she was very cold and the rain was coming fast. He was suddenly conscious of this. " I say, what a brute I am ! It's pouring ! " He called a passing hansom and they climbed into it He was aware that she had said nothing. 282 THE duohess of wrexe " There 1 " he said, " you wish I hadn't told you. I know you do. You're shocked." " No," sho said, struggling to prevent her teeth from chat- tering. He felt her shiver. " Why ! you're shaking with cold t We oughtn't to have walked, but I did so want to speak to you about this. Wo must talk about it another time. But, I say, you aren't really horrified about it, are you ? " " No," she said again. " Another time though — There must bo thunder. This storm makes my head ache." She could say no more. The rest of the drive was in silence. In the hall she thanked him for her delightful evening. She looked through the drawing-room door and wished her mother and sister good night, but did not stay to discuss incidents. " " Well," said Mrs. Hand, who had a fine list of questions ready about the play — " There's selfishness ! " Lizzie locked her door, undressed and lay down. Like a sword jagging through and through her brain and piercing from there down to her heart stabbed the refrain: "Oh! I hato her! I hate her! I hate her!" So, wide-eyed, she lay throughput the night. CHAPTER VI ALL THE BEAMINSTER8 " We must expect change," returned Mrs; Chick. "Of weather?" asked Mies Tox in her simplicity. " Of everything," returned Mrs. Chick. " Of course we must. It's * world of change. Anyone would surprise me very much, Lucretia, and would greatly alter my opinion of their understanding, if they attempted to contradict or evade what is so perfectly evident Change!" exclaimed .Mrs. Chick, with severe philosophy — "Why, my gracious me, what is there that does not change 1 Even the silkworm, who I urn sure might be supposed not to trouble itself about such sub- jects, changes into all sorts of unexpected things continually." Dombcy and Bon. AT four o'clock on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 11th, in this year 1899 war between England and South Africa was declared. At that same hour on that same afternoon an afternoon party was given by Lady Adela Beaminster at 104 Portland Place, and all the more important believers in the Beaminster religion were present. Tlie Long Drawing-room had the happy property of ex- tending to accommodate its company and now, shadowy as its corners always were, it yielded the impression still of size and space, its mirrors reflecting its dark green walls that receded from the figures that thronged it. The Duchess (now Boss's portrait of her) hung above the Adams fireplace and a little globe of light shone, on this dark October day, up into that sharp and wizened face and lit those bending fingers and flung forward the dull green jade and tho dark black dress. Many people were present. The Duke, Lord John, Lord Richard of course — also, of course, Lady Carloes, the Mas9i- ters, Lord Crewner, Monty Carfax, Brun, Maurice Garden 233 234 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE the novelist, and his wife — also a fine collection of ladies and gentlemen, important in politics, in the graver camps of so- ciety — also a certain number who belonged by party to those whom Brun had once called the Aristocrats, the Chi- chesters, the Medleys, the Darrants. Old Lady Darrant was there looking like a cook, and Fred Chichester with his kind and freckled features, and Mrs. Medley who had/married Judge Medley's only son. ' Of the Democrats — of the Euddards, the Denisons, the Oaks, not ono to be seen. The men and women who stood about in the room seemed strangely, oddly, of one family. No human being present was without his or her self-consciousness, but it was a self- consciousness that had about it nothing vulgar or strident. No voice in that room was raised ; the very laughter implied, " Here we are, in the very Court of our Temple ; we may then relax a little. For a time, at any rate, we know who we all are." This security was implied on every hand. It was: " Young Rorke's going out — he's the son of Alice Branches — he married old Truddits' daughter," or — " No, I don't know him personally, but Dick Barnett haa seen him once or twice and says he's a very decent feller," or — " Well, I should go carefully, if I were you. Neither the Massiters nor the Crawfords know her and, in fact, I can't find anyone who does." Had a stranger penetrated into the fastnesses of the Chi- chesters or the Medleys he would have been overwhelmed with courtesy and politeness and, unless he had full creden- tials, would have been utterly excluded at the end of it Had he boldly invaded the Denisons he would, unless he could prove his contribution to the entertainment of tho day, have been told frankly that he was not wanted. Had he passed the doors of No. 104 and had no proof of his ALL THE BEAMINSTERS 235 Beaminster faith upon him, Norris would have exchanged with him a quiet word or two and he would have found him- eelf in the bright spaces of Portland Place. Rachel and Roddy had come to the party. Rachel sat on a high chair and looked stiff and pale ; Lady Darrant, hunched up in an arm-chair, was beside her. Lady Darrant's emotions wore divided between the welfare of the church in her parish in Wiltshire and the welfare of her only son, a boy aged twenty who, supposed to be studying for the DipTomatio Service, was really interested in race meetings and polo. ■ Lady Darrant had, like most of the Aristocrats, a tranquil mind. Sorrow, tragedies, perplexities might come and go, the plain surface stability was in no way disturbed. She would have liked to possess more money that she might bestow it upon the church, and she would have preferred that her son should place foreign languages abovo horses, but, since these things were not so, God knew best and the world might have been much worse: none of her friends were ever agitated, outwardly at any rate. Life was calm, sure, proceeding from a definite commencement to a definite conclusion and — God knew best. Rumours came to her of atheists and chorus girls and American millionaires, but she was neither alarmed nor dismayed. At a Beaminster entertainment she felt that she was among strangers. Her account of such an affair given after- wards to friends implied that this world into which she had glanced was not her world. Lady Adela frightened her and the mere suggestion of the Duchess, whom she had never seen, threatened more fiercely her tranquillity than any other event or person. Now, every minute or so, she flung little agitated glances at the portrait. At the back of her mind, this afternoon, was tho reflection that there was going to be a war and that quite certainly her boy, Tony, would insist on helping his country. 236 THE DUCHESS OE WEEXE She was proud that he should insist, hut, had she not be« quite so confident of God's care for her, would have been very near to most real agitation. She looked at Rachel timidly and wondered whether that strange, fierce, pale girl would bo sympathetic. She had heard of Rachel and her marriage, and she knew that that rather stout healthy-looking young man standing and talking to Lord John Beaminster was the husband. He looked kinder than she did, Lady Darrant thought. " It's terrible about this horrid war, isn't it ? " sho said at last Rachel, watching the room, was absorbed by her own thoughts; she scarcely noticed the little woman beside her. She saw Uncle John, his white hair and happy smile and large rather shapeless body, his way of laughing with his head flung back, the look of him when he was thinking, his face precisely that of a puzzled pig — simply to see him there across the room brought back to her a flood of memories. She knew that she had avoided him lately and sho knew, too, that he was unhappy about her." He was unhappy, poor Uncle John, about a number of things — always behind his laughter and cheerful -greetings there was the little restless distress as though Life were offering him, just now, more than he could control, Rachel looked and then turned her eyes away. " Yes," she said to Lady Darrant, " I hope it won't bo very much. They say that a week or two will see the end of it." Truly, for herself, this afternoon was almost too difficult for her. She had received, that morning, a letter from Francis Breton asking her to go to tea with him in his rooms, one day within the following week. She had never been to his rooms; she had not met him once during the whole year. She had known, during all these last twelve months, that meeting him had nothing at all to do with the especial claim ALL THE BEAMINSTERS 29? that they had upon one another. That claim had existed eince that day of their first coming face to face and nothing now could ever alter it. But the next time that they met must he, for hoth of them, a definite landmark. She might either decide, now, once and for all, never to see him again, or grasp, quite definitely, the possible result of her going to him. The writing of this letter brought, at last, upon her the climax that she had been avoiding during the last year. Sitting there in the Beaminstcr camp it was difficult to act without prejudice. With the exception of Uncle John and Roddy she hated them all. After all if she were to refuse to see Francis Breton did it solve the question ? Did it help her — and that was the great need of her present life — to love Roddy any better? And if she went to his rooms and saw him, would not the truth emerge from that meeting and the miserable doubts and temptations that had shadowed her since her marriage be cleared away for ever ? She liked Roddy and did not love him — nothing could alter that Breton and she belonged to a world that was hostile to thu world that she was now in — nothing could alter that. Yes, she would go and see Breton. She got up, smiled at Lady Darrant and went across the room to talk to Uncle John. On this afternoon she had a great overpowering longing for someone to love her, to care for her, to pity her, to take her into their arms and whisper comfort to her. It was so long — oh ! so long, since Dr. Chris and Uncle John had done that And yet — the irony of it — there was Roddy eager to do it all: and from him, the fates had decreed that it should mean nothing to her. " Why can't he touch me ? Why can't he give me what I want i Is it my fault ? Whose fault is it ? " And when she came to Uncle John she was almost afraid to look at him lest he should see the unhappiness in her eve; 338 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE But, in spite of her unhappiness, she could he satirically observant. Her grandmother, up there on the wall, con- trolled, like the moon, this tide of human heings. They flowed forward, they retreated. About them, around thorn, behind and in front of them hovered this War. . . . Rachel knew that it was the Beaminster doctrine that anything that occurred to the nation was to be attributed, in the main, to Beaminster principles. She could tell at once that they had seized upon this war as an example of Bea- minster government. Had diplomacy prevented it, behold the triumph of Beaminster diplomacy; now, as it had not been prevented, a swift and total triumph would assert the genius of Beaminster militancy. " A week out there ought to be enough. ... It's tire- some, of course, but they'll soon have had enough of it. . . ." Even Rachel, looking up at the portrait, might, not too fantastically, imagine that this war presented the last great manifestation of power on the part of that old woman. Everyone in the room, perhaps, felt the same. ii Many eyes were upon her as she moved across to Lord John. This girl, with the foreign colour and bearing, having, apparently, so little of the Beaminster about her and making so quickly so conventional a marriage ("One hadn't expected her to care about a man like Seddon "), stirred their euriosity. Monty Garfax, licensed transmitter of public opinion, re- ported her unpopular. " Met her one week-end at the Massiters' — that very time when Seddon proposed. Didn't like her and, really, can't find anyone who does. Conceited, farouche. It's my opinion Roddy Seddon finds her diiEcult." " Yes, but she's interesting," someone would reply, " unusual. Dissatisfied-looking — not at all happy, I should say." Lady Adela, stiff, awkward but important, in an ugly grey ALL THE BEAMINSTERS 23fr dress found Lord Crewner the only helpful person in the room. He seemed to understand the way that worries accumulated about one and yet refused to he defined. . . . He stayed near her throughout the afternoon. She saw Rachel moving; across to her brother and the sight of her stirred all her dis- comfort. " Why need she look a3 though she hated everyone?" she thought. Rachel came at length to Uncle John and found him talk- ing to Maurice Garden. That large and prosperous gentle- man hastily proclaimed his delight in meeting Eachel again, but she had very little to say to him. He left them, secretly determined that he would never speak to the girl again if he could help it. Uncle John regarded her with an air of supplicating nervousness. " Come along, my dear," he said. " We haven't had a talk for weeks. Let's find a corner somewhere " They found a corner and then were both of them uncom- fortable. The girl whom Uncle John had known and loved had had her tempers and intolerances, but she had also had her wonderful spontaneous affections and tendernesses. Now she sat there looking straight before her and replying only in monosyllables to his questions. She was saying to herself: " Shall I go ? Shall I go? "■ At last he said timidly : " You'll see mother before you leave ? " " Yes," Rachel said. " I'm afraid she's not very well." " Not very well ? " Rachel looked up at him sharply, Lord John stared away from her. No one had ever said that publicly before, Lord John himself wondered at his word* when he had spoken them. " Of course she doesn't admit it," he said hurriedly. " No one says anything about it — even Christopher. ■ I oughtn't 'HO THE DUCHESS OF WEEXE perhaps to have said anything myself — but I thought* " He broke off. Eachel knew that he meant that she should be kind and considerate on this visit. Before she could say anything the Duke came up and joined them. It always amused Rachel to see her two uncles together. Tho Duke was a little dried-up wasp of a man, ahsolutely 9elfish, with a satirical tongue and a self-conceit that nothing could pierce. He wore high white collars, over which hia brown sharp face searched for compliments. He walked on his toes, his hands were most wonderfully manicured and his trousers were so stiff and rigid over his thin little legs that they looked like iron. The one soft spot in him' was a strangely tender affection for his sister Adela which was in no way returned ; for her, and for her alone, he would forget his selfishness. Richard and John ho despised. " Well, John," he said. " Well, Rachel ? " " Well, Uncle Vincent," she said. The Duke was afraid of Rachel because her tongue was as sharp as his, but he re- spected her for that. " Going up to see mother ? " " Yes," said Rachel. Should she go ? Should she go ? Suddenly, arising, as it seemed, out of that crowd of mov- ing figures and coming and standing there in front of her, was her answer. Yes, she would go. All these months of indetermination should be ended. She should know, once and for all, what this Francis Breton meant to her, what that other life of hers meant to her, and so, in opposition, what Roddy meant to her. She would, as Christopher would have put it, grapple with her Tiger. . . . Instantly, the relief, the glad, happy relief showed her how wretched life had been. " What about this war, Uncle Vincent? " she said. " Well — hem — well — no need to worry — / assure you — no need to worry ! " ALL THE BEAMINSTERS 241 " It seems a pity," said Lord John, still looking furtively at Rachel and wishing that he could carry her off into some other corner and just ask her whether she were really happy or no. " Why, John," said the Duke, cackling. " You'll have to go out, 'pon my word, you will — fight 'em, by Jove — Hat ha I You'd make a fine soldier, old boy." Rachel got up, hating Uncle Vincent very much. She put her hand on Uncle John's fat arm. " You may go, Uncle Vincent," she said. " We all give you leave — Uncle John we love too much: if it's a question of bravery he'd be quite certainly the first of this family." She gave his arm a squeeze. Undo Vincent looked at her, smiling — " Well," he said. " None of us would dream of go- ing . . . we're all much too comfortable." " I'll see you before I go, uncle dear," she whispered to Lord John. Then she moved away. Slowly making her path through the room she left it and climbed the great stone staircase. m Outside her grandmother's door she paused; so she had always paused, and now, as she waited there, all the proces- sion of other days when she had stood there came before her. Conditions might be changed, but her agitation was the same. Never until she died would she open that door without won- dering, in spite of common sense, whether she might not be caught by some disaster before she closed it again. She went in and found her grandmother sitting back in her stiff chair and looking at some patterns of bright silks that lay on a little table beside her. A great fire was burning and the room seemed to Rachel intolerably hot; she noticed at once that what Uncle John had said wa3 true. Before she had heard Rachel's entrance the Duchess looked an old, tired woman. Her head was 242 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE drooping a little over the blue and purple silks; she seemed half asleep. But at the sound of the door she was alert ; when she saw that it was her granddaughter who stood there, tall and stately, her large hlack hat shadowing her face, shu-seemed in a moment to be transformed with energy and life — her head •went up, her eyes flashed, her hands stiffened on her lap. " May I come in for a moment, grandmother ? " Rachel said. By the door she had wondered — how could she bo afraid of this old sick woman ? Now as she crossed over to the fire her sternest self-command was summoned to control her alarm. She was frightened by nothing but this — here it was indeed as though there were some spell that seized her. " Certainly, my dear — come in." The Duchess gave a last look at the silks and then turned to her granddaughter. u I'm afraid you'll find it very hot — I must have a fire, you know." She had a trick of drawing in her lower lip as she spoke, so that her Words hissed a little over her teeth. She did not do this with everybody and Rachel believed that it was only because she had noticed that Rachel as a little girl had been frightened of it that she did it now. Rachel sat down opposite her and the heat of the fire and a scent of something that had violets and mignonette in it — a scent that was always in the room — stifled her so that her head began to swim and the rings on the" Duchess's hand to hypnotize her. ■ " There's a great party going on downstairs," she said. " Yes. I know. John came up for a moment and told me about it — and how are you ? " " Very well, thank you, grandmamma. Roddy and I have been ever so sociable lately, given several dinner-parties and one musical thing." " You're not looking very well. Roddy here ! " •'Yes." ALE T HE BEAMINSTERS 249 "Hope he'll come and see me before he goes. Hasn't been to see me much lately." Their eyes met. - Rachel held her ground and then, beaten as though by a physical blow, lowered her gaze. " Oh! hasn't he ? He's been here a lot, I thought He's been very busy over some horses that he's had to go up arid down to Seddon about" " H'm. Well — I dare say he'll remember me again one day — so we're in for a war ? " " Yes. They don't seem to think it very serious though — < Uncle Richard says " " Your Uncle Richard knows nothing about it — nothing. However, I don't think anyone need be alarmed." There was in this last sentence a ring in the Duchess's voice that flung her words out for the nation to grasp at " No need, my good people, for you to worry — I have this in hand." " Well, I'm very glad," said Rachel. " It's such a long while since anything has happened that it seems quite odd for everyone to have something to - talk about except dinner- parties and scandal — — " The old woman looked across at her and then very slowly a smile rose, stiffened between her old dried lips and stayed there — " What would you say, my dear, if Roddy thought it his duty to go and defend his country ? " There was, suddenly, the sharp ring in "her voice that Rachel knew so well. " I know," Rachel said quietly, " that Roddy would do his duty, and of course I would want him to do that." The Duchess, with her eyes still upon her granddaughter's face, said— "I've heard a good deal about a young friend of yours lately." " Who is that, grandmamma ? " Rachel said, and, in spite of herself her hand trembled a little against her dress. " Nita Raseley." 244 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE Rachel caught her breath. " I gather that you and she haven't seen so much of one another lately." " Oh ! I think we have. We never were great friends, you know." " Did she enjoy her time at Seddon ? A clever little thing. I shouldn't drop her, Rachel, if I were you." " She seemed to enjoy Seddon, grandmamma. I must be going, I'm afraid, with the patient Roddy waiting for me. Shall I tell him to como up? " The old hand struck the arm of the chair and the rings flashed. " No, thank you, my dear. If he can't come of his own accord, I'd prefer that ho had no prompting. There was a time when it was otherwise." Rachel got up. Their eyes met again, and their hatred for one another was so settled, so historic, so traditional an affair, that their glance now was almost friendly. Then Rachel bent down very slowly and kissed her grand- mother's cheek. How much, she wondered, did she know of the Nita affair ? Nita's spite would, assuredly, have found a happy ground in which to plant its seed. Oh! how she loathed this thick clouded atmosphere, this deceit, this deceit ! It seemed that, at every turn since her marriage, she had been dragged into an atmosphere of disguise and subterfuge and double-dealing. Well, sho was soon to bo done with it. At the thought of what her grandmother would say did sho know of her friend- ship with Breton her heart beat triumphantly. There at any rate was a weapon ! " Well, good-bye, my dear. Come and see me again soon." " Yes, grandmamma — good-bye." IV In the carriage with Roddy sho suddenly laughed. All those people, moving so solemnly with such self-im- ALL THE BEAMINSTERS 245 portance about that room. The Duke, Lord Richard, Aunt Adela , . . Norria, the footman. ... Over them all that fierce commanding portrait. And up- stairs that old, sick woman. . . . And beyond, away from that house, a war that that old woman and those self-important people saw only as a means of increasing their own self-importance. It was all as a box of tin soldiers and a parcel of stiff china-faced dolls — What were they all about ? What did they think they were all doing ? What, after all, was she, Rachel ? Had they no conception of the sawdust that they all were beside this real, swiftly moving, death-dealing War that was suddenly amongst them ? "What is it? "said Roddy. " Grandmother — grandmother — my dear, delightful, wonderful grandmother. To think of her sitting all alone up there in her bedroom and all those people moving about downstairs — all so conscious of her. And yet she does noth- ing —nothing." Rachel, in her excitement, struck her knee with her hand. " She isn't even clever, really — She's never in all her life been known to say a witty thing — never. She doesn't really know much about politics. . . . She just sits there and acts — That's what it's always been, acting the whole time. It it's effective to be old and feeble she is old and feeble — if it's effective to bo fantastic she is fantastic — She just sits still and takes people in. Why, if she'd wanted sho could have been going out all these thirty years, I believe 1 " " You're always unfair to her, Rachel," said Roddy. " You know sho has ghastly pain often and often." " Yes. I'll give her that," said Rachel. " She's brave — bravo as anything. And after all," she added, " she couldn't affect mo more if sho were the wittiest woman in the world " Roddy yawned — " Damn dull party," he said. CHAPTER VII RACHEL AND BRETON "We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go Always a little farther: it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, Across that angry or that glimmering sea. . . . but surely we are brave Who make the Golden Journey to Samarcand." The Golden Journey to Samarcand, James Albot Flsckjul RACHEL now awaited her meeting with Breton with restless impatience. It should afford her, beyond everything, a solution. She was young enough and inexperi- enced enough to make many demands upon life — that it should he romantic, that it should, in the issues that it pre- sented, be honest and open and clear, that it should allow her to settle her own place in it without any hurt to anyone else, that it should, in fact, arrange any number of com- promises to suit herself and that it should nevertheless he so honest that it would admit of no compromises at all. She approached life with all the reckless boldness of one who has never come into direct contact with it. Neither her relations with her grandmother nor with Roddy had as yet taken from her any of her youngest nor simplest illusions. .Were life drab and uninteresting, why, then one turned simply to the place where it promised colour and adventure. She had not yet discovered that when we go deliberately to grasp at happiness, we are eternally eluded. But in spite of her desire for honesty she refused to face the actual meeting with Breton. She knew him so slightly as Francis Breton and so intimately as an idea. What she felt in her heart wat, that her grandmother had hoped to catch her by marrying her to Roddy and that nothing could prove so 240 RACHEL AND BRETON 24T .eloquently that she had not been caught as her friendship with Breton. " I will show her and I will show Roddy that I am my own mistress, free whatever they may say or do." Breton — seen dimly as a rebel against a harsh dominating world — was the figure of all romance and freedom. " Roddy doesn't care what happens to me. He'll do anything grand- mother tells him to. . . ." She was now out to attack the Beaminster fortress; she did not as yet know that half of her was urgent for its de- fence. n When the afternoon arrived she took a cab and was driven to Saxton Square. She mounted the stairs, knocked on the door and was admitted by his ugly manservant. " Is Mr. Broton at home ? " she asked. " Yes, my lady," ho answered and smiled ; she disliked his smile and before she passed into the room had a moment of wild unreasoning panic when she wished that she were not there, when Roddy's face came to her, kind and loving and homely. She stepped forward into the room, heard the door close behind her and felt rather than saw him as he came forward to greet her. Then she heard him say — " Oh, I'm so glad you've come. I was so afraid lest some- thing should stop you." His windows, although only on the first floor, had a wide eweeping view ; a world of chimneys and towers glittering now beneath the sinking sun. His room was simple and had the effect of cleanly empti- ness ; a table arranged for tea, two rather faded arm-chairs, a dark green carpet, a book-case, two large framed photographs on the walls, ono of some street in Bombay, the other of the Niagara Falls. 248 THE DUCHESS OF WREXE The sunshine lit the bare room and their faces and she was suddenly comfortable and at ease. He drew one of the easy chairs forward to the win- dow. " Sit down in the sun ; Marks will bring the tea in a mo- ment" ^ , „ •""* She sat back in the chair and looked out on to the shining roofs and towers, not glancing towards him, but acutely aware of him, of all his movements. He sat down upon the broad window-seat near her and looked at her. She knew that she had never been conscious, physically, of anyone before. Roddy's clumsy hands and rather awk- ward body had always simply belonged to Roddy and stayed at that; now she felt as if Francis Breton's hand, close, as sho knew, to hers, was joined to her by a running current of .attraction. Although he* was not touching her, it was as though she were chained to him. If he moved sho felt that she must move with him and every motion that he made seemed to rouse some response in her. She was aware, of course, as she was always aware with him, of the way that intimacy between them had moved since their last meeting. All her romantic evocation of life as she wanted it to be helped her to this. It was as though she said to herself, " Here at least is my true self free and dominant. I must make the most of it " — and yet, with that, something seemed to warn her that freedom too easily obtained carried at its heart disappointment. The ugly manservant brought in tea and then disappeared. Breton moved about, waited upon her, then sat down closer to her, leaning forward and. looking into her eyes. It was part of his temperament that he should take her coming to him as an instant acknowledgment of the complete fulfilment of his wishes. He always saw life as the very rosiest of his dreams until it woke him to reality. He was ruled completely by the mood of the moment, and his one emo- RACHEL AND BRETON 249 tion now was that Rachel was divinely intended for him alone of all human beings — But he could not wait. ... He knew, by this time, that reflection was always a period of disappointment. He was unhappily made in that he yielded to his impulses of regret as eagerly as to his impulses of anticipation — One mood followed so swiftly upon another that collision might seem in- evitable. They were, both of them, young enough to see life as some- thing that would inevitably, in a short time, condemn them both to years of sterile monotony. Rachel indeed felt that 8ho was already caught. . . . They must, both of them, therefore, make the best of their time. " I was so afraid," he repeated again, " lest something should have stopped you." " I would have asked you to come to us, only I'm afraid that my husband still " " Oh ! I quite understand." " It's natural — Roddy's like that. If he wants to do a thing he doesn't care for anybody and just does it. But if nothing makes him especially want to do it, then he just takes other people's-tjpinions. Now he might ask you sud- denly to come and see us — simply because he took it into his head. Then nobody could stop him. . . . He's very obstinate." She was rather surprised at herself for talking about Roddy. She had a curious feeling about him as though she were going on a journey and had just said good-bye to him and had a rather desolate choke in her throat because she wouldn't see him again for so long. " Oh ! but I'm glad you've come ! If you knew the times