The Duchess of Wrexe, Her Decline and Death; A Romantic Commentary

by Sir Hugh Walpole

  THE DUCHESS OF WREXE

  Her Decline and Death

  A Romantic Commentary

  by

  HUGH WALPOLE

  Author of "Fortitude," etc.

  New YorkGeorge H. Doran Company

  Copyright, 1914,By George H. Doran Company

  TO MY MOTHERA SMALL EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDE BEYOND WORDS

  "And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's Wood." _Letter to Maria Gisborne_

  THE RISING CITY: I

  THE DUCHESS OF WREXE

  _NOTE: This is an age of Trilogies and Sequels. The title at thebeginning of this book, "The Rising City: I," may lead nervous readersto fear yet another attempt in that extended and discursive direction_.

  _To reassure them I wish to emphasize this point--that_ The Duchess ofWrexe _is entirely a novel complete and independent in itself. It isgrouped, with the two stories that will follow it, under the heading of"The Rising City" because the three novels will be connected in place,in idea, and in sequence of time. Also certain of the same characterswill appear in all three books. But the novels are not intended assequels of one another, nor is "The Rising City" a Trilogy.--H. W._

  CONTENTS

  BOOK I: THE DUCHESS

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

  II Rachel

  III Lady Adela

  IV The Pool

  V She Comes Out

  VI Fans

  VII In the Heart of the House

  VIII The Tiger

  IX The Golden Cage

  X Lizzie and Breton

  XI Her Grace's Day

  XII Defiance of the Tiger--I

  XIII Defiance of the Tiger--II

  BOOK II: RACHEL

  I The Pool and the Snow

  II A Little House

  III First Sequel to Defiance

  IV Rachel--and Christopher and Roddy

  V Lizzie's Journey--I

  VI All the Beaminsters

  VII Rachel and Breton

  VIII Christopher's Day

  IX The Darkest Hour

  X Lizzie's Journey--II

  XI Roddy Is Master

  XII Lizzie's Journey--III

  BOOK III: RODDY

  I Regent's Park--Breton and Lizzie

  II The Duchess Moves

  III Roddy Moves

  IV March 13th: Breton's Tiger

  V March 13th: Rachel's Heart

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

  VII Chamber Music--A Trio

  VIII A Quartette

  IX Rachel and Roddy

  X Lizzie Becomes Miss Rand Again

  XI The Last View from High Windows

  XII Rachel, Roddy, Lord John, Christopher

  XIII Epilogue--Prologue

  BOOK I

  THE DUCHESS

  CHAPTER I

  FELIX BRUN, DR. CHRISTOPHER, RACHEL BEAMINSTER--THEY ARE SURVEYED BY THEPORTRAIT.

  I

  Felix Brun, perched like a little bird, on the steps of the Rede ArtGallery, gazed up and down Bond Street, with his sharp eyes for someoneto whom he might show Yale Ross's portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. Theafternoon was warm, the date May of the year 1898, and the occasion wasthe Young Portrait Painters' first show with Ross's "Duchess" as itsprincipal attraction.

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

  His eyes lighted with satisfaction. Coming towards him was a tall, gauntman with a bronzed face, loose ill-fitting clothes, a stride that hadlittle of the town about it. This was Arkwright, the explorer, a man whohad been lost in African jungles during the last five years, the verycreature for Brun's purposes.

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

  No fool, Arkwright.... He would be able to appreciate Brun's subtletiesand perhaps add some of his own.

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

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

  "Hallo! Brun. How are you? It _is_ good to see you! Haven't seen a soulI know for the last ever so long."

  "Good--good. Excellent. Come along in here."

  "In there? Pictures? What's the use of me looking at pictures?"

  "We can talk in here. I'll tell you all the news. Besides, there'ssomething that even you will appreciate."

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

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

  II

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

  The Duchess received the colour and the sunlight, but made no response.She sat, leaning forward a little, bending with one of her dry wrinkledhands over a black ebony cane, a high carved chair supporting andsurrounding her. She seemed, herself, to be carved there, stone, marble,anything lifeless save for her eyes, the tense clutch of her fingersabout the cane, and the dull but brooding gleam that a large jadependant, the only colour against the black of her dress, flung at theobserver. Her mouth was a thin hard line, her nose small but sharp, hercolour so white that it seemed to cut into the paper, and the skindrawn so tightly over her bones that a breath, a sigh, might snap it.

  Her little body was, one might suppose, shrivelled with age, with thebusiness and pleasure of the world, with the pursuit of some greatambition or prize, with the battle, unceasing and unyielding, over someweakness or softness.

  Indomitable, remorseless, unhumorous, proud, the pose of the body wasabsolutely, one felt, the justest possible.

  On either side of the chair were two white and green Chinese dragons,grotesque with open mouths and large flat feet; a hanging tapestry ofdull gold filled in the background.

  Out upon these dull colours the little body, with the white face, theshining eyes, the clenched hand, was flung, poised, sustained by itsvery force and will.

  Nothing in the world could be so fierce as that determined absence offerocity, nothing so energetic as that negation of all energy, nothingso proud as that contemptuous rejection of all that had to do withpride.

  It was as though she had said: "They shall see nothing of me, thesepeople. I will give them nothing" ... and then the green jade on herbosom had betrayed her.

  Maliciously the dragons grinned behind her back.

  III

  Arkwright, as he watched, was con
scious suddenly of an overwhelmingcuriosity. He had in earlier days seen her portrait, and always it hadbeen interesting, suggestive, provocative; but now, as he stood there,he was aware that something quite definite, something uncomfortablydisconcerting had occurred; life absurdly seemed to warn him that hemust prepare for some new development.

  The Duchess had, he was aware, taken notice of him for the first time.

  Little Felix Brun watched Arkwright with interest. They were, at thatmoment, the only persons in the room, and it was as though they hadbegged for a private interview and had been granted it. The otherportraits of the exhibition had vanished into the mild May afternoon.

  "She doesn't like us," Brun said, laughing. "She'd turn the dragons onto us if she could."

  "It's wonderful." Arkwright moved back a little. "Young Ross has done itthis time. No other portrait has ever given one the least idea of her.She _must_ be that."

  Brun stood regarding her. "There'll never be anything like her again. Asfar as your England is concerned she's the very, very last, and when shegoes a heap of things will go with her. There'll be other Principalitiesand Powers, but never _that_ Power."

  "She's asked us to come," said Arkwright, "or, at any rate, asked _me_.I wonder what she wants."

  "She's only asked you," said Brun, "to tell you how she hates you. Anddoesn't she, my word!"

  There were voices behind him; Brun turned, and Arkwright heard himexclaim beneath his breath. Then in a moment the little man was receivedwith: "Why, Mr. Brun! How fortunate! We've come to see my mother'sportrait."

  Arkwright caught these words, and knew that the lady standing there mustbe Lady Adela Beaminster, the Duchess's only daughter. He had never seenLady Adela before, but it amused him now that she should resemble soexactly the figure that he had imagined--it showed, after all, that onecould take the world's verdict about these things.

  The world's verdict about Lady Adela was that she was dull, butimportant, bearing her tall dried body as a kind of flag for the rightpeople to range themselves behind her--and range themselves they did.Standing now, with Felix Brun in front of her demanding a display ofgraciousness, she extended her patronage. Thin, with her sharp nose andtight mouth, she was like an exclamation mark that had left offexclaiming, and it was only her ability to be gracious, and the sensethat she conveyed of having any number of rights and possessions tostand for, that gave her claim to attention.

  Her black hat was harsh, her hair iron-grey, her eyes cold with lack ofintelligence. Arkwright thought her unpleasant.

  Standing a little behind her was a tall thin girl who was obviouslydetermined to be as ungracious as a protest against her companion'samiability should require. The girl's thinness was accentuated by herrather tightly clinging white dress, and beneath her long black glovesher hands moved a little awkwardly, as though she were not quite surewhat she should do with them. A large black hat overshadowed her face,but Arkwright could see that her eyes, large and dark, were morebeautiful than anything else about her. Her nose was too thin, her mouthtoo large, her face too white and pinched.

  Her body as she stood there was graceful, but not yet disciplined, sothat she made movements and then checked them, giving the impressionthat she wished to do a number of things, but was uncertain of thecorrectness of any of them.

  She was of foreign blood Arkwright decided--much too black and white forEngland. But it was her expression that demanded his attention. As shewatched Felix Brun talking to Lady Adela, she seemed to be longing toexpress the contempt that she felt for both of them, and yet to havebehind that desire a pathetic hesitation as to whether she had a rightto be contemptuous of anyone.

  It was the pathos, Arkwright decided, that one ultimately feltconcerning her. She looked lonely, she looked frightened, and she looked"in the devil of a temper." Her black eyes would be beautiful, whetherthey were filled with tears or with anger, and it seemed that they mustvery often be filled with both. "I wouldn't like to have the handling ofher," thought Arkwright, and then instantly after, "I'd like to takeaway some of that loneliness."

  "She'll have a fine old time," he thought, "if she isn't too sensitive."

  Lady Adela had now moved forward with Brun to look at the picture, butthe girl did not move with them. She did not look at the portrait nordid she appear to take any interest in the other pictures. She stoodthere, making, every now and again, little nervous movements with herblack gloves.

  Arkwright moved about the gallery by himself a little, and he wasconscious that the girl's large black eyes followed him. He fancied, as,for an instant he glanced back, that the Duchess from her high wallleaned forward on her cane just a little further, so that she mightforce the girl to give her attention. "That girl's got plenty ofspirit," thought Arkwright, "I'd like to see a battle between her andthe old lady. It would be tooth and nail."

  Then once again the door opened--there was again an addition to thecompany. Arkwright was, at that moment, facing the girl, and as he heardthe sharp closing of the door he saw in her eyes the welcome that thenew-comer had received.

  She was transformed. The pallor of her face was now flooded with colour,and she seemed almost beautiful as the hostility left her, and her mouthcurved in a smile of so immense a relief that it emphasized indeed herearlier burden. Her whole body expressed the intensity of her pleasure;her awkwardness had departed; she was suddenly in possession of herself.Arkwright's gaze went past her to the door. The man who stood there wasgreeting the girl with a smile that had in it both surprise andintimacy, as though they were the two oldest friends in the world, andyet he was astonished to see her there. The man was large, roughlybuilt, with big limbs and a face that, without being good-looking,beamed kindness and good-nature. His eyes and mouth were sensitive andless ragged than the rest of him, his nose the plainest thing about him,was square and too large for his mouth. His hair was white, although helooked between forty and fifty years of age. His dress was correct, buthe obviously did not give his clothes more consideration than thefeelings of his friends required of him. Ruddy of face, with his whitehair and large limbs and smiling good-humour, he was pleasant to lookupon, and Arkwright did not wonder at the girl's welcome; he would be,precisely, the kind of friend that she would need--benevolent,understanding, strong.

  They greeted one another, and then they moved forward and spoke to LadyAdela and Brun.

  Arkwright watched them. There they all were, gathered together under thesharp eyes of the Duchess, and she seemed, so Arkwright fancied, to holdthem with her gaze. Little Brun was neater than ever, and Lady Adeladrier than ever by the side of the stranger. They talked; they werediscussing the picture--their eyes travelled up to it, and for aninstant there was silence as though they were all charging it with theirchallenge or surrender, as the case might be. The girl's eyes moved upto it with a sudden sharpened, thinning of the face that brought backthe gleam of hostility that it had worn before. Then her eyes fell, and,with a smile, they sought her friend.

  Arkwright did not know any reason for his interest, but he watched thembreathlessly, and the sense that he had had, on first entering the room,of being on the verge of some new experience, deepened with him.

  Brun was apparently suddenly conscious that he had left his friend alonelong enough, for he detached himself from the group, shook hands withLady Adela and the girl, bowed stiffly to the man and joined Arkwright.

  "Seen enough?" he said.

  "Yes," said Arkwright.

  They went out together.

  IV

  Felix Brun and Arkwright were not intimate friends. No one was intimatewith Brun, and the little man came and disappeared, was there and wasnot there, was absent for a year, and then back again as though he hadbeen away a week, was, indeed, simply a succession of explanatoryfootnotes to the social history of Europe.

  It was for the social history of Europe that he lived, for the eagerpenetrating gaze into this capital and that, something suddenly noted,some case examined and dismissed. Life is discovered most accu
rately bythose who learn to watch for its accidents rather than its intentions,and it was always the things that occurred by change that gave Brun hisdiscoveries. He was a cosmopolitan of a multitude of acquaintances, nofriends, no occupation, an enthusiasm only for cynical and pessimisticobservation, invaluable as a commentator, useless as a human being.

  When, as was now the case, some chance meeting had assisted his theorieshis neat little body shone like a celluloid ball. If, having made hisdiscovery, he might also have his audience to whom he might declare it,then his very fingers quivered with the excitement of it. His hands,white and thin and tapering, waved now. His eyes were on fire. As theywalked up Bond Street one might have imagined air-bladders at hisarmpits, Mercury's wings at his heels. The quiet evening air was chargedwith him.

  "Well," said Arkwright, smiling and looking down at his companion. "Whoare they all?"

  "Lady Adela Beaminster, Rachel Beaminster, Christopher----"

  "Christopher?"

  "Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He's the Duchess' doctor, hasbeen for years. The girl was the Duchess' granddaughter--Lady Adela'sniece."

  "Well?"

  "The girl's coming out in three days' time. They're giving a ball inPortland Place for her. Nobody knows much about her. She's been educatedabroad, and always kept very close when she's here. I shouldn't thinkthe old Duchess loves her much. She loved the girl's father, but hemarried a Russian actress, bolted to Russia with her, and the old ladynever forgave him. He and the actress were both killed in a Petersburgfire, and the child was sent home--only tiny then----"

  "Ah! that explains the foreign air she had. She didn't look as thoughshe loved her aunt very much either."

  "No--don't suppose she does. But that's not it--that's not it."

  They had arrived now at the top of Bond Street, and they paused for amoment to allow the Oxford Street traffic to sweep past them.

  It was an hour of stir and clatter--hansoms, carts, lumbering omnibuses,bicycles, all were hurled along as though by some impatient hand, andthe evening light crept higher and higher along the walls of the street,leaving grey-purple shadows beneath it.

  They crossed over, and were instantly in a dim, golden, voicelesssquare. It was as though a door had been closed.

  Brun still held Arkwright's arm. "Now we can talk--no noise. FrancisBreton has come back."

  To Arkwright this name, unfortunately, conveyed nothing.

  "You don't know?" Brun was disappointed.

  "Never heard of him."

  "Fancy that. World of wonders; what have you been doing with your time?He is the Duchess's grandson, son of the beautiful, the wonderful IrisBeaminster, who eloped with Kit Breton thirty years ago. I believe theold Duchess pursued her relentlessly until the end. They were marriedonly a few years and then Iris Breton committed suicide. Kit Breton beather and was always drunk; an absolute rascal. There was one boy, and hewandered about Europe with his father until he was twenty or so. ThenKit Breton died, and the boy came home. Revenge on his grandmother washis one idea. He was taken up by her enemies, of whom she always had agoodly store, and they might have made something out of him, if hehadn't developed his father's habits and finally been mixed up in somegambling scandal, and forced to leave the country.

  "You can imagine what all this was to the Beaminsters--the greatimmaculate Beaminsters--you can picture the Duchess.... He went and sawher once ... but that's another story. Well, abroad he went, and abroadhe stayed--just now, coming out of the Gallery, I saw him----"

  "You are sure?"

  "Positive. There could be no mistake. He's just the same, a trifletireder, a trifle lower down--but the same, oh yes."

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

  They had left the square and were passing up Harley Street. The houseswore their accustomed air of profitable secrecy. The doors, the windows,the brass knockers, the white and chastened steps were so discreet thatSunday morning was the only time in the week when they were reallycomfortable and at home. In every muffled hall there was lying in wait amuffled man-servant, beyond every muffled man-servant there was amuffled waiting-room with muffled illustrated papers: only the tinkling,at long intervals, of some sharp little bell from some inner secrecywould pierce that horrible discretion. Upon both men that shiningsuccession of little brass plates produced its solemnity.

  Arkwright was nevertheless interested by Brun's discoveries. He wasaccompanied, as they talked, by that picture of the thin, dark girlmoving restlessly her long, gloved hands. He could see now that lookthat she had flung at the picture.... Oh! she was interesting!

  "But tell me, Brun," he said, "you go on so fast. As I understand youthere are these two, Breton and the girl, both of them the result oftragedies.... Do they know one another, do you suppose?"

  "No. The girl was only a small child when Breton was in England, and youcan be sure that she was carefully kept out of his way. But now thathe's back ... now that he's back!"

  "It's the girl that interests me!" said Arkwright.

  "Oh! the girl!" Brun was almost contemptuous. "There you go--Englishsentiment--missing all the time the great thing, the splendid thing."

  "Explain," Arkwright said, laughing; "I know you won't be happy untilyou have."

  "Why--it's the Duchess, the Duchess, the Duchess all the time. She's thecentre of the picture; she _is_ the picture. _She's_ the subject."

  Arkwright said nothing. Brun tossed his hands in the air.

  "Oh--you English! No wonder you're centuries behind everything--you missthe very things under your nose. There's the Duchess, sitting there--agreat figure as she has been these sixty years, but a figure hidden,veiled. There she has been for the last thirty years, shut up in thatgreat house, wrapped about and concealed. Nobody knows what the matterwas--I don't know. I should think Christopher's the only man who cantell. At any rate, thirty years ago she retired altogether from theworld, and sees only the fewest of people. But all the ceremony goes on,dressing up, receiving, and the influence she has! She was powerfulenough before she disappeared, but since! Why, there's no pie she hasn'ther finger in: politics, society, revolution, life, death; nothing goeson without her knowledge, her approval, her disapproval----"

  "Her family, poor dears!"

  "Oh; they love it--at any rate, the ones who are left do. The rebels arethe younger generation. Society in England, my dear Arkwright, isdissolved into three divisions--the Autocrats, the Aristocrats, and theDemocrats. I take my hat off to the Aristocrats--the Chichesters, theMedleys, the Darrants, the Weddons. All those quiet, decorous people,poor as mice many of them, standing aside altogether from any movementsor war-cries of the day, living in their quiet little houses, or theirempty big ones, clever some of them, charitable all of them, but neverasserting their position or estimating it. They never look about themand see where they are. They've no need to. They're just there.

  "The Democrats are quite a new development--not much of them atpresent--the Ruddards, the Denisons, the Oaks--but we shall hear a lotof them in the future, I'm sure. They'll sacrifice anything forcleverness; they must be amused; life must be entertaining. They embraceeverybody: actors, Americans, writers; they're quite clever, mind you,and it's all perfectly genuine. They're not snobs--they say, 'Here areour lands and our titles. You're common and vulgar, but you've gotbrains--you're amusing and we're well born--let's make an exchange. Lifemust be fun for us, so we'll have anyone with money or talent."

  "Then, last of all, the Autocrats--the Beaminsters, the Gutterils, theMinisters. I'm using Autocrat in its broadest sense, but that's justwhat they are. You _must_ have your quarterings, and you must look downon those who haven't. But, more than that, everything must be preserved,and continual ceremonies, dignities, chastities, restraints, pomps, andcircumstances. Above all, no one must be admitted within the company whois not of the noblest, the stupidest, the narrow
est.

  "The Beaminsters are the bodyguard of this little army, and the Duchessis their general. There, behind her shut doors, she keeps it all going;an American like Mrs. Bronson, a democrat like George Lent, she spoilstheir games here, there, everywhere. So far all has been well. But atlast there are enemies within her gates--that girl, Breton. Now, atlast, for the first time in her life, she must look out."

  He paused. They had reached Portland Place. To right and left of themthe broad road was golden in the sun--dark trees guarded one end of it,bronzed roofs the other.

  Two carriages stood like sentinels at the upper end.

  Brun raised his hand as though he would invoke the spirit of it. "There,Arkwright, there's your subject. The Duchess, tiny, indomitable,brooding over this place. This square of London round the Circus, yourprostituted street, this splendour, Harley Street, Morris Square withits respectability, Ferris Street with its boarding-houses, over themall the Duchess is ruling. There's not one of them, I dare fancy, thatis not conscious of her existence, not one of them that will not seelife differently when she is gone. Meanwhile, she'll fight for herAutocrats to the last breath, and she's got a battle in front of herthat will take her all her time. And when she goes the Autocrats will gowith her, the Beaminsters as Beaminsters will be done for; life hereround the Circus will never be the same again. There's a new cityrising, Arkwright, and the new citizens may forget, the Aristocrats maycompromise with the Democrats, but they'll turn out the Autocrats. A lotof good things will go with them--good old things--but a lot of fine newthings will come in."

  As they passed out of Portland Place the wooden-legged crossing-sweepertouched his hat to them.

  "Will _he_ come in?" said Arkwright, laughing.

  "Perhaps," said Brun gravely.

  Arkwright shook his head. "You can talk, Brun, you can say a lot. Butit's artificial the whole of it. Your subject, as you call it, is in theair. We're realists nowadays, you know."

  Brun's flat stared at them with its hideous red brick and uglyshapelessness. No romance for Dent Street; the glittering expanse ofPortland Place was gone.

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