CHAPTER IV
There was another young creature, at that moment driving across Londonto Prince's Gate, to whom the world looked very beautiful that day.Rachel was still in a sort of rapturous bewilderment. The wonderful newexperience that had come to her, that she was contemplating for thefirst time, seemed, as she saw it in the company of familiarsurroundings, more marvellous yet. At Maidenhead everything had beenunwonted. The new experience of going away alone, the enchanting reposeof the hot sunny days on the river, the look of the boughs as theydipped lazily into the water, and the light dancing and dazzling on theripples of the stream--all had been part of the setting of the newaspect of things, part of that great secret that she was beginning tolearn. Yet all the time she had had a feeling that when the setting wasaltered, when she left this mysterious region of romance, life wouldbecome ordinary again, the strange golden light with which it wasflooded would turn into the ordinary light of day, and she would findherself where she had been before. But it was not so. Here she was backagain in the town she knew so well, driving towards her home--but thenew, strange possession had not left her, the secret was hers still. Ithad all come so quickly that she had not realised what she felt. Was she"in love," the thing that she had taken for granted would happen to hersome day, but that she had not yet longed for? Rachel, it must beconfessed, had not been entirely given up to romance; she had not beenwaiting, watching for the fairy prince who should ride within her kenand transform existence for her. Her life had been too full of love ofanother kind. But now she had a sudden feeling of experience having beencompleted, something had come to her that she had wished for, longedfor--how much, she had not known until it came. What would they say athome? What would her mother say? And gradually she realised, as shealways ended by realising, that whatever the picture of life she wascontemplating her mother was in the foreground of it. There was no doubtabout that; her mother came first, her mother must come first. Butnothing was quite clear in her mind at this moment. The past forty-eighthours, the sudden change of scene and of companionship, a possiblealternative path suddenly presenting itself in an existence which hadbeen peacefully following the same road, all this had been disturbing,bewildering even--and when the hansom drew up in Prince's Gate, Rachelfelt an intense satisfaction at being back again in the haven, at thethought of the welcome she was going to find. And as on a summer's dayto people sitting in a shaded room, the world beyond shut out, theopening of a door into the sunshine may reveal a sudden vista of light,of flowers shining in the sun, so to the two people who were awaitingRachel's arrival she brought a sudden vision of youth, brightness,colour, hope, as she came swiftly in, smiling and confident, with theface and expression of one who had never come into the presence ofeither of these two companions without seeing her gladness reflected inthe light of welcome that shone in their eyes.
"Well, gadabout!" said her father as she turned to him after embracingher mother fondly.
"I am very sorry," said Rachel, "I won't do it again."
"And how did you enjoy yourself, my darling?" said Lady Gore.
"Oh, very much," Rachel said. "It was delightful." The mother looked ather and tried to read into her face all that the words might mean.Rachel was in happy unconsciousness of how entirely the ground wasprepared to receive her confidence.
"Was there a large party?" said Sir William.
"No," said Rachel, "a very small one." She was leaning back comfortablyin the armchair, and deliberately taking off her gloves. "In fact, therewere only two people beside myself, Sir Charles Miniver, and--Mr.Rendel." There was a pause.
"Miniver!" said Sir William, "Still staying about! He appeared to me anold man when I was twenty-five." Rachel opened her eyes.
"Did he?" she said. "That explains it. He is quite terribly old now,much, much older than other old people one sees," she said, with theconviction of her age, to which sixty and eighty appear pretty much thesame. "You didn't mind," she went on to her mother hastily, somewhattransparently trying to avoid a discussion of the rest of the houseparty, "my staying till the afternoon train? Mrs. Feversham suggestedboating this morning, and the day was so lovely, it was too tempting torefuse."
"I didn't mind at all," said Lady Gore. "It must have been lovely in theboat. Did you all go?"
"N--no, not all," replied Rachel. "Mrs. Feversham would have come, butshe had some things to do at home, and Sir Charles Miniver was----"
"Too old?" Lady Gore suggested.
"I suppose so," said Rachel, "though he called it busy."
"As you say," remarked Sir William, "that does not leave many people togo in the boat." Rachel looked at her father quickly, but with apliability surprising in the male mind he managed to look unconscious."Well, Elinor," he continued, "I think as you have a companion now, Ishall go off for a bit. I shall be back presently. Let me implore younot to let me find too many bores at tea."
"If Miss Tarlton comes," said Lady Gore, "I will have her automaticallyejected." Sir William went out, smiling at her. The mother anddaughter, both unconsciously to themselves, watched the door close, thenRachel got up, went to the glass over the chimneypiece and begandeliberately taking off her veil.
"I do look a sight," she said. "It is astonishing how dirty one's facegets in London, even in a drive across the Park."
"Rachel!" her mother said. Rachel turned round and looked at her. Thenshe went quickly across the room and knelt down by her mother's couch.
"Mother!" she said, "Mother dear! it is such a comfort that if I don'ttell you things you don't mind. And why should you? It doesn't matter.It is just as if I had told you--you always know, you alwaysunderstand."
"Yes," said Lady Gore, "I think I understand. And you know," she addedafter a moment, "that I never want you to tell me more than you wish totell. Only, very often"--and she tried to choose her words with anxiouscare, that not one of them might mean more, less, or other than sheintended, "it sometimes helps younger people, if they talk to people whoare older. You see, the mere fact of having been in the world longer,brings one something like more wisdom, one can judge of the proportionof things somehow, nothing seems quite so surprising, soextraordinary--or so impossible," she added with a faint smile, with theintuition of the point that Rachel had arrived at. And Rachel was readyto take perfectly for granted that she should have been so followed. Herabsolute reliance on the wise and tender confidante by her side, thehabit of placing her first and referring everything to her was strongerunconsciously to herself, than even the natural desire of her age to hugthe secret she was carrying, to keep it jealously from any eyes but herown.
"Of course, of course, I know that," she said without looking up, "andmy first thought always is that I will tell you. In fact," she went onwith a little laugh, "I never know what I think myself until I have toldyou, and heard what it sounds like when I am saying it to you, and seenwhat you look like when you listen--only----" she stopped again.
"Darling," said Lady Gore, "never feel that you must tell me a word morethan you wish to say."
"Well," said Rachel hesitating, "the only thing is that to-day Imust--perhaps--you would know something about it presently in anycase...." And she stopped again.
"Presently? why?" said Lady Gore. Rachel made no answer.
"Is Mr. Rendel coming here to-day?" said Lady Gore, trying to speak inher ordinary voice.
"Yes," said Rachel, "he is coming to see you."
"I shall be very glad to see him," said Lady Gore. "I always am."
"I know, yes," said Rachel. Then with a sudden effort, "It is no use,mother, I must tell you; you must know first." Then she paused again."This morning we went out in the boat----" she stopped.
"Yes," said Lady Gore, "and Sir Charles Miniver was unfortunately tooold to go with you--or fortunately, perhaps?"
"I am not sure which," said Rachel. "I am not sure," she repeatedslowly.
"Rachel, did Francis Rendel...."
"Yes," said Rachel, "he asked me to marry him."
Lady Gore laid
her hand on her daughter's. "What did you say to him?"
Rachel looked up quickly. "Surely you know. I told him it would beimpossible."
"Impossible?" her mother repeated.
"Of course, impossible," Rachel said. "We needn't discuss it, motherdear," she went on with an effort. "You know I could not go away fromyou; you could not do without me. You could not, could you?" she went onimploringly. "I should be dreadfully saddened if you could."
"I should have to do without you," Lady Gore said. "I could not let yougive up your happiness to mine."
"It would not be giving up my happiness to stay with you, you know thatquite well," Rachel said. "On the contrary, I simply could not be happyif I felt that you needed me and that I had left you."
"Rachel, do you care for him?"
"Do I, I wonder?" Rachel said, half thinking aloud and letting herselfgo as one does who, having overcome the first difficulty of speech,welcomes the rapturous belief of pouring out her heart to the rightlistener. "I believe," she said, "that I care for him as much as I couldfor any one, in that way, but"--and she shook her head--"I know all thetime that you come first, and that you always, always will."
"Oh, but that is not right," said Lady Gore. "That is not natural."
"Not natural," Rachel said, "that I should care for my mother most?"
"No," Lady Gore said, "not in the long run. Of course," she went on witha smile, "to say a thing is not 'natural' is simply begging thequestion, and sounds as if one were dismissing a very complicatedproblem with a commonplace formula, but it has truth in it all the same.It is difficult enough to fashion existence in the right way, even withthe help of others, but to do it single-handed is a task few people arequalified to achieve. I am quite sure that a woman has more chance ofhappiness if she marries than if she remains alone. It is right thatpeople should renew their stock of affection, should see that their holdon the world, on life, is renewed, should feel that fresh claims, forthat is a part, and a great part, of happiness, are ready at hand whenthe old ones disappear. All this is what means happiness, and you knowthat the one thing I want in the world is that you should be happy. Iwas thinking to-day," she went on, with a slight tremor in her voice,"that if I were quite sure that your life were happily settled, that youwere beginning one of your own not wholly dependent on those behindyou, I should not mind very much if mine were to come to an end."
"To an end?" said Rachel, startled. "Don't say that--don't talk aboutthat."
"I do not talk about it often," Lady Gore said; "but this is a momentwhen it must be said, because, remember, when you talk of sacrificingyour life to me----"
"Sacrificing!" interjected Rachel.
"Well, of devoting it to me," Lady Gore went on; "and putting asidethose things that might make a beautiful life of your own, you mustremember one thing, that I may not be there always. In fact," shecorrected herself with a smile, "to say _may_ not is taking arose-coloured view, that I _shall_ not be there always. And who knows?The moment of our separation may not be so far off."
Rachel looked up hurriedly, much perturbed.
"Why are you saying this now?" she said. "You have seemed so much betterlately. You are very well, aren't you, mother? You are looking verywell."
Lady Gore had a moment of wondering whether she should tell her daughterwhat she knew, what she expected herself, but she looked at Rachel'sanxious, quivering face and refrained.
"It is something that ought to be said at this moment," she answered."You have come to a parting of the ways. This is the moment to show youthe signposts, to help you to choose the best road."
"Listen, mother," said Rachel earnestly. "In this case I am sure I knowby myself which is the best road to choose. I am perfectly clear that aslong as I have you I shall stay with you. That I mean to do," shecontinued with unwonted decision. "And besides, if--if you were nolonger there, how could I leave my father?"
"Ah," said Lady Gore, "I wanted to say that to you. Now, as we arespeaking of it, let us talk it out, let us look at it in the face.Consider the possibility, Rachel, the probability that I may be takenfrom you; my dream would be that you should make your own life with someone that you care about, and yet not part it entirely from yourfather's, that while he is there he should not be left. If I thoughtthat, do you know, it would be a very great help to me," she said,forcing herself to speak steadily, but unable to hide entirely thewistful anxiety in her tone.
"I will never, never leave him," Rachel said. "I promise you that Inever will."
"Then I can look forward," her mother said, "as peacefully, I don't sayas joyfully, as I look back. Twenty-four years, nearly twenty-five," shewent on, half to herself and looking dreamily upwards, "we have beenmarried. You don't know what those years mean, but some day I hope youwill. I pray that you may know how the lives and souls of two people whocare for one another absolutely grow together during such a time."
"It is beautiful," Rachel said softly, "to know that there is suchhappiness in the world," and her own new happiness leapt to meet theassurance of the years.
"It is beautiful indeed," Lady Gore said. "It means a constant abidingsense of a strange other self sharing one's own interests--of a closecompanionship, an unquestioning approval which makes one almostindependent of opinions outside."
"Some people," said Rachel, pressing her mother's hand, "have theoutside affection and approval too."
"Yes, the world has been very kind to me," Lady Gore said, "and all thatis delightful. But it is the big thing that matters. Do you rememberthat there was some famous Greek who said when his chosen friend andcompanion died, 'The theatre of my actions has fallen'?" Rachel's facelighted up in quick response. "When I am gone," her mother went on,"don't let your father feel that the theatre of _his_ actions hasfallen--take my place, surround him with love and sympathy."
"I will, indeed I will," said Rachel.
"What a man needs," said Lady Gore, "is some one to believe in him."
"My father will never be in want of that," said Rachel, with heartfeltconviction. "Mother," she added, "I never will forget what I am sayingnow, and you may believe it and you may be happy about it. I won't leavemy father; he shall come first, I promise, whatever happens."
"First?" said Lady Gore gently. "No, Rachel, not that; it is right thatyour husband should come first."
"The people," said Rachel smiling, "whose husbands come first have nothad a father and mother like mine."
There was a knock at the house door. Rachel sprang hurriedly to herfeet, the colour flying into her cheeks. Lady Gore looked at her. Shehad never before seen in Rachel's face what she saw there now.
"I must take off my things," the girl said, catching up her gloves andveil.
"Don't be very long," said her mother.
"I'll--I'll--see," Rachel said, and she suddenly bent over her motherand kissed her, then went quickly out by one door as the other wasthrown open to admit a visitor.
The Arbiter: A Novel Page 4
