by Hugh Walpole
She was placed in the carriage — Christopher got in beside her and they moved off. He was interested to see the effect that this breaking into the world would have upon her. He felt himself a little in the position of showman and was glad that he had a spring afternoon of gleaming sunshine and a suggestion of budding trees and shrubs in the Portland Crescent garden to provide for her. They were held up by traffic as they crossed the Marylebone Road; drays, hansoms, bicycles passed — there was a stir of voices and wheels, somewhere in the park a band was playing.
He looked at her and saw that she paid no heed, but sat back in the dim shadow, her eyes, he thought, closed. She was, at that instant, more remote from him and all that he represented than she had ever been — Curiously he was moved, just then, by a consciousness of her personality that exceeded anything that he had ever felt in her before.
“Yes, she must have been tremendous,” he thought. And then he wondered of what she was thinking, so quiet, and yet, from her very silence, sinister, and then — how could he have not considered this before? What was she going to say to Roddy?
At this, the dark carriage was suddenly, for him, as flashing with life and circumstance as though it had been the florid circle of some popular music-hall — What would she say to Roddy?
He knew her for the most selfish of all possible old women: unselfish only perhaps if Roddy were concerned, but there also, if some question of her power moved her, ruthless. He had traced the windings of her queer intertwisted brain with some accuracy — He knew also that the coloured unreal state that her closed, fantastic life (resembling, you might say, life inside a Chinese puzzle) had brought upon her led her now to see Rachel as arch-antagonist in every step and movement of her day.
She would not wish to make Roddy unhappy, she might persuade herself that to hint to him of Rachel’s infidelity would be to put him on his guard — she might say that it was not fair that Rachel should not be pulled up....
Christopher himself could not tell how far this affair with Breton had gone....
During that short time it seemed to him that a crisis, that had been building up around him, here, there, for months, for years perhaps, had leapt upon him and that in some way he must deal with it.
Even whilst he struggled with the thoughts that were sweeping upon him now from every side, they were at the house — As he stepped out of the carriage he felt that he was before a locked door, that the safety of many persons depended upon his opening it, that he could not find the key.
“Lady Seddon was out. Sir Roderick was alone — —” The Duchess was half assisted, half carried into the house.
III
The Duchess’s feelings were indeed confused as she was helped into Roddy’s room, placed in a large easy chair opposite to him and at last left alone with him.
Enough of itself to disturb her was the fact that now for the first time for thirty years she was able to examine some room different from her own — A large, high white-walled room with wide windows that displayed the park, sporting prints on the walls, antlers over the fireplace, a piano in one corner, a large bowl of primroses on the piano, some boxing-gloves and two old swords over the door, a wooden case with thin rosewood drawers and “Birds’ Eggs” in gold letters upon it, a round table near the sofa upon which Roddy was lying and on the table a photograph of Rachel —
All these things her sharp old eyes noticed before she allowed them to settle upon Roddy —
His quiet, almost humorous “Well, Duchess,” set, quite concisely, the note for this conversation. Not for either of them was it to betray any consciousness that this meeting of theirs was in any way out of the ordinary. Formerly it had been the ebullient, vigorous Roddy who had brought his vigour to renew her fierce old age; now that old age must be brought to him —
The Beaminsters did not show surprise at anything at all; had she come from her grave to visit him he would have greeted her with his quiet “Well, Duchess” — his life was broken in pieces, but she was not to offer any comment on that either.
She was exhausted even by that little drive, and that little passage from door to door, so she just lay back in her chair for a little while and looked at him.
His body was covered with a rug; his hands, still brown and large and clumsy, were folded on his lap; he was wonderfully tidy, brushed and cleaned, it seemed to her, as though he were always expecting a doctor or a visitor or were performed upon by some valet or other, simply, poor dear, that the time might be filled. His cheeks were paler of course and his face thinner, but it was in his eyes — his large, simple, singularly ungrown-up eyes she had always considered them — that the great change lay —
They smiled across at her with the same genial good temper that they had always presented to her. But indeed she could never call them “ungrown-up” again. Roddy Seddon had grown up indeed since she had seen him last; she knew now, as she faced the experience and, above all, the strength that those eyes now presented for her, that she had a new spirit to encounter.
Yes — he “had had a horrible time,” but she was wise enough, at that instant, to realise that the “horrible time” had drawn character out of him that she, at least, had never, for an instant, suspected.
The old woman was moved so that she would have liked to have tottered to his sofa, to have caught his hands in her old dry ones, to have kissed him, to have smoothed his hair — but she sat quietly in her chair, recovered her breath and, grimly, almost saturninely, smiled at him.
“Well, Roddy,” she said, “how are you?”
“I’m quite splendid. Play patience like a professor, can knit five mufflers in a week and am learning two foreign languages — But indeed how rippin’ to see you here. I’ve spent a lot o’ time on this old sofa wonderin’ how you and I were goin’ to see one another.”
“Have you?” She was pleased at that— “Well, you see, I have managed it and quite easily too, not so bad after thirty years. My good Roddy, you of all people to tumble off a horse! What were you about?”
“Oh! it was simple enough.” Roddy’s eyes worked swiftly to the park and then back again. “I was worried, you see — my thoughts were wandering, and the old mare just tripped into a hole, pitched and flung me — I fell on a heap o’ stones, they knocked the sense out of me, the horse was frightened and went dashin’ along with me tangled up in her. All came of my thoughts wanderin’ — But you know, Duchess, I’ve had heaps of accidents, heaps and heaps, every kind of thing has happened to me, but it’s never been serious — always the most wonderful luck. Well, for once it left me.”
“Poor old Roddy.”
“Yes, it was ‘poor old Roddy,’ I can tell you, for the first six weeks — thought I simply couldn’t stand it, had serious thoughts of kickin’ out altogether, seemed to me everythin’ had gone ... it’s wonderful, though, the way you pick up. And then everyone’s been so tremendous, and as for Rachel!”
He heaved a great sigh — Her eyes half closed, then she looked very carefully at the photograph on the little round table. “That’s a good photograph of her you’ve got.”
“Yes — it’s my favourite. But you, Duchess, tell me about yourself. You must be in magnificent form to have planned this great adventure.”
She told him about herself — only a little, all very carefully chosen — She was fancying, as she sat there, that she was again playing the great diplomatist before the world.
This expedition had greatly excited her, it had fired her blood, and just now she felt that she was equal to taking up her old life of thirty years ago, playing once more a tremendous part, beating Mrs. Bronson and others of her kind straight off the field.
She had a great plan now of coming often to see Roddy and of gaining a very great influence over him; she did not say to herself in so many words that she could not bear to think of him lying there helpless and therefore completely in Rachel’s power, but that is what in reality stirred her.
Roddy’s helplessness — the sight and sound of
it — drove higher that flame that had burnt now for so long before the altar at which Rachel was, one day, to be sacrificed. “She may come and go as she pleases. He lies here — He can do nothing. He can know nothing of her movements — He’s in her hands — after what I know....”
What did she know? The acquaintanceship of Breton’s man-servant and Dorchester had produced the fact of Rachel’s visit, of letters — but wasn’t that all? Amongst the strange mingled visions that now crossed and recrossed her brain it were hard to say what were real and what phantasmal. But granted that the two of them had come together at all, why then it was plain enough to anyone who knew them that only one result was possible — Poor Roddy ... her poor Roddy!
But she did not know even now that she intended to tell him anything; her sense of the pain that that revelation would give to him held her, but as the minutes passed her delight at being back once more in this gay, bustling world (yes, she liked its new invigorating noises) the sense of power that she had, and youth, and strength, spun her brain to finest cobwebs of entanglements.
She was glad to be with her Roddy again, it was only fair that, helpless as he was, there should still be someone to guard and protect him ... to protect him, yes!
Her eyes flashed at the photograph.
But for a long time they talked in precisely their old fashion. The War, friends and enemies, victories and defeats, marriages and deaths; Roddy seemed, for a time, the old Roddy.
And then gradually through it all there pushed towards her the consciousness that he was doing it now to please her; more than that, again and again she was aware that some bitter jest, some sharp distraction, some fierce criticism had been turned by him deftly aside — simply rejected with a deftness and a strength that the old Roddy could never have summoned.
Here again then — and it stabbed her there in the midst of her new pride and confidence — was a reminder that her power, her sovereignty had vanished! Was Roddy also to be beyond her influence, Roddy whom she had had at her feet since he was a boy of sixteen?
The photograph smiled across at her — She bent forward, her hand raised a little as though to lend emphasis to her words— “And then you know, Roddy, I’m still troubled with my abominable relation — —”
“What! Breton? Why, how’s he been behaving?” Roddy’s voice was scornful.
“Oh! he’s not done anything that I know of — But he’s always there — so tiresome to have him so close, and John and Adela have grown so peculiar lately that there’s no knowing — They may ask him in to tea one day — —”
“Oh no, they won’t,” said Roddy. “He must be the most awful outsider.”
“I wanted to speak about him to you because I thought you might give a word of warning to Rachel — —”
“To Rachel?” Roddy’s voice was amazed.
“Yes — She’s become such a friend of his! Surely you know? That’s what makes it so difficult for me — When one’s own granddaughter — —”
“Rachel! A friend of Breton’s! But I didn’t know she’d ever spoken to him — Look here, Duchess, you must explain — —”
“I thought you must have known. I’ve often wished to speak to you about it, only Rachel is so difficult and I didn’t want to worry you, and it seems especially hard just now — —”
“But it doesn’t worry me — not a bit. Only tell me — How do you mean that she’s a friend of his?”
“Only that she goes to see him, writes to him — —”
“Goes to see him — —”
“Oh yes — is in complete sympathy — —”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. You must ask her.”
“I will of course — —”
He lay back on his sofa. For a little time there was silence between them. She was filled now with wild regrets. She wished that she had said nothing. His face was hard and old — She wished ... she scarcely knew what she wished; she only knew that suddenly she was tired and would like to go home.
A bell was rung and Christopher was sent for. She would like to have kissed Roddy, but only wagged her bony finger at him —
“Now be a good patient boy and I’ll soon come again.”
IV
Meanwhile, five minutes before this, Rachel had come in. She was told of the visits, and going swiftly to the little drawing-room upstairs had found Christopher.
She flung her arms around him and kissed him.
“Oh, dear Dr. Chris!”
But he stopped her.
“Quick, Rachel. I may only have a minute.... I’ve got to speak to you.”
Instantly she drew back, her grave eyes watching him and her hands, as of old, nervously moving against her dress.
“What is it?”
“It’s just this. The Duchess may ring at any moment — she’s been with him a long while. Look here, Rachel, she knows about Breton — that you’ve been to see him, that you’ve written to him — —”
“She told you?”
“Yes — long ago — But never mind that now, although I’d have spoken to you of it before if you’d let me — But the only thing that matters is that I believe — I can’t of course be sure — but I believe that she’s come now to tell Roddy.”
Rachel drew a long breath. “Oh!” she said and, stiffly standing there, showed in her eyes the pitch of feeling to which now her grandmother had brought her.
Christopher went on urgently— “I’ve been praying for you to come in. I hoped you’d have come half an hour ago. There’s no time now, but — it’s simply this, Rachel dear — tell Roddy everything — —”
She broke in passionately. “You know it’s all right, Dr. Chris — you’ve trusted me?”
“Absolutely,” he said gravely. “But it simply is that Roddy mustn’t be there imagining things, waiting, wondering.... Perhaps he won’t ask you — Perhaps he will — But, anyway, tell him — tell him at once everything....”
The bell rang, he went across to her, kissed her, and then went downstairs.
She stood there waiting, without moving except to strip off, very slowly, her black gloves. Her eyes were fixed upon the door.
She heard the door downstairs open, the stumbling steps; once she caught the Duchess’s voice and at that she drew in her breath. Then the hall door closed, but, for a long time afterwards, she stood there without moving.
CHAPTER III
RODDY MOVES
“... But the Red Dwarf, although as malevolent as possible, found that his ill-temper had no effect against true love, which always won in the end, even with quite stupid people.”
Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
I
It would have been quite impossible for Roddy to have given any clear description of his experiences since the event of his accident. There, surely, like a gleaming sword, that cut his life into two pieces, the fact itself was visible enough, and there floated before him, again and again, the casual canter, the especial view that was before him just then, a view of undulating Downs, somewhere to his left white chalk hollows in grey hills and to his right a blue strip of sea, the wonder that was in his mind about Rachel, his thoughts chasing back over all the incidents of their life together, then suddenly the jerk, his consciousness of falling with the ground rising in a high wall to oppose him, and then darkness.
After that there was nightmare in which pain and Rachel, Rachel and pain, mingled and parted, were confused and then separate, and with them danced shapes and figures, sometimes in a turmoil that was horrible, sometimes in silence that was the most terrible of all. Clear after that first period of misty confusion was the day when he was told his fate.
He had come out from the heart of the more terrible pain — No longer had he to lie, knowing that soon, after another minute’s peace, agony would rise before him like a creature with a wet pale malignant face, and then after looking upon him for a moment, would bend down and, with its horrible damp fingers, would twist and turn his bones one against another until th
e supreme moment came when nothing mattered and no agony, however bad, could touch his indifferent soul.
He was now simply weak, weak, weak — nothing mattered. In his dream he fancied that someone had said that he would never rise from his back again. For days after that it lingered far away from his actual consciousness. Really it had not mattered; something, this dream, that concerned him, but what could concern him except that people should keep quiet and not fuss?
For instance he loved to have Rachel with him, he was miserable were she not there, but at the same time he was conscious that she did fuss, was not quite like Miss Rand.
But of this thing that he had heard he thought nothing. “There’s something that I ought to think about. I don’t know what it is — One day when I’m stronger I’ll look into it.”
There came a day when he was stronger, a day, late in January, of a pale wintry sun and watery gleams. They had placed his bed so that he could see his beloved Downs and the little road that ran from their foot out into the village.
On this morning he was wonderfully better — he had slept well, breezes and pleasant scents came through the open window, geese were cackling, a donkey’s braying made him laugh “Silly old donkey,” he said aloud to no one in particular. Then he was aware of Jacob, sitting bunched into a heap in the middle of the floor, his brown eyes peering anxiously through his hair. At every sound his ears would rise for a moment, but his eyes were fixed upon Roddy.
The dog had been in Roddy’s room a good deal during these last weeks, had been wrenched away from it. Roddy found that he was touched by this devotion; Jacob apparently cared more for him than did the other dogs— “Not a bad old thing — Often these mongrels are more human — But, Lord! he is a sight!”
The nurse was sitting sewing by the window. Roddy lay, happily, thinking that now at last that jolly bad pain really did seem to have been left behind. He was immensely, wonderfully better; it would not be long, surely, before he was quite fit again, before he....
