Wintersmoon E-Book

Hugh Walpole

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

Beschreibung

Beautiful, but affordable spelling. The characters, especially Janet, were incredibly versatile. They are well-rounded and sympathetically written, and each has its own natural conclusion, making for a very satisfactory ending. If you like a well-written, historical, adult novel with a definitively optimistic ending, then try Wintersmoon.

Leseprobe

Contents

DEDICATORY LETTER

PART I

JANET AND ROSALIND

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

PART II

JANET AND WILDHERNE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

PART III

WILDHERNE AND HUMPHREY

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

PART IV

JANET, ROSALIND, AND WILDHERNE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

DEDICATORY LETTER

Dear Elizabeth

You told me once that you were bored with sequels, both in real life and in novels–this, if I remember correctly, was when I begged you to give us some more of Fraulein Schmidt’s history.

It would therefore be extremely impertinent of me to offer you a sequel–and this, in real life at least, I have hitherto succeeded in avoiding.

Now also I take no risk. This story of Janet Grandison, her marriage and her sister, is no sequel to anything save that it is, of course, like all of us, a sequel to everything. What I really mean is that you need read no other book before it in order properly to understand it.

But once upon a time, when I was young and credulous, I planned a Trilogy, called it “The Rising City” and published the first volume of it, “The Duchess of Wrexe.”

So many people, older and wiser than I, told me that I was a fool to meddle with Trilogies, that I fancied myself Balzac, that readers hated presumption, and that novelists must be modest or they are nothing.

Therefore I pretended to kill my Trilogy, hid my Rising City under a green mist, and went my way. Trilogies, however, cannot be killed like that; they are the most persistent things alive. The Trilogy has grown into an unending sequence. After “The Duchess of Wrexe” came “The Green Mirror” and after “The Green Mirror” “The Young Enchanted,” and now after “The Young Enchanted” this “Wintersmoon,” and after “Wintersmoon”–who knows?

Here, at any rate, in these four books, is my idea of some of the England of 1900 to 1927, and behind this there is also something else that holds them, in my fancy, together.

And there are my four heroines, Rachel Seddon, Katherine and Millie Trenchard and Janet Grandison. But, because an author sees a connection in these things and has the conceit to look on his four books as one continuous work no compulsion is offered to the reader. “Wintersmoon,” indeed, may be read as though it had no ancestors and intends no progeny.

Above all, no compulsion is offered to yourself, dear Elizabeth, who rightly resents anything of the sort, anything that sounds too long to be borne.

So, if you will read this book simply as a story about certain people who appear for an hour or two to be alive in their own world you will have done everything that your faithful friend, the author, asks of you.

Yours affectionately,

HUGH WALPOLE.

PART I

JANET AND ROSALIND

CHAPTER I

PARTY

“I am asking you again to marry me as I did a fortnight ago.”

Janet Grandison turned towards him and said:

“Yes. You’ve been very honest.”

“I believe,” he said, “honesty to be the only thing for us. From the beginning I have always known that you valued that–honesty I mean–more perhaps than anything. I value it too.”

She smiled.

“I believe you do. But we all do. We make a fetish of it. It seems to me sometimes almost the only good thing that has survived the war. Well,” she went on, “I have had the fortnight I begged for. A fortnight ago you asked me to marry you. You said you weren’t in love with me but that you liked and respected me, that you thought we would get on well together... You want me to be the mother of your children.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am not in love with you. I have been in love for a long while with somebody, somebody whom it is impossible for me to marry and someone who would not marry me even though it were possible. With the exception of this one person I would rather marry you than anyone in the world. I like you. I admire you. I think we could be good companions.”

Her face was grave. “I don’t know about that,” she said slowly. “I have been very little with men in my life. I don’t know how it would be. Giving you frankness for frankness the other day I told you that I did not love you in the least. But I like you. I would do all I could to make you happy if I married you. But my sister comes first–she will always come first. I loved my father–and I love my sister. Those have been the only two emotions in my life. Love her! I adore her. I am not exaggerating or using words without thinking about them when I say that I would die for her if it would give her what she wanted. And so if I marry you to give her what she wants, that isn’t perhaps surprising so long as I tell you exactly how things are. And the way things are can’t go on much longer. We’ve been alone now for ten years, she and I, and the last two have been–well, impossible. You promised me that if I married you she should always live with us. It should be her home.”

“Of course. That is part of the bargain.”

“Yes, it is a bargain, isn’t it? Not romantic. But all my romance is for my sister. And yours–” She broke off, hesitating.

“Yes, mine is as I have told you. But how many marriages ever remain romantic? It is a platitude that they do not. The best thing that comes of a happy marriage is companionship. That I believe we shall have.”

He hesitated, then went on:

“I want to put it all fairly before you. There isn’t very much money. It won’t be a gay life, you know, or a merry one. The place down in the country, although I love it, won’t seem very lively to you or to your sister, I’m afraid. It’s all in pieces, and I see no likelihood of my ever having money enough to do much to it. One day perhaps–for my son... And then I am not at all what I should be in the country. I moon about. I don’t do any of the things I ought to. I am an ass about affairs. And then so long as my father is alive we would have to be a good deal in London. We would have to stay in Halkin Street with them, and that, as you know, wouldn’t be very lively either. You know exactly what life in Halkin Street is like. They’ll be very glad–my father and my mother–if you’ll marry me. They like you so much. You belong to the family. Your mother was one of my mother’s greatest friends. But it will be no sort of escape for you–except for actual escape from money troubles. But we would all be kind to you and your sister. Everyone would be glad and would try to make you both happy.”

“It will surprise everyone very much,” Janet said slowly. “I have known you so little. You’ve been away so much.”

“Yes. But we can trust one another. I’m sure of that.”

“I believe we can.”

Then, looking him honestly in the eyes, she said:

“I will marry you and I will be a good friend to you.”

He took her hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “You have made me very happy.”

In old Lady Mossop’s vast and draughty drawing-room life pursued its decorous way. There were perhaps a hundred human beings in the room, but had you listened at the door in the intervals of music the sound proceeding from their conversation would have resembled nothing so much as the stealthy spinning of a bemused and industrious top. No more and no less. A very large painting by Sir Edward Burne-Jones of Grecian ladies gathered about a well, portraits of a number of glazed Mossop ancestors, a huge fireplace of spotted marble, a great gold clock, a copy of Holman Hunt’s “Scapegoat” (it gazed across the floor into the indifferent faces of the Grecian ladies), these held, as they had done for many a past year, command of the situation. No human being, however bold, however arrogant, would dream of antagonising them. And they knew it. All the guests of Lady Mossop would also have known it had they thought of it. They did not think of it.

Little Felix Brun, seated uncomfortably on a little gilt chair, did not pretend to listen to the old lady with untidy white hair who was in the act of manfully demolishing Schumann’s “Carnaval” at the enormous piano in the room’s further corner. He was not listening. He was, as always throughout his life it had been his practice, observing. In earlier days he would have stood up against the wall whence he might more efficiently have taken his notes, but he was now seventy-six years of age and his legs too often defeated him. He was nevertheless intensely interested. He had seen nothing like this before.

He had not been in England for many years, not since the year 1911, and it was now the year of 1921. Ten years, and ten such years! The war had moved him to a patriotic participation that would have once seemed to him incredible. He had thought himself detached from his country–a cosmopolitan philosopher with Socratic vision. But the German invasion of Belgium had torn his Socratic isolation to ribbons, and for the next six years he had lived only in, and for, his beloved France.

Then with the disappointments and ironies of the Peace some of his cynical detachment returned. He was not wholly French–there was Austrian blood in his veins–and it was this same Austrian blood, perhaps, that led him, hating Germany as he did, to criticise France with a frankness that infuriated his Parisian circle. And so, rather happy that he had regained once more his impersonality, he returned to his once-so-beloved London.

The impression that he had had of it during his absent post-war years–impression gathered in the main from English novels and newspapers–was that his dear London was running swiftly to the dogs, the Upper Classes drinking cocktails and dancing eternally to the jazziest of music, the Middle Classes hopelessly and aimlessly impoverished, the Lower Classes rebellious, revolutionary, idle, and dole-fed.

He found, to his pleasure, his old rooms in Clarges Street vacant, and the stout, amiable Forrester, landlord, valet, and gossip, older but otherwise unchanged. The cost of living had doubled, of course, but so it had everywhere, and for the rest, in his first week’s survey he could not, save for the congestion of traffic and the ruin of Regent Street, see that his London was very greatly altered. There were still the flower-women round the fountain in Piccadilly Circus, still the lions and Nelson, still the decent-looking fellows outlined against the freshness of the Green Park, still the sanctum by the fireplace under the stairs in St. James’s Club, still Big Ben and the chastity of Curzon Street, the higgledy-piggledy of Shepherd Market, the Christian Science Church, and the cloistered shabbiness of the Albany. His superficial landmarks were all there.

He was taken after the theatre to a place where they danced, and it seemed to him extremely English and decorous. He could find in it none of the dazzling wickedness and abnormality that the English novels of his reading had led him to expect. The Unemployed, bursting into music in the streets, struck him with their exceeding rosiness and physical vigour. He remembered faces seen by him recently in Berlin, Vienna, and Prague that had besieged successfully even his cynical indifference. He saw no such faces here.

And then coming out one day of Colnaghi’s in Bond Street he encountered old Lady Mossop, with her large spectacles and larger nose, her broad unwieldly figure, her hat a little askew, just exactly as she had been ten years earlier. She recognised him, told him in her deep, rather wheezy voice (she always talked like an old cab-driver whose life had been spent in rain and fog) that he was looking older, and asked him to her party.

So here he was to-night. He had realised at once on entering the room that for the first time since his to London he was in the world that he had known before the war. Once in the old days of the South African War he had divided the English ruling classes into three parties–the Autocrats, the Aristocrats, and the Democrats. The Autocrats–the Beaminsters, the Gutterils, the Minsters–had been the people with whom, at that time, he had mostly lived. The old Duchess of Wrexe had been their queen, and for a time she had ruled England. She was long dead, and the Autocrats, as a party of power in England, were gone and gone for ever. The Democrats–Ruddards, Denisons, Funells, Muffats–there were plenty of them about, he supposed. The war and its consequences must have helped them to power. It was they, and the members of the old Autocratic party whom disaster and poverty had driven into their ranks, who danced and kicked their way through the illustrated papers. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He felt in his bones that, at the present time at least, they were unimportant whatever they might become. He dismissed them with a shrug. They were food for the novelist who wanted dazzling pictures with post-impressionist colours and Freudian titles.

Remained then the Aristocrats–the Mossops, the Darrants, the Chichesters, the Medleys, the Weddons. He had once said of them, “I take my hat off to them. 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.”

He didn’t remember, of course, that he had ever said that, but it was what he still at this day, twenty-two years later, felt. And they were of infinitely more importance now than they had been then. They were all–positively all–that was left of the old Aristocracy of England, that Class and that Creed that, whether for good or ill, had meant a great deal in the world’s history. They were (he couldn’t as yet be sure but he fancied that he felt it in the air about him) engaged now in a really desperate conflict. This might be the last phase of their Power, or it might lead through victory to a new phase of Power, greater than any they had yet known. If they were as poor as mice then, twenty-two years ago, they were, they must be, a great deal poorer than any reasonably fortunate mouse now. He fancied that he could see something of that too as he looked about him. But they would say nothing at all about it. They would have, above everything else, their dignity and self-respect, qualities that the Democrats had lost long ago.

The possession of those qualities might make for dullness, but a little dullness was sometimes not a bad thing.

He had reached this point in his commentary when the untidy lady buried the “Carnaval” with a sigh of relief and everyone rose to the surface of the room. Brun turned to discover his neighbour and saw (on the gilt chair next to his) a nice young man whose face seemed familiar to him. A moment later someone from behind them bent forwards and said, “Hullo, Seddon! How goes it?” and the young man, amiability all over him, turned back to talk.

Seddon... Seddon... Seddon...

Little Brun swept his brain. The name was familiar enough, the face too. Ah! he knew. He had it. He turned to the boy, who was about to get up and go, and said:

“I beg your pardon. Forgive an old man a liberty. But I heard you addressed... I have not been in London for many years; I am quite out of touch with everyone. But I once, twenty years ago, had two friends, Sir Roderick Seddon and his wife. You resemble her a little. My old affection for them, the memory of their goodness to me, makes me perhaps impertinent... Pray forgive it...”

The boy smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “That must be my father and mother. I’m Tom Seddon.”

Brun held out his hand.

“It’s very exciting to me,” he said, “to meet Rachel Seddon’s son. It’s a good omen for my happy to London. You tell your father and mother when you see them that Felix Brun took this liberty with you, and that he is going to call if he may.”

“My father’s dead, sir,” the boy answered. “He died before the war. But of course I know your name. When I was quite a kid I used to hear mother say that you knew more about European politics than anyone in Europe. At that time,” he smiled delightfully, “I didn’t know I was going into the Foreign Office, where as a matter of fact I am–the only thing I wanted was to play the Australians at cricket–so what mother said didn’t mean as much to me as it ought to have done. But it means an awful lot now. You could tell me some things I most frightfully want to know.”

The boy was so charming that little Brun was entirely captive. He had been so long away from England that he had a little forgotten how pleasant a pleasant Englishman can be. Young Seddon, with every turn of his head, every spoken word, every smile, brought back to Brun a world of memories. Here was something that he could find no where else in Europe. He had been, yes, surely he had been too long away.

“You know,” young Seddon confided. “This is a jolly dull party. Wasn’t that woman awful on the piano? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for a special reason...” He paused for a moment looking eagerly about the room. “There’s somebody here I’m looking for... Ah! excuse me a moment... One moment...”

He was off, threading his way across the room through the little gilt chairs. Brun followed him with his eyes. Two girls were standing talking to Lady Mossop. They were striking enough standing there together. Striking even by contrast. They were both tall, but one was very dark and the other very fair. The dark one seemed to be the older of the two; she was very tall, and held herself magnificently. Her face expressed great sweetness; the eyes, the mouth showed so striking a spirit of kindliness and gentleness that Brun, arrested by this, for a time forgot everything and everyone else in the room. He would like to know that girl. He was no sentimentalist, but kindliness and goodness of heart had their value in this world, their positive international value. And this was English kindliness (the girl was so English that it was almost shocking), a little dull perhaps but restful, reliable in a degree that during these late unstable years of his life had seemed non-existent. He would like to know that girl–she would be courageous, faithful, simple, perceptive of only a few things, but seeing those things clearly without a tremor of her dark protecting eyes.

The girl beside her was prettier, younger, far more sexually disturbing. They were sisters. That was assured by the resemblance of the forehead, carriage of the head, general pose and attitude to the world. The fair girl was beautiful, which the dark girl was not. The fair girl had the English beauty of a Reynolds or a Gainsborough. Everything was fair and fresh and gentle, a little old-fashioned perhaps in the abundance of the hair and the simplicity of the frock. She was not naked, as now so many English girls were, so much more naked than complete nudity. But then of course in this set, in this room, nudity would not be fashionable.

Young Seddon was talking to these two with great animation, talking to them both but looking always at the fair girl even when his eyes were turned to the older sister. That was his reason, then, for coming to this stuffy party. Little Brun felt a gentle stir of romantic, if rather cynical, pleasure. He wished him luck. They would make a handsome pair.

And then someone clapped him on the shoulder.

“Felix... Old Felix! It is! After these years!”

He turned round and looked up and there was old Johnnie Beaminster–Johnnie Beaminster, eighty or ninety or a hundred surely, but looking as neat and as round and as complete with his white hair and rosy unwrinkled face as he had been twenty, thirty, forty years ago! How these English people didn’t change! It was, one must suppose, the lives they led or didn’t lead, their baths and exercises and simple innocent minds! But Felix was delighted. There had been times, in the old past world, when he had found Johnnie Beaminster a bit of a bore, but now in this new, unfaithful, hysterical world old Beaminster was a pearl of great price, and it was a beautiful, round, shining, gleaming pearl that he looked, his smooth, good-tempered, stupid face crinkled into smiles.

“And you’ve been here ever so long and you’ve never told me. I call that too bad. You could have found me in a minute.”

“No, but, Johnnie, I haven’t been here so long. I’m only now settling in. I’d have bothered you soon enough. And I’m old. Mon dieu! how old! And snappy... You don’t know how snappy. I’m kind to keep out of people’s path.”

“You were always snappy.” Beaminster’s chair leaned over to Brun’s. He had his arm on the other’s shoulder. “I’m damnably glad to see you. It’s old times come back. I daresay they weren’t really as good as we fancy them now, but it’s an odd world these days. One would be lost in it if it weren’t for a few good fellows. Still taking notes, Felix? There’s lots for you to be observing nowadays.”

Brun laughed. “The old Duchess has gone, though.”

Beaminster’s face crinkled again. “Yes. She wouldn’t work now. It’s all too exposed. You couldn’t carry on a mystery stunt like that these days. That’s young Tom Seddon over there, Rachel’s boy.”

“I know. He’s just been talking to me. Real English. None of Rachel’s Russian complexities.”

“Oh, he’s a good boy. There isn’t a nicer in town. I’m leaving him my goods and chattels. He doesn’t know it, though. He’s got brains. He’ll go farther than poor Roddy ever did.”

“And who are those girls he’s talking to?”

“Miss Grandisons. Janet and Rosalind. Rosalind’s a beauty and Janet’s a treasure. Nicest girls in London. They are poorer than poor. Their mother was a Ludley. Can’t think why they don’t marry. They’ve been orphans for ten years now.”

“And who is that–just joined them? Good-looking.”

“That’s Wildherne Poole. Old Romney’s son. It’s a pity he doesn’t marry, but there’s been some affair... The old Duke’s always pressing him to. He’s the only son and there’s got to be an heir.”

“Romney... Poole.” Brun sorted the names. “I don’t remember when I was here...”

“No, you wouldn’t. Romney came into the thing very late. His elder brother had it. And he was always down at the place in Wiltshire. The present man doesn’t cut any figure socially. They are poor and Church of England. Parsons, soup-kitchens, mufflers for the old women. Their house in Halkin Street is deadly. All the same he’s a dear old boy. Too good and simple for these days.”

The music began again.

After a sleepy while Beaminster and Brun stole away. As they passed down the stairs to the cloakroom the stir and whisper of the music faintly, wistfully pursued them. The hall-door opened for an instant and a vision of snow and a muffled amber lamp swept in with a rush of cold biting air. The door closed. Brun, fumbling for his cloakroom ticket, looked up at a huge, naked, badly-jointed Hercules that stuck out over the racks of coats and hats. It had its fig-leaf, but it had been pushed into that corner years ago because it wasn’t quite decent. The only sound in the house was the faint tinkle of the piano and the unhurried ticking of a marble clock on the other side of the hall.

“It is jolly to be back,” Brun confided to Beaminster. “Very touching. I could cry for two-pence.”

CHAPTER II

THE SILVER TREE–I

It was very good of the kindly old thing to offer the girls a lift in her four-wheeler. Four-wheelers were now remarkable and even romantic phenomena–you saw them so seldom and were in them simply never! But old Lady Anglish supported the old man with the side whiskers who drove this one, yes, and his whole family! As she explained to Rosalind when they were all settled inside, it wasn’t only that she had never been in a motor-car yet and never would, but that Mussel’s grandchildren were the sweetest children, and that when she went to see them she knew that there were at least half a dozen human beings in the world who were glad to welcome her.

More people, Rosalind reflected as the cab crept like a sleep-walker over the snow, would welcome her if she looked less odd and didn’t talk so continuously about herself and her plans. Her oddness was interesting seen at a dispassionate distance, but embarrassing as soon as you were in any way responsible for it. However, to-night the cab was positively a blessing. Otherwise they must have taken an omnibus. This disgusting poverty, this loathsome compelling of every reluctant penny to do its uttermost “bit”! And then the beauty of the night seen very dimly through the frost-dimmed panes of the cab drew Rosalind from those sordid thoughts. She was always easily drawn by any beauty–or by any ugliness for the matter of that. Life was what she wanted–to savour it, fully, utterly, to the last intensity, never to miss a thing, never to escape an experience, that would be the ecstasy of enjoyment–if it were not for morals and other people’s feelings. She had not, she considered, any morals herself. Nothing shocked her. She had heard the most dreadful things and had never turned a hair. Nor did she care, when she looked into it dispassionately, very much for other people’s feelings. Unless she loved them. There was the rub. This love. How tiresome it was, forcing you to be considerate and unselfish and yielding when you so definitely did not wish to be! Perhaps one day when she was older she would conquer this feeling and not care for anybody, only for herself. How satisfying that state would be!

The vast white space of Hyde Park Corner encircled them like a crystal lake. St. George’s Hospital was black and forbidding like a jutting crag. The cab stopped to allow the motor-cars to pass, and with glaring fiery eyes like wolves out on the hunt they slipped by. Rosalind looked at her sister Janet, and saw that she was sitting back in her corner of the cab, her eyes closed. Something had happened to Janet! Rosalind knew it at once. The sisters always knew about one another. But something had also happened to Rosalind. Young Tom Seddon had as good as proposed to her. Only a few words, but they had been enough to tell her. And she didn’t want him to propose. He mustn’t propose, because if he did she would only refuse him and then all the pleasant friendly companionship of the last few years would be changed. She would refuse him because for one thing she didn’t love him, and because for another and a more important thing he hadn’t any money. His mother had just enough to keep herself and her son in that decent genteel poverty that Rosalind so thoroughly loathed. It was true that Tom was clever and might one day be an Ambassador, but all that was far distant. Moreover, there was something else about Tom. He was old-fashioned; he didn’t believe in Socialism nor Freudian theories of abnormality nor modern painting, novels, and poetry. That is, when one said that he didn’t believe in these things one meant that he considered them all and found them wanting, or, if not wanting, at least not perfection.

Especially with regard to Free Love he was too irritating for words. It was not that Rosalind desired lovers–far from it–but she believed in the theory of freedom, freedom for everybody to do just what they liked provided they left herself alone. But Tom had a hampered, restricted mind. He thought things “horrid” or “bad form.” As a husband he would be too tiresome. As a friend he was charming, courteous, unselfish, humorous, gentle. He was intellectually “behind the times,” a quite impossible thing for a modern husband.

They had arrived. Old Lady Anglish kissed them both and asked them to luncheon two days from now. They didn’t know. They couldn’t say. They would telephone. It was too kind of her to have brought them like this. They were grateful! The cab tottered off. They mounted the stairs to their little flat, and once in the sitting-room Rosalind sank into the arm-chair with the crimson peacocks, stretched her arms, yawned, and shivered.

“Of course Frances has let the fire go, although you especially told her.”

“It’s late. Nearly three. We’ll go to bed and be warm in no time.” Janet stood up, staring in front of her, seeing through walls and walls and walls far into Destiny.

“Ugh! How I detest this flat! It’s shut in like a mortuary. Everything wants re-covering.” Then Rosalind smiled. She had remembered something. She got up, disappeared into the next room, returned, a parcel in her hand.

She stood up against her sister smiling very prettily.

“Three o’clock in the morning is an absurd time to give you anything. But I can’t wait. I got it this afternoon.”

“For me? A present?” Janet’s eyes shone, because like all good people she adored presents.

She took the little gilt scissors from the table, cut the string (a wicked proceeding), there was a thin wooden box with a lid, then cotton wool, then–

“Oh, take care!” Rosalind cried. “You’ll drop it!”

But not Janet. Slowly, with all the eager awfulness of anticipation, she drew out the treasure. She held it out. She gasped.

It was the loveliest thing, quite the loveliest thing ever seen. It was a little tree, silver and white and green. Its leaves were of coloured metal, its flowers of silver, and it stood in a porphyry bowl. It was perfect. It was enchanted. Already, held there in Janet’s hand, it had a life of its own, a magical life, gleaming, glittering under the electric light, but encased too in its own shining armour that held it apart, by itself, in its own natural and unstained beauty.

Janet gazed and gazed. She could not speak. Tears filled her eyes. That Rosalind should have given her this, Rosalind whom she loved so utterly, Rosalind–

She placed it on the table, then caught her sister into her arms and held her, cheek against cheek, held her as though it were for life.

“Why, Mops dear, you’re crying!” Rosalind gently withdrew herself. “You do like it, then! I thought you would. I was at a little sale this afternoon–you know, Marie Haik’s thing–and I saw one or two of these, and I had to get one. They were made by Mrs. Somebody or other, I forget the name, but she’s married and got lots of money and just does them for pleasure. I saw it and I had to get it. It was too awfully sweet. I said to myself, ‘That’s just the thing for Mops!’”

She spoke a little eagerly, a little nervously. To see Janet in tears, controlled and wise-minded Janet, was embarrassing. And she didn’t want to be thanked. It made her remember all the wicked selfish things she was always doing.

Janet wiped her eyes. But still she couldn’t speak. The thing was too lovely, but lovelier still was it that Rosalind should have bought it, bought it of her own generous volition without any prompting and given it her now, of all times, just when she had such a piece of news to deliver!

“Oh, Rosalind... I’m so glad. It was wonderful of you, but more than that... just now... I would rather that you gave me something just now than at any other time in all our lives.”

She turned round to it, gazing at it, drinking in its beauties.

“It makes me feel safer, your giving me that just now. It makes me feel that perhaps I’ve done right. It’s a sign.”

“A sign! Of what?” Rosalind was now watching her sister. “I knew all the time that we were coming home that something had happened to you. What is it? Have we come into money?”

“Yes, in a way.” Janet’s eyes lingered passionately on her sister’s face. “But that’s a horrid way to put it. I told Wildherne Poole to-night that I would marry him!”

“Oh!... Oh!”

It was Rosalind’s turn. She threw her arms around Janet, kissing her, kissing her, kissing her:

“Oh, oh, oh!... Oh! How lovely! How beautiful! How perfect! I’ve been longing, been hoping, been aching for it to happen! You darling, you pet, you Perfect! Oh, Mops, you’ll be a Duchess–my Mops will be a Duchess. You’ll have everything you want and be happy for ever. And I’ll be Wildherne’s sister–good old Wildherne–and no more of this beastly flat. Oh, Mops! how heavenly!”

Then she saw, through her joy, the tears still standing in Janet’s eyes.

“But you’re happy about it, Mops darling, aren’t you? You love him, don’t you, and he loves you? It’s all going to be perfect?”

“I don’t know,” Janet answered slowly. “Nothing’s perfect ever, is it? And I don’t love him. I love no one in the world but you. Perhaps it’s a wicked thing I’ve done. It would be wicked if I didn’t love him and he did love me. But he doesn’t love me either. We were both quite honest about it.”

“Oh, of course.” Rosalind’s voice was slow. “There’s Diana Guard. I’d forgotten. But Diana doesn’t care for him any longer. The whole world knows that.”

“Yes, but he cares for her. The only one he’s ever loved, and he will love her always, he said.”

“Janet! Have you done this for me? Tell me–because if you have–”

“No, dear, of course not. A little for you perhaps, but a great deal for myself. I like him–better than any other man I know. And he likes me–better than any other woman except that one. I don’t know that love’s so important–not in these days. To be good companions is the thing. And I want to do something with my life. Here I am wasting away, getting old. I shall never love any man, not passionately as people mean by love. But I will be good to him and he will be good to me. And I can be of use to other people as well.”

And Rosalind, reassured, was brilliantly happy again. Surely it was the most glorious, glorious event! No more this old flat, no more wondering where the next penny would come from. “We shan’t be rich, you know,” Janet put in. Lots of amusing people. “We shall have to be often in Halkin Street,” Janet interrupted again, “and that won’t be very amusing.” Her darling Mops a Duchess. “They are both very alive, and long may they be so,” Janet remarked again. Oh well, anyway, a Marchioness, and even if those things didn’t mean very much these days, and nobody minded, still it was better than being cooped up in this hateful little flat...

But at the end of her triumph she folded her arms around Janet.

“You are sure. You swear it isn’t for me you’re doing this?”

“I swear,” Janet answered. “If I didn’t like him nothing would induce me.”

She turned to the little silver tree as though invoking its friendship.

Alone in her room, brushing her hair, gazing into her glass, Janet considered everything. Rosalind’s joy had reassured her. There at least was happiness. But for herself? A little chill caught her body. She shivered, dropping the brushes, pressing her hands to her breast, staring into the glass as though passionately demanding from the face that she saw there a comforting answer. Marriage? And with a man whom she did not love? It was a reassurance to her that he did not love her; she would not have to submit to his passion, but he wanted children, and what would that intercourse be for them both deprived of passion? Would he not close his eyes and imagine that in his arms he held another dearly-loved woman? And she? Could she shelter herself enough behind her liking for him? Did she like him enough for that?

She had not met him so seldom. She knew his courtesy, his kindliness to others. She liked him best in his relation to his father and mother, to whom he was devoted. But then who could help but be devoted to the old Duke? No difficult task for any son.

Did she care for Wildherne Poole in any physical way whatever? Did she like him to be near her, was she happier when he took her hand, did her heart beat if he entered a room where she was?

No, none of these things. It was many years now since she had felt the stirring of her blood for any man. During these ten years since her mother’s death all passion, all longing, all unselfishness, all ambition had been buried in her sister.

From the very first days when Rosalind had been carried out by the nurse on to the bright lawn at Sopover and the sun, enmeshed, had glittered in her hair, that passion had burned. Rosalind had always been so lovely, so amusing, so alive, so packed with charm. It had always been Rosalind whom everyone had noticed, and during that last awful week when Pamela Grandison had realised that she was leaving her two girls alone, and almost friendless, to fight their hard battle, it had been “Rosalind–Rosalind–Rosalind... Look after her, Janet darling. She hasn’t your character. She can’t put up with things as you can. Look after her–”

Janet switched off the light, got into bed, lay down, staring into the darkness. It was true. Rosalind had not the character. Janet was no fool about her sister; she knew that she was selfish, comfort-loving, hard in sudden unexpected places. She, Janet, was never quite sure whether Rosalind loved her or no. Sometimes she did, and sometimes most certainly she did not. She was elusive, always just out of Janet’s reach. And was not that very elusiveness partly responsible for Janet’s passion? Do we not love the most those persons of whose love for us we are not quite sure?

But darling Rosalind, there was more, far more, than that in Janet’s love for her. The struggle of these ten years, the increasing struggle as prices had gone up and up and the tiny investments had gone down and down, the sense that there was no one in the world who cared, no one but distant Medley and Grandison relations, no one at least whom proud Janet would humiliate herself to beg from. Her own best friends–Rachel Seddon, Mary Coane, Ada Darrant, Constance Medley–all women, by the way, older than herself, had they ever realised at all how desperate the struggle was for Janet and Rosalind? And were not they themselves also hard up like all their set, like all their world? Wasn’t the need for more money the one cry that nowadays you heard on every side of you? Hadn’t Connie Medley her hat shop, and wasn’t Ada Darrant dressmaking, and hadn’t Janet herself spent months of her life turning old shoes into new ones?

The same with all of them. Why should they then demand more charity than the rest?

Charity! No! Hateful word!

But wasn’t it charity that Janet was about to receive from Wildherne Poole? Was she going to him for any reason but the mercenary one? Would she have considered marriage with him for a moment had she and Rosalind been rich?

Yes, she would. The answer came to her with astonishing clearness out of the darkness. She wanted to do more with her life than she was doing. She wanted (strangely, pathetically she knew it) to care for somebody who would quite definitely care for her. She wanted to feel affection for someone who would not, as Rosalind did, at one moment accept her, at another violently reject her. She wanted some sort of society in addition to the excitement of her love for Rosalind. This other thing would not be exciting at all–quite orderly, safe, rather humdrum. But always there and to be relied on. And she would be there for him too. He had his passion elsewhere and that would make him, as passion always does, restless and unhappy and unsatisfied. And she would be there for him to come home to. Someone upon whom he could absolutely rely.

She could not sleep. She turned on her light and lay, watching the pool of purple shadow encircling the little table, the three or four books, a photograph of her mother in a silver frame. Life! What was it? Why did she make so much of this step that she was taking? What matter it if it gave Rosalind happiness, Wildherne Poole a son, the old Duke and Duchess comfort? She felt herself deprived of all personality. She lay there without body, without soul. Only a tiny impetus pushing others who were alive into more agreeable positions.

Then her life leapt back into her veins. She was not negative. She was as alive as they. For ten years, nay, for twenty years she had given herself wholly to others. Now her own time had come.

Then, as though there were disloyalty in this, she felt an aching longing for Rosalind. She must see her, know that she was there, touch her ever so gently.

She rose from her bed, found her dressing-gown and slippers, and stole from the room.

She opened Rosalind’s door very gently and then stood there silently listening. From beyond the windows came that strange purring rumble of the London traffic. Once and again some heavier vehicle broke up the murmur and scattered it and the flat quivered, ever so gently, as though it were responding to the life beyond it. Above the murmur was Rosalind’s regular soft breathing.

Janet moved forward very gently, felt the hard line of the bed, touched the pillow with her hand, then sank down on to the floor gathering her dressing-gown about her. She rested her head on the bedclothes without touching her sister.

Something deep, deep within her prayed. “Make her happy, God. Make her happy. If I’m doing wrong in this punish me but not her. Give her a lovely life. Give her everything. Make her happy.”

She did not know whether she believed in a God. It was the fashion now not to. But sometimes it seemed to her that someone bent down and gathered her up and warmed her heart. A weak sentimental illusion, her friends would tell her. But to-night she was not thinking of her friends. In that dark murmuring room the outside world could not have its say.

She felt comforted and warmed.

Very very softly she leaned forward and kissed her sister’s cheek. Then returned to her bed and slept.

CHAPTER III

BEAMINSTER AT HOME

Lord John Beaminster had had chambers for more than twenty years now at 90 Piccadilly, which is at the Piccadilly end of Half Moon Street, and the doors thereof confront the windows of that excellent haberdasher’s, Messrs. Dare and Dolphin.

Lord John had lived there so long because he liked the view. He of course looked over the Green Park into the very eye of her late August Majesty Queen Victoria, and on the left of her there were the towers of Westminster and on the right Buckingham Palace. He stood, his legs widely planted, his thick back steadily set, like a captain directing his vessel, and for more than twenty years now had he thus sailed over that green misty sea, and always the farther he sailed, the farther did her August Majesty discreetly withdraw!

But he was not ruffled by this frustration. He rejoiced in it, and he rejoiced also in the spume and froth thrown up at his very feet, and felt as he looked down at the cascades and jets of humanity tossed fruitlessly at his walls all the pride of a good old mariner in his taut and seaworthy vessel.

To a visitor primed with his best cognac tossing his head he would say: “Just look at ’em! Pretty busy, what? And yet in here with the windows closed you can’t hear a sound. And even with ’em open it don’t worry you.” And here he would look round upon his walls, upon the reproductions of Wheatley’s “Street Cries”–the mezzotints, the “Ladies Waldegrave,” and the others were in the little dining-room–and the old French clock with the naked Diana in gold, and the Louis XVI. sofa and chairs, and the glass bookcases with the bound sets of Madame de Sévigné and Saint-Simon, and the ten volumes of The Mistresses of the Kings of France, and, primed also with his own excellent cognac, would feel kindly and amiable and entirely optimistic about everything.

That had always been his “note,” that confidence in his own seaworthy vessel. Neither the little South African War nor the big World War with all the social changes that followed them really, he maintained proudly, disturbed him, although for convention’s sake he would complain of the “changed times,” and that “things were not, dammit, at all as they used to be.” But because his digestion was still so excellent, and because he had that best of all gifts, the power to enjoy a good moment to its full consciously at the very instant that it was occurring, nothing but a collapse in his health, he asserted, would ever disturb him. It was not that he was selfish or hard-hearted. The sorrows of others grieved him, and he did many kindnesses in a quiet unobtrusive way, but life now in his seventy-seventh year was as good and rich to him as it had been in his seventh when his father had put him for the first time on his pony.

When he did think of social conditions–and it was hard enough in these days to avoid them–he felt sure that the miseries of other people as recounted by other people were greatly exaggerated.

He had been told that he must read the novels of Mr. James Fossett, and faithfully he had read four or five of them. But he would read no more. Partly because they seemed so closely to resemble one another–there was a Policeman in all of them–and partly because the picture they presented did not at all resemble any life that he himself knew. The characters seemed to be in a sad repressed state, held down firmly by the cold hand of their author. He longed to watch them all out at play when Mr. Fossett had no longer his eye upon them.

Nor was it his experience that the Lower Orders were always unhappy. The Policeman on the corner of Half Moon Street–four to twelve one week and eight to four the next–was a good friend of his–he invited him sometimes when the weather was bad to the enjoyment of a glass of whisky–a very cheerful individual with a charming wife and two handsome little boys. Old Fullerton–head man in these Chambers for the last thirty years–found life anything but depressing; and the old man who sold the Evening News by the “In and Out” could be heard whistling to himself any fine evening.

One morning he awoke, as ever, to the consciousness of Fullerton’s soft and unobtrusive entrance just as the clocks in the sitting-room (the golden Diana) and the dining-room were chanting the eight o’clock hour. Fullerton moved very lightly for so stout a man, and always now for twenty years Beaminster had wanted to snap out at him, “For God’s sake, Fullerton, you’re not a cat!” A solemn notion, when you looked into it, that this had been the first thought of your day for more than twenty years!

But sleep had not vanished far enough for such daylight energy, and also lying on the bed close to hand was the virgin Morning Post, unravished as yet by the sighs, curses, aspirations, triumphant discoveries of any vulgar reader.

He was older now also. He did not move so easily nor so swiftly as he had once done; his body seemed to be cast into the mould of the sheets and blankets that had cherished him so lovingly all night. He might just lazily stretch his arm and draw the Morning Post towards him, and this movement coincided always with Fullerton’s rasp of the cherry-coloured silk curtains that once on a day Adela had insisted upon, “because this room’s so grisly–you must have some colour,” and was followed by the vision of Fullerton’s broad beam as he bent forward to gather together the discarded evening clothes. Next step through the advancing hour was the question, “What sort of a day?” and then Fullerton’s straightening body, the sudden projection of his round red face, and the thick, rather husky answer: “Not bad, my lord.” “A little foggy this morning, my lord,” or “Nice bright morning, my lord.”

Followed on this the bomb-like intrusion of the world from China to Peru. The Himalayas leaned their snows across the dressing-table, the torrents of Niagara tumbled over the wardrobe, the rivers of China trickled across the little rug from Teheran in front of the fireplace, the shouting multitudes of Wall Street shattered the glass of the Queen Anne mirror. Impassively Lord John surveyed chaos, only once and again for Fullerton’s benefit murmured, “Those damned Balkans again,” or “That feller that buried his girl in a chicken-run is going to swing,” or “No knowing where these Bolsheviks are going to stop,” and Fullerton would reply, “Yes, my lord,” or “No, my lord,” or entering more fully into the question would remember once when he had been with Sir Asprey Farthingale or how Colonel Meadows, who had the floor above this in 1913, used to say that... and to this no answer would issue from the bed.

Then the Bath and the Exercises. Beaminster was proud of his body as, stretched on his toes, he slowly raised his arms and counted ten. A decent, white, plump, symmetrical body it was, everything moving a trifle more slowly than it used to, but no rebellion anywhere, no refusal to function.

Once in a while there was a twinge of something, and if this twinge occurred twice or thrice Barley Harter would be consulted, there would follow perhaps a change of diet, port would be dropped, or a fortnight at Bath or Harrogate recommended; but for the most part things proceeded smoothly enough, and soon there would be that slippery sliding into that bath with blue tiles so that your body like a round white fish flapped and slithered and ever so gently rolled...

At nine o’clock precisely there came the best moment of the day when, clothed and in his right mind, dark blue suit, pearl pin in black tie, hair so snowy white that it seemed to glow with some internal light of its own, face rubicund, round, kindly and smooth in spite of its reputed years as any baby’s, John Beaminster sat down to his breakfast.

On this particular morning snow lay over the land and a bright sun shone in the heavens. The landscape before the windows lay in a whiteness unbroken save by gentle purple shadows between the avenue of crystal sparkling trees that stretched down to the Victoria Memorial, and the reflected light of this whiteness shone into the little roof of the flat with its ivory walls, gleaming tablecloth, and low white bookcases.

Beaminster sat in this temple of glittering crystal before his coffee and eggs. He sat there smiling like the image of some Egyptian King of the 18th Dynasty–some Tutmose or Rameses–carved there in a crystal of ivory and purple for immortality. Then the egg was tapped, the coffee poured out, the letters opened, and immortality was shattered.

His thoughts, shot through with the sunshine, danced through his brain.

This was pleasant, this lovely morning, and he was in excellent health, and the coffee was hot, and the letters were agreeable. He opened them slowly one after another. Old Lady Mossop, Hartop, a tailor, a wine merchant, a race-meeting, an invitation to dinner, to a house party, to Scotland... Then a note from young Tom Seddon:

Dear Uncle John–I shall pop in about four to-morrow (Tuesday) for an hour if I may. I’ve something to tell you. Just ring Grosvenor 4763 if that doesn’t suit. I’m in till eleven.–Yours affectionately,

Tom.

He regarded this piece of paper covered with the big, boyish, sprawling hand affectionately, and when his breakfast was finished carried the letter with him into the other room, leaving the others upon the table.

He loved that boy. Standing motionless in a pool of sunlight, his white hair shining, he reflected upon how deeply he loved him. Now in his old age at last, when he might have yielded up all desire for human contacts involving as they must human trouble and self-sacrifice, this deep attachment had come to him. Come to him without his asking. He had always been interested in him, of course, Rachel’s boy, but it was only during the last three years that he had been aware of this deep, yearning, unsatisfied affection.

Unsatisfied because the boy could not respond in that way. Why should he? He was not his son, no, nor his nephew, although he called him Uncle. His great-uncle. What an awful word, implying such a deadly distance of age and experience. How could they be friends with all those generations between them? And yet they had achieved something. The boy was a good boy, responding spontaneously, warmly to kindness, not selfish like so many of his generation, warm-hearted, and not afraid to show his feelings.

But–Uncle John! A good old codger, wonderful for his years, remarkable how he keeps up with things. Oh yes. Beaminster knew what the point of view must be.

Nevertheless the boy came to him for help when he was in difficulty. Here he was in love with this girl who, likely enough, cared nothing for him. Funny life was–you cared for somebody and somebody cared for somebody else, and that somebody cared for somebody else again... Perhaps the point was in the caring, not in the returned affection. Look out, Uncle John! That’s a platitude most despised of all creatures in this our wonderful age!

But Uncle John, standing in his pool of sunlight looking at the rough scribbled note with eyes of pride and affection, thought nothing of platitudes. By God, he was a good boy, and if the girl didn’t like him she should be made to!

This girl (he sat down to continue his reflections), this Grandison girl, with what had she caught the boy? Well, she was good-looking, beautiful even, and John Beaminster had loved enough beautiful women in his life to realise what beauty could do. But had she anything else but beauty? He had talked to her but seldom, and on those occasions he had fancied that her eyes had been restless, searching about the room for others who were younger or more interesting. He had fancied that, perhaps. When you were over seventy, if you still cared for life you did fancy things sometimes. She was poor. Every one in London knew how poor were she and her sister. And she would be extravagant. A girl with that hair and those obstinate ambitious eyes!

But he fancied also that she did not care for the boy. She was flying, he fancied, after higher game, and if that were so wasn’t the boy in for a bad time? Nonsense! We all go through it. It’s good for the young. Teaches them self-control. The young, yes. But his own particular Tom! He did not wish him to suffer. He wanted him to have the happiest time! And that was not a boy to take things lightly! He would feel it. This was no passing fancy of his. The old man, looking back to an earlier evening, remembered how Tom had said to him, “Uncle John, I love that girl. I must marry her. I must.”

And here a strange feeling, new to Beaminster, twisted his heart. A twist of jealousy. That was it. Jealousy of a girl like that, a light-weight? No, jealousy of love, wanting someone to love him, almost anyone, someone to whom he might still be everything... as he had once been, yes, and several times... but now, when you were old...

The sunlight struck his chair, stroked his face. He chuckled. Why, he was like any old woman with his love and the rest. Straightening his shoulders he got up, crossed to the table, and sat down to write his letters.

Later on he went out.

As he turned the corner into Piccadilly the frosty air, the brilliant sunlight, confirmed him the more readily in the conviction, long held and never seriously threatened, that this Town belonged to him. Many men, passing along that same road, held that same conviction–and the conviction further that as this their Town was the finest, grandest, most beautiful, and most civilised Town in the world, that world also was theirs.

They held this conviction with no arrogance, and did not even know that they held it. Had you attacked their conviction and informed them that the slums in this Town were among the worst in the universe, that the streets were seething with extreme Socialism, that the organisation and Councils of the Town were incompetent and old-fashioned, that the ladies who paraded Jermyn Street from five in the evening until five in the morning were a disgrace and a scandal, they would have, pleasantly and courteously, agreed with you. Only had you attacked the Police Force of their stronghold would they, but yet courteously, have objected. And your objections, completely admitted by them, would only have confirmed them in their confidence.

Beaminster did not consciously think of London, but, taking his part in that admirable procession moving slowly and haughtily (but not arrogantly) on its way, his heart beat in unison with its every movement; every tree in the Green Park was his tree, every cigarette in every tobacconist’s shop, every shirt in every haberdasher’s, every stone in the Devonshire House wall (doomed so immediately to destruction), every flower in the florist’s beyond the Berkeley Hotel–they were all his.