The Dutchess of Wrexe, Her Decline and Death E-Book

Hugh Walpole

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

An energetic girl enters society and must choose between her rebellious and exiled cousin or an ordinary young man. Rachel chooses an ordinary young man, but when their marriage begins to degenerate, she again comes into contact with her cousin. She falls in love with him – will she leave her husband and run away with her romantic but weak lover?

Leseprobe

Contents

BOOK I

THE DUCHESS

CHAPTER I. Felix Brun, Dr. Christopher, Rachel Beaminster—They Are Surveyed by the Portrait

CHAPTER II. Rachel

CHAPTER III. Lady Adela

CHAPTER IV. The Pool

CHAPTER V. She Comes Out

CHAPTER VI. Fans

CHAPTER VII. In the Heart of the House

CHAPTER VIII. The Tiger

CHAPTER IX. The Golden Cage

CHAPTER X. Lizzie and Breton

CHAPTER XI. Her Grace's Day

CHAPTER XII. Defiance of the Tiger—I

CHAPTER XIII. Defiance of the Tiger—II

BOOK II

RACHEL

CHAPTER I. The Pool and the Snow

CHAPTER II. A Little House

CHAPTER III. First Sequel to Defiance

CHAPTER IV. Rachel—and Christopher and Roddy

CHAPTER V. Lizzie's Journey—I

CHAPTER VI. All the Beaminsters

CHAPTER VII. Rachel and Breton

CHAPTER VIII. Christopher's Day

CHAPTER IX. The Darkest Hour

CHAPTER X. Lizzie's Journey—II

CHAPTER XI. Roddy Is Master

CHAPTER XII. Lizzie's Journey—III

BOOK III

RODDY

CHAPTER I. Regent's Park—Breton and Lizzie

CHAPTER II. The Duchess Moves

CHAPTER III. Roddy Moves

CHAPTER IV. March 13th: Breton's Tiger

CHAPTER V. March 13th: Rachel's Heart

CHAPTER VI. March 13th: Roddy Talks to the Devil and the Duchess Denies God

CHAPTER VII. Chamber Music—A Trio

CHAPTER VIII. A Quartette

CHAPTER IX. Rachel and Roddy

CHAPTER X. Lizzie Becomes Miss Rand Again

CHAPTER XI. The Last View from High Windows

CHAPTER XII. Rachel, Roddy, Lord John, Christopher

CHAPTER XIII. Epilogue—Prologue

BOOK I

THE DUCHESS

CHAPTER I

I

Felix Brun, perched like a little bird, on the steps of the Rede Art Gallery, gazed up and down Bond Street, with his sharp eyes for someone to whom he might show Yale Ross’s portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. The afternoon was warm, the date May of the year 1898, and the occasion was the Young Portrait Painters’ first show with Ross’s “Duchess” as its principal attraction.

Brun was thrilled with excitement, with emotion, and he must have his audience. There must be somebody to whom he might talk, to whom he might explain exactly why this occasion was of so stirring an importance.

His eyes lighted with satisfaction. Coming towards him was a tall, gaunt man with a bronzed face, loose ill-fitting clothes, a stride that had little of the town about it. This was Arkwright, the explorer, a man who had been lost in African jungles during the last five years, the very creature for Brun’s purposes.

Here was someone who, knowing nothing about Art, would listen all the more readily to Brun’s pronouncement upon it, a homely simple soul, fitted for the killing of lions and tigers, but pliable as wax in the hands of a master of civilization like Brun. At the same time Arkwright was no fool; a psychologist in his way, he had written two books about the East that had aroused considerable interest.

No fool, Arkwright... He would be able to appreciate Brun’s subtleties and perhaps add some of his own.

He had, however, been away from England for so long a time that anything that Brun had to tell him about the London world would be pleasantly fresh and stimulating.

Brun, round and neat, and a citizen of the world from the crown of his head to the top of his shining toes, tapped Arkwright on his shoulder:

“Hallo! Brun. How are you? It is good to see you! Haven’t seen a soul I know for the last ever so long.”

“Good–good. Excellent. Come along in here.”

“In there? Pictures? What’s the use of me looking at pictures?”

“We can talk in here. I’ll tell you all the news. Besides, there’s something that even you will appreciate.”

“Well?” Arkwright laughed good-humouredly and moved towards the door. “What is it?”

“The Duchess,” Brun answered him. “Yale Ross’s portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. At last,” he triumphantly cried, “at last we’ve got her!”

II

The Duchess had a small corner wall for her own individual possession. The thin glowing May sunlight fell about her and the dull gold of her frame received it and gave it back with a rich solemnity as though it had said, “You have been gay and unrestrained enough with all those crowds, but here, let me tell you, is something that requires a very different attitude.”

The Duchess received the colour and the sunlight, but made no response. She sat, leaning forward a little, bending with one of her dry wrinkled hands over a black ebony cane, a high carved chair supporting and surrounding her. She seemed, herself, to be carved there, stone, marble, anything lifeless save for her eyes, the tense clutch of her fingers about the cane, and the dull but brooding gleam that a large jade pendant, the only colour against the black of her dress, flung at the observer. Her mouth was a thin hard line, her nose small but sharp, her colour so white that it seemed to 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 background.

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.

III

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 disconcerting had occurred; life absurdly seemed to warn him 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 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 Ross has done it this time. No other portrait has ever given one the least idea of her. She must be that.”

Brun stood regarding her. “There’ll never be 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!”

There were voices behind him; Brun turned, and Arkwright 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 the figure that he 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 Felix 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, 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 unpleasant.

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 thinness 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 disciplined, 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 to take away some of that loneliness.”

“She’ll have a fine old time,” he thought, “if she isn’t too sensitive.”

Lady Adela had now moved forward with Brun to look at the picture, but 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 eyes 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 Arkwright, “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 welcome that the new-comer had received.

She was transformed. The pallor of her face was now flooded with colour, and she seemed 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 were 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 were sensitive and less ragged than the rest of him, his nose the plainest thing about him, was square and too large for his mouth. His hair was white, although he looked between forty and fifty years of age. His dress was correct, but he obviously did not give his 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 discussing the picture–their eyes travelled up to it, and for an instant there was silence 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 man came and disappeared, was there and was not there, was absent for a year, and then back again as though he had been away a week, was, indeed, simply a succession of explanatory footnotes 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, something 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 change that gave Brun his discoveries. He was a cosmopolitan of a multitude of acquaintances, no friends, no occupation, an enthusiasm only for cynical and pessimistic observation, invaluable as a commentator, 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 Beaminster, Rachel Beaminster, Christopher–”

“Christopher?”

“Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He’s the Duchess’ doctor, has been for years. The girl was the Duchess’ 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 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, lumbering 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, golden, 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.”

“Fancy 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 he wandered about Europe with his father until he was twenty or so. Then Kit Breton died, and the boy came home. Revenge on his grandmother was his one idea. He was taken up by her enemies, of whom she always had a goodly store, and they might have made something 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 he stayed–just now, coming out of the Gallery, I saw him–”

“You are sure?”

“Positive. There could be no mistake. He’s just the same, a trifle tireder, a trifle lower down–but the same, oh yes.”

It was when Brun was most excited that he was unmistakably the foreigner. Now little exclamations that escaped him revealed him. As a rule in England he was more English than the English.

They had left the square and were passing up Harley 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 morning was the only time in the week when they were really comfortable and at home. In every muffled 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 succession of little brass plates produced its solemnity.

Arkwright was nevertheless interested by Brun’s discoveries. He was accompanied, as they talked, by that picture 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 of them the result of tragedies... Do they know one another, do you suppose?”

“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 back... 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 be 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 Christopher’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; they love it–at any rate, the ones who are left do. The rebels are the younger generation. Society in England, my dear Arkwright, is dissolved into three divisions–the Autocrats, the Aristocrats, and the Democrats. I take my hat off to the Aristocrats–the Chichesters, the Medleys, the Darrants, the Weddons. All those quiet, decorous people, poor as mice many of them, standing aside altogether from any movements or war-cries 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 Oaks–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 be entertaining. They embrace everybody: 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 common and vulgar, but you’ve got brains–you’re amusing and we’re well born–let’s make an exchange. Life must be 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 be 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 all going; 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.”

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 respectability, 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. Meanwhile, 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 Beaminsters as Beaminsters will be done for; life here round the Circus will never be the same again. There’s a new city rising, Arkwright, and the new citizens may forget, the 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 shapelessness. No romance for Dent Street; the glittering expanse of Portland Place was gone.

“You can’t be a realist only, if you’re to do the Duchess properly,” said Brun. “There’s more than that wanted.”

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 having enough.”–Henry James.

I

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 certain buildings, Nos. 31, 26, 42, for instance, that were obviously doing their little best to present a successful imitation, but they were left a long, a very long way behind. The interesting 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 presence that had thus given it its distinction. Its 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.

Here the temple of the Beaminsters, 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 Age 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 perceive. Those high, broad, shining windows were not as other windows–there was assertion in their very bland stupidity.

Within the house was dark and cold, with high square rooms, wide stone staircase, and a curious capacity for clutching any boisterous or seedy humanity on the very threshold and strangling it.

From the hall the great stone staircase was the feature. 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 catastrophes encountered! About it, on either side, the hall vanished 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 portraits, more staircase, more passages, more doors and, somewhere, 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’s 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 the heart of the great waste and desert that the house presented to her.

The little silver clock on the mantelpiece had struck five: she had come back with Aunt Adela from the picture gallery, and, hearing voices in the Long Drawing-room (the voices said, “My dear Adela, we just came...” “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 the 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 book-case with poets, some miscellaneous and untidy-looking novels, and a number of little red Carlyles, 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 knew. 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 determination 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 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 conceived 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, suddenly, after what had seemed a century of time, there came the thin trembling voice: “Why, the child’s an idiot!”

Since that awful day Rachel 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 were not, but always there was the terror before the corner was turned.

Life for Rachel 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 the 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 opening of the door, the revelation of the strange dim room with the old mirrors, the purple carpet, the china dragons, and grandmother in the high carved chair. There was always, in the hottest weather, a fire burning, always Dorchester, a large ugly woman, behind the chair, always the cockatoo see-sawing on a golden perch and crying out every now and again with shrill, hostile cries. And then, in the 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, and very often nothing would be said throughout the half-hour. Sometimes Dorchester would ask questions, such as: “And what has 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, the 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 she 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 were the truth that she were speaking.

As the days passed and Rachel grew older it was around this half-hour that the house ranged itself. The things in it–the rooms, the passages, the stairs, the high, cold schoolroom with its shining maps and large frigid table, the tapestry room, long and dark and mysterious with strange beasts and horsemen waving in the dusk, the white drawing-room so delicate and fragile that the furniture seemed to be all holding its breath as though a little motion in the air would dissipate it, the vast dining-room with the great hanging candelabra, and the family portraits and the stone 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 master, but from these persons, however friendly they might be, she held aloof. She told them nothing of her thoughts. She had behind her her very early years that were now to her like 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 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 before Rachel’s freedom, she had made no suggestion nor provocation of affection. “It is a business, my dear niece,” she seemed to say, “that, for the sake of our family, we must go through. Let us be 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 whose branches cracked and snapped, a tree that gave no hope of any spring. Rachel always saw Aunt Adela as an ugly necessity; she 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 Uncle 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 insignificant, and his sleek hair (there was only a little of it very carefully spread out) and his white spats were the most prominent things about him. He was fond, Rachel gathered, of his racing and his club and his meals, and he was unmarried.

Uncle Richard had been twice Prime Minister and was a widower. He lived in a beautiful house in Grosvenor Street, and collected wine and fans and first editions. He was always 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 Beaminster nose, and beautiful long white hands. She went to have tea with him sometimes, and this was an 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 carpets 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 he 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. His nose was not in the least a Beaminster 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 Beaminster in so far as he thought the Beaminsters 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 be so arranged that life should have any difficulties–it would be so much easier if everything were pleasant. When, however, difficulties did arise they must at all costs be dismissed. There had been no time in his life when he had not been 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 great deal about the wishes and comforts of other people, but unpleasantness 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 hours in his 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, and cared more for Rachel than for anyone else in the world... but even for Rachel 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 protections 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 be 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 loneliness, most of all she 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 Germany 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 serenity of a shining landscape. Two years might count for her escape, and perhaps, on her return, she would be old enough for her grandmother to have lost her terrors–perhaps...

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 Mörike, 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 Symphony gave you the same ecstatic crawl down your spine and did not, for an instant, object to sharing that honour.

Munich also gave her the experience and revelations of May Eversley.

There were some twenty or thirty girls who were, with Rachel, 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 them, 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 grandmother, watching her, had placed horrors behind curtains, closed doors, grimed and shuttered windows.–”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 assent, 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 haven’t. See what you want. Take away ruthlessly 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.”

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 Leicestershire, 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 facts 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 questions?”

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 features, pince-nez, hair brushed sternly back, and every inch of her body trained to the purpose that it was meant to fulfil. She rang her sentences on the air like coin on a plate. Meanwhile, 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 most 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 Shepherd’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 year’s 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. Nobody, 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 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 dislikes. She had on her side one burning curiosity to know about Rachel’s Duchess. “Is she as terrible, so tremendous as people say? Has she such a brain even now? Old Lady Grandon, who was a great friend when they were both girls, says 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 hair-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 London would coincide with May’s. May’s idea of it was certainly not Aunt Adela’s. Aunt Adela, Rachel thought, was far too dried and brittle to risk any sharp contact with anything. 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 approaching 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 be some comfortable people about, some people who want to make it pleasant for one.”

Then there 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 recognized 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 smiling 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 anything. There’s Roddy Seddon, old Lady Carloes and Crewner and some young ass Crewner’s brought with him and your Uncle Dick looking bored and your Aunt Adela looking nothing 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 seemed 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 her, 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 like 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 the relief when I can get off this half-hour every evening–the relief even now when I’m even 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 be rude to me first.”

Now that she had begun, it came out in a flood. “Oh! I 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 me 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 because you know me, but the others! And always behind me there’d be grandmother! She knows I’m going to be a failure, and she wants me 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, looking 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.–No 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 knee. 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 he could only console himself by thinking 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.

Now as he 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 he had come to say. His expression was now one of puzzled distress as though he wondered how people could be so provoking and inconsiderate.

He looked up at her. “By the way,” he said, “it’s doubtful 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 me 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.

I

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 so great an infliction came upon her she solved the confusion by dismissing it, by leaving her mind a blank 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 was 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 magnificent. Horror lest she should in any way be doubting her mother’s terror and magnificence–both proved every day of the week–lay, like a dark cloud, at the back of her confusion.

She could not, however, extract anything definite from the little cluster of discomforts; old Lady Carloes and Lord Crewner, a young thing that Lord Crewner had brought with him, and her brother Richard were all waiting for tea, and floods of conversation instantly covered Lady Adela’s poor mind and drowned it.