by Hugh Walpole
“I’ve come to the conclusion I’m better without any,” Lizzie laughed. “I expect I’m more like you and Daisy, mother, than you know — —”
“Well, you’re a strange girl,” said Mrs. Rand again, “and I never understand half you say.”
Lizzie came to her and kissed her.
“You always miss me, you know, mother, when I’m away, in spite of my hard heart.”
“Well, that’s true,” said Mrs. Rand, looking at her daughter with wide and rather tearful eyes. “But I’m sure I don’t know why I do.”
CHAPTER XI
THE LAST VIEW FROM HIGH WINDOWS
“Not without fortitude I wait ... ... I, in this house so rifted, marr’d, So ill to live in, hard to leave; I, so star-weary, over-warr’d, That have no joy in this your day.”
Francis Thompson.
I
Rachel, on the morning of April 28th, received this letter from Lady Adela:
“Beaminster House,
April 27th.
My dear Rachel,
Mother suddenly last night expressed an urgent wish to see you. She has not been at all well during the last few days and Dr. Christopher, who has been here since last Saturday, says that if you can come down and see her he thinks that it would be a comfort to her. She is sleeping very badly, but is wonderfully tranquil and seems to like to be here again.
If you can come down to-morrow afternoon I will send to meet the 5.32 at Ryston. That is quicker than going round to Munckston. If I don’t hear I conclude that you are coming by that train.
My love to Roddy.
Your affectionate aunt,
Adela Beaminster.”
Rachel showed the letter to Roddy.
“I’m so glad,” she said, “I’ve been hoping that she’d send for me. I’ve felt, ever since that day, that I should never be easy again if I hadn’t the chance to tell her that I see now that I — that we — were wrong.”
“She’s never answered my letter,” said Roddy. “Perhaps she wasn’t well enough to write. Yes, I’m glad you’re going, Rachel.”
She was moved by many emotions, the old lady dying, the house in whose shadow she had spent so many of her timid, angry, adventurous young years, the thrill that the thought of her child gave her now at every vision of the world, the knowledge that in Roddy she, at last, had someone in her life to whom, after every absence, however short, she was eager to return — these things shone with new, wonderful lights around her journey.
The April evenings were lengthening and the dusks were warm and scented. The little station lay peacefully in the heart of green fields; across the sky, washed clean of every colour, a dark train of birds slowly, lazily took their flight, trees were dim with edges sharp against the sky-line, a dog barking in the distance gave rhythm to the stillness. Rachel, driving through the falling dark, felt, as she had felt it when she was a small child, the august colour and space and dignity of the first vision of the great house, white as a ghost now under the first stars, speaking to her with the old voice, fountains that splashed in gardens, the river that ran at the end of the sloping lawns, the chiming clock that rang out the hour as she drove up to the door.
Aunt Adela, Uncle John, Dr. Chris, Lizzie, they were all there, and their presences made less chill the dominating reason for their assembly.
Over all the house the shadow fell. The wide, high rooms, the long picture gallery, the comfortless grandeur of a house that had not found, for some years, many human creatures to lighten it, these echoed and flung forwards and backwards the note of suspense, of pause, of impending crisis.
But Rachel spent one of the happiest evenings of her life with Uncle John and Christopher. She knew that Uncle John had had a short but terrible interview with her grandmother, that he had been charged with treachery and dishonour and every traitorous wickedness.
A week ago, when he had told her this, he had been the picture of despair and shame. “I hadn’t meant her to know. She wasn’t to come into it at all. And then that she should meet him at Roddy’s on that very afternoon.... There’s nothing bad enough for me.” But he had added with a strange note of defiance so unlike the old Uncle John: “I had felt it my duty, Rachel ... to speak to Francis. I had felt it the right thing to do. I had felt it very strongly.”
Then he had been overwhelmed, now he was once more at peace, and tranquil.
“It’s all right,” he told Rachel. “I’ve been forgiven. I think she’s forgiven all of us.
“She wouldn’t listen when I wanted to tell her how sorry I was. She seems now not to care.”
“She’s never forgiven anyone anything before,” said
Rachel.
“Hush, my dear, I don’t think you ought to say that. We’ve never understood her, any of us. She’s always been beyond us. You’ll realize to-morrow, Rachel, how wonderful, how wonderful she is!”
But he was very happy. He had his old Rachel back, the old Rachel whom he had expected never to see again. She sat between him and Christopher, at dinner, no longer fierce and ironical, with sudden silences and swift angers, but affectionate, sympathetic, happy.
“Mother will see you to-morrow,” Adela told her. “She’s glad that you’ve come. The morning’s rather a bad time for her. Could you stay for the whole day?”
“Of course,” Rachel said.
At the end of the evening she went up to Lizzie’s room; when midnight rang from the tower they parted, but first, Rachel said:
“Lizzie, I wonder whether you realize what you’ve been — to all of us — to me of course ... but to the others — to the whole family.”
“Oh! Nonsense!”
“Roddy was speaking about it yesterday. He said that you were the most wonderful person in all the world for making all the difference without saying or doing anything — by just being there.”
“Oh, Roddy thinks everybody — —”
“But this is what I’m coming to. You can’t yourself know how much difference you make to everyone. But there’s just this.... Roddy feels and I feel that when — He — comes (of course it’ll be a boy) we’d rather have you for his friend than anyone in the whole world. You will — you will be, won’t you?”
“My dear — I should think so. I’ll whack him and bath him and snub him and teach him his letters — anything you like.” Then she added, rather gravely:
“There’s one thing, Rachel, I’ve wanted to say for some time. I want you to know definitely, that all wounds are closed now, everything’s healed — about Mr. Breton, I mean. I was afraid that you might think I still cared.... That’s all ended, closed up, that little episode.
“You needn’t be afraid, Rachel. I’m happier, I’m freer than I’ve ever been in my life.... Good night, my dear. Your friendship is more to me than any number of heart-burnings.... I was always meant to be independent, you know....”
II
It was very strange to Rachel, who had been, on so many, many evenings, to that other room, to pause now outside this new door, to knock with the house solemn and still around her, to hear Dorchester’s voice, then, with the old hesitation and — yes — with some of the old fear, to enter.
She had considered what she would say. Coming down in the train she had turned it over and over — her apology, her submission, her cry: “See, I’m different — utterly different from the Rachel whom you knew.... I was a prig of the very worst. I deserved everything you thought of me. Just say you forgive me even though you can’t like me.” This was the kind of thing that, in the train, had seemed possible enough; now, with the opening of the door and that sharp recurrence of the old thrill, she was not at all sure that she wanted to be submissive and affectionate. “I don’t feel fond of her — nothing could make me — there are too many things....”
Space and silence saluted Rachel. Two great mirrors ran from floor to ceiling, high windows flooded the room with light and everything seemed to be intended only for such a situation as this — the very house, the grounds, th
e colour of the day had arranged themselves, in their purity and air and silence, about the central figure. The Duchess lay in a long low chair before the window; she was wrapped in white shawls and thick rugs covered her body; Dorchester, the same stern, unbending Dorchester, said gravely to Rachel, “Good afternoon, my lady. I hope that you are well,” then moved into another room.
The Duchess had not stirred at the sound of the closing doors, nor at Dorchester’s voice, nor at Rachel’s approach. She was gazing out, beyond the windows, to the expanse of sunlit country, fields that sloped towards the river, an orchard, white with blossom, running down the hill, its colour, dazzling, almost visibly trembling against the sky.
Rachel had only seen her in the Portland Place rooms, with the china dragons, the gold ornaments, the red lacquer bed, the blazing wall-paper. It had seemed then that she must have those things around her, that she needed the colour and extravagance to support her flaming passion for life, so curbed and shackled by disease.
Their absence made her older, feebler, more human, but also grander and more impressive. Rachel had always feared her, but despised herself for her fear; now she was in the presence of something that made her proud to be afraid.
She thought that she might be asleep, so she moved, very quietly, a chair forward near the window and, sitting down, waited. The only sound in all the world was the steady splash — splash — splash of the fountain below, the only movement the stealthy creeping of the long shadows, flung by white boulder clouds, across the shining fields.
Suddenly, without turning her head, the Duchess spoke.
“Very good of you, Rachel. I hoped that you would come.”
Her voice was weak, her words indistinct as though she were speaking through muffled shawls, but, nevertheless, behind them the presence of the old dominating will was to be discerned, but now it was a will quiescent, struggling no longer for power.
“I would have come before if you had sent for me. I’m so glad that you did.”
“I can’t talk for very long, my dear, and I don’t suppose that you want to spend hours in my company any more than you’ve ever done. No, you needn’t protest. We’re neither of us here for compliments.... But there’s something that I must say to you. Christopher allows me half an hour.”
“I hope you’re better — that being here has done you good.”
“Better? Nonsense. I don’t want to be better. That’s all over and done with. I had another stroke three days ago and the next one will finish me. So don’t pretend. You used to be honest enough. I’ve asked you to come because I want to speak to you about Roddy.”
“He wrote,” Rachel said.
“Yes. I got his letter. I couldn’t reply. I can’t write myself and I won’t have anyone else do it for me. Besides, there was nothing to write about. He said he was sorry about that little conversation we all had together the other day.”
“And I—” Rachel began eagerly, “I was so sorry. I’ve been longing to tell you — it was all wrong, but Roddy has no imagination. He didn’t realize in the least — —”
“Ah, my dear. I expect I know Roddy a great deal better than you do. He’ll do the same sort of thing to you, one day. He’s got the devil in him and will always have it, however much you coddle him or let him lie there thinking over his sins. Do you suppose I’d have been so fond of Roddy all these years if I hadn’t known him capable of such little revenges? I liked it. There was no need to write to me and he knew it — but I’m afraid you influence him a good deal.”
Rachel coloured. “I hope — —”
“Oh yes, you do, and that’s exactly why I wanted to see you.”
She turned then and, very carefully, very slowly, her eyes searched Rachel’s face.
“I let him marry you, you know. I thought it would be good for you. If I’d guessed the effect that you’d have had upon him I’d have prevented it.”
Rachel’s anger was rising.
“What effect?”
“He’s begun to worry about other people — a fatal thing with a man like Roddy who was meant to do things, not think about them. But, anyway, that’s all too late now.... Waste of time discussing it.... What I wanted you for is this — —”
Her eyes left Rachel’s face and returned to the window.
“You’re the one person now that influences him and you will always be so. I can see ahead well enough. Poor Roddy ... and he might have been a fine man. All the same, I admire him for it; there are things about you I could have liked if I’d wanted to find them, but we’ve been fighting from the beginning until now — when it’s the end ...” She caught her breath, stayed for an instant struggling for words, then went on:
“We can call a truce now. We don’t like one another, but just at the moment you’re moved a little because I’m feeble and shall be dead in a fortnight. That disturbs you.... It needn’t. Some months ago a moment did come when I realized that I should die soon. I hated it — I fought and struggled with all my might ... but now that it has come it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I regret nothing. I’ve had my time. I hate the new generation, the manly woman and the soft man with all this sentimental nonsense about caring for other people. Think of yourself, fight for yourself, keep up your pride — that’s the only way the world’s ever been run. You’re a sentimentalist and you’re making one of Roddy.... Nonsense it all is.... But all this isn’t what I really wanted to say.” She turned back and her eyes, as again they held Rachel, were softer.
“Roddy’s been my only weakness. I’ve loved that boy and he’s far too good and fine for a wobbler like yourself. That’s why I hated it the other day. I couldn’t bear that he should see me beaten by the pair of you, both of you thinking yourself so noble with your fine confessions — not that I believe a word that you said — but it was clever of you. You are clever and know how to manage men.
“Yes, that hurt me, but afterwards I loved him all the better, I believe. I’d rather he hadn’t written me that soppy letter, but that was your doing, of course.... But listen. After I’m gone, I want Roddy to think of me kindly. He’s going to think very much what you make him. It’s in your hands. You, when you’ve got past this sentimental moment, will hate the memory of me. It’s natural that you should and I’m sure I don’t mind. But I want you to leave Roddy alone. If he likes to think of me kindly, let him. Don’t blacken his mind to me. I wish to feel — my only weakness I do believe — that Roddy will be fond of my memory. That rests with you.”
She stopped with a little final movement of her head as though, having said what had been in her mind for a long while, she was finished, absolutely, with it all, and wanted no word more with any human being.
Rachel answered quietly: “You’ve said some rather hard things. You mustn’t feel that I’d ever try to make Roddy think badly of you. That’s not fair.... I’m not very proud of myself, but you don’t understand me. You’ve always been determined not to — and perhaps, in the same way, I’ve not understood you. We’re different generations, that’s what it really is.
“But over Roddy we can meet. I didn’t love him when I married him, but I do now, and we’re going to have a child.... That will make us both very happy, I expect. You love Roddy and I love him. You needn’t be afraid that I’ll harm his memory of you.”
Her voice was trembling and she was very near to tears. She would have liked to have said something that would have offered some terms of peace between them, something upon which, afterwards, she might look back with comfort. For her that hostility seemed, in the face of death, so small and poor a thing.
But no words would come.
Her grandmother, in a voice that was very weak, said:
“Thank you, Rachel; that’s a great relief to me. That’s good of you ... and now, my dear, I think Christopher would say that I’d talked enough. Good night.”
Rachel knew that this was their last meeting, that here was the absolute conclusion of all the years of warfare that there had been between them.
There was nothing to say.... She bent down and kissed the dry cheek, waited for an instant, but there was no movement.
“Good night, grandmamma,” she said. “I hope that you’ll be better to-morrow,” then softly stole away.
III
The Duchess lay very still, watching the shadows as they crept across the fields. They were evening shadows now, for the sky, pink like the inside of a shell, had no clouds upon its surface.
She would not get up again; this evening should be the last to see her gaze upon the world. It was too fatiguing and all energy had flowed from her, leaving her without desire, without passion, without regret, without fear. Very dreamily and at a great distance figures and scenes from her past life hovered, halted, and passed. But she was not interested, she had forgotten their purpose and meaning, she did not want to think any more.
The splashing of the fountain was phantasmal and very far away.
The long black shadow crept up the field. She watched it. At the top of the red ridge of field, against the sky-line, very sharp and clear, was a gate, golden now in the sun. When the shadow caught it she would go to bed ... and she would never get up again.
She waited lazily, indifferently. The gate was caught; the last gleams of the sun had left the orchard and the evening star glittered in a sky very faintly green.
She touched a bell at her side and Dorchester appeared.
“I’ll go to bed, Dorchester.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
“I shan’t get up again. Too much trouble.” She turned away from the window and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER XII
RACHEL, RODDY, LORD JOHN, CHRISTOPHER
“‘Everybody came in to dinner in the best of spirits.... Everything was discussed.’” — Inheritance.
I
The Duchess of Wrexe died on the morning of May 2nd at a quarter-past three o’clock. The evening papers of that day and the morning papers of the next had long columns concerning her, and these were picturesque and almost romantic. She appealed as a figure veiled but significant, hidden but the landmark of a period— “Nothing was more remarkable than the influence that she exercised over English Society during the thirty years that she was completely hidden from it” — or again, “Although disease compelled her, for thirty years, to retire from the world, her influence during that period increased rather than diminished.”
