CHAPTER II
RACHEL
"My dear thing, it all comes back, as everything always does, simply to personal pluck. It's only a question, no matter when or where, of having enough."--HENRY JAMES.
I
No. 104 Portland Place was the house where the Duchess of Wrexe hadlived now for sixty years. On the left as you go towards the park it hadan air that no other house in the Place had ever been able to catch.There were certain buildings, Nos. 31, 26, 42, for instance, that wereobviously doing their little best to present a successful imitation, butthey were left a long, a very long way behind. The interesting thingwould be to know whether No. 104 had had that wonderful "note" sixtyyears ago, when the Duchess came to it. Probably not; it was, beyondquestion, her presence that had thus given it its distinction. Its grimfacade, without her, would not so strangely have hinted at beauties andwonders and glories within, nor would the windows have gleamed sofinely, nor the great hall-door have symbolized such rich dark depths.
Here the temple of the Beaminsters, here, therefore, the shrine of allthat is best and finest in English aristocracy. It was indeed thelargest house in Portland Place, and most of the houses there werelarge, but, across that blank austere front more was written than meresize. It was Age at its most scornful, but observant Age, an Age thatcould compare one period with another, an Age that had not forgotten thethings that belonged to its Youth.
There was very little, up and down Portland Place, at morning, atmidday, at night, that the house did not perceive. Those high, broad,shining windows were not as other windows--there was assertion in theirvery bland stupidity.
Within the house was dark and cold, with high square rooms, wide stonestaircase, and a curious capacity for clutching any boisterous or seedyhumanity on the very threshold and strangling it.
From the hall the great stone staircase was the feature. It struck achill, at once, into the heart of the visitor so vast was it, so coldand white, so uncompromising, so scornful of other less solidstaircases. Very ancient, too--went back a long, long way and wouldlast, just like that, for ever!
What people it must have known, what scenes, what catastrophesencountered! About it, on either side, the hall vanished into blackness;here a gleaming portrait, there some antlers, here again aneighteenth-century gentleman with a full wig and the Beaminster nose andcomfortable contempt in his eyes ... and, around and about it all,silence; no sound from any part of the house penetrated here.
Up the stone staircase, passages, doors, more family portraits, morestaircase, more passages, more doors and, somewhere, in some hiddensolemnity, the ticking of a clock, so lonely in all that silence thatevery now and again it would catch its breath with a little whir, asthough it wondered whether it really could go on in the teeth of socontemptuous an indifference.
Rachel Beaminster's sitting-room overlooked Portland Place, and caughtthe sun on lucky days for quite a time. It was small, square of shape,like a box with a high window, a tiny fireplace, an arm-chair, and asquat table with a bright blue cloth.
Always during the two years that had been devoted to "finishing" inMunich she had had that little room, cosy, compact, before her. Now didit seem a little shabby, the carpet and tablecloth and curtains a littlefaded; it yet had its cosiness, there in the heart of the great wasteand desert that the house presented to her.
The little silver clock on the mantelpiece had struck five: she had comeback with Aunt Adela from the picture gallery, and, hearing voices inthe Long Drawing-room (the voices said, "My dear Adela, we justcame...." "Adela dear, how well...."), she slipped up the stairs andsecured her own refuge, and rang for tea to be brought to her there.
She wanted to think: she wanted to lie in the arm-chair there with thewindow a little open and the evening air coming from the park acrossPortland Place curiously scented like the sea.
As she lay back in her chair her body seemed fragile, and, almost, inits abandonment, exhausted. Under the black eyes her cheeks and neckwere very white, and her black hair gave it all the intensest setting.
She _was_ tired, horribly tired, and she wondered, vaguely, as she laythere how she was ever to manage this life that, in three days' time,she must take up and carry, a life that offered, perhaps, a littlefreedom, a little release, but so many, so many terrors.
As her gaze took in the little room--its grey paper, a photograph ofUncle John, a book-case with poets, some miscellaneous anduntidy-looking novels, and a number of little red Carlyles, a chinacockatoo with an impertinent stare, a copy of Furze's "Ride," and awater-colour of red Munich roofs signed "Mary," a tiny writing-tablewith one old yellow photograph of a sad dark woman in a silverframe--these things were, it seemed the only friendly things she knew.Outside this room there was her grandmother, the house, London, theworld--more and more horrible as the circles grew wider and wider.
At the mere thought of the things that she must, in three days' time,face, her heart began to beat so that she could scarcely breathe, and,with that beating, came the iron determination that no one should everknow.
She could not remember a time when these two emotions had not cometogether. She saw, as though it had happened only an hour ago, a tinychild in a black frock stumbling across endless deserts of carpettowards someone who looked older and more curious than anything onecould have conceived possible. Someone sitting in a high carved chair,someone leaning on a stick, with two terrifying great dragons behindher.
The child was seized with such a panic that her breath came in littlepumping gasps, her legs quivered and trembled, her mouth was open, hereyes like saucers. And then, suddenly, after what had seemed a centuryof time, there came the thin trembling voice: "Why, the child's anidiot!"
Since that awful day Rachel had determined that "no one should everknow." There had come to her, at that moment, the knowledge that roundevery corner there might lurk dragons and a witch. Sometimes they werethere, sometimes they were not, but always there was the terror beforethe corner was turned.
Life for Rachel during those early years was one long determination tomeet bravely that half-hour, from six to half-past. Every evening atfive minutes before six down the long passages she would be led, thenwould come the short pause before the dark door, a pause when thebeating of the child's heart seemed the only sound in the vast house;then the knock, someone's voice "Come in," then the slow opening of thedoor, the revelation of the strange dim room with the old mirrors, thepurple carpet, the china dragons, and grandmother in the high carvedchair. There was always, in the hottest weather, a fire burning, alwaysDorchester, a large ugly woman, behind the chair, always the cockatoosee-sawing on a golden perch and crying out every now and again withshrill, hostile cries. And then, in the centre of this, grandmother,with her terrible hands, her terrible nose, her terrible eyes, and, mostterrible of all, her voice.
Rachel would sit upright on her chair, and very often nothing would besaid throughout the half-hour. Sometimes Dorchester would ask questions,such as: "And what has Miss Rachel been doing to-day?" "Did Miss Rachelenjoy her walk in the park this afternoon?" "Has Miss Rachel enjoyed herlessons to-day?" Sometimes, and these were the terrible occasions, hergrandmother would speak: "Well, have you been a good little girl?" or"Tell me what you have been doing, child."
At the sound of that voice the room would flood with terror: the childwould still, by an effort of will, her body. She could feel now, fromall that distance of years, the discipline that it had needed to steadyher little black legs that dangled from her chair. She learnt, in time,to control herself so that she could give long answers in a grave,reserved tone.
The old lady never moved as she spoke, only bent forward and stared ather, as though she would see whether it were the truth that she werespeaking.
As the days passed and Rachel grew older it was around this half-hourthat the house ranged itself. The things in it--the rooms, the passages,the stairs, the high, cold schoolroom with its shining maps and largefrigid table, the tapestry room, long and dark and
mysterious withstrange beasts and horsemen waving in the dusk, the white drawing-roomso delicate and fragile that the furniture seemed to be all holding itsbreath as though a little motion in the air would dissipate it, the vastdining-room with the great hanging candelabra, and the family portraitsand the stone fireplace--all these things existed only that thatterrible half-hour might fling its shadow about the day.
The child was much alone; she had governesses, a music master, a drawingmaster, but from these persons, however friendly they might be, she heldaloof. She told them nothing of her thoughts. She had behind her hervery early years that were now to her like a dream; she did not knowthat it had ever really existed, that picture of snow and some dark kindfigure that was always beside her protecting her, and in the air alwaysa noise of bells. As she grew older that picture was not dimmed in thevision of it, but only she doubted its authenticity. Nevertheless, thememory provided a standard and before that standard these governesseswere compelled to yield.
There were, of course, her uncles and her aunt. Aunt Adela was moreimmediately concerned in the duty of her niece's progress than anyother, but as a duty she always, from the first, represented it. Fromthat first morning, when she had given her cold dry cheek to the littlegirl to kiss until now, three days before Rachel's freedom, she had madeno suggestion nor provocation of affection. "It is a business, my dearniece," she seemed to say, "that, for the sake of our family, we must gothrough. Let us be honest and deny all foolish sentiment."
To this Rachel was only too ready to agree. She did not like her AuntAdela. Aunt Adela resembled a dry, wintry tree, a tree whose branchescracked and snapped, a tree that gave no hope of any spring. Rachelalways saw Aunt Adela as an ugly necessity; she was not a thing ofterror, but merely something unpleasant, something frigid and of alukewarm hostility.
Then there were the uncles--Uncle Vincent, Uncle John, and UncleRichard.
Uncle Vincent, the Duke, was over sixty now and very like his mother,withered and sharp and shrivelled, but he was without her terror, beingmerely dapper and insignificant, and his sleek hair (there was only alittle of it very carefully spread out) and his white spats were themost prominent things about him. He was fond, Rachel gathered, of hisracing and his club and his meals, and he was unmarried.
Uncle Richard had been twice Prime Minister and was a widower. He livedin a beautiful house in Grosvenor Street, and collected wine and fansand first editions. He was always very kind to Rachel, and she liked histall thin figure, bent a little, with his high white forehead,gold-rimmed pince-nez on the Beaminster nose, and beautiful long whitehands. She went to have tea with him sometimes, and this was an hour offreedom and delight, because he talked to her about the Elizabethans andHomer, and, when she was older, Nietzsche and Kant. She liked the warmrooms, with their thick curtains and soft carpets and rows and rows ofgleaming glittering books, and he always had tea in such beautiful chinaand the silver teapot shone like a mirror. But she never felt that shewas of the same value to him as a first edition would be, and he talkedto her of the Elizabethans for their sake, and not for hers.
Lastly, there was Uncle John, and her heart was divided between UncleJohn and Dr. Christopher. Uncle John was a dear. He was round and fat,with snow-white hair that had waves in it, and his face resembled thatof a very, very good-natured pig. His nose was not in the least aBeaminster nose, being round and snub and his eyes beamed kindliness.Rachel, although she had always loved him, had long learnt to place noreliance upon him. His aim in life was to make it as comfortable, asfree from all vulgar squabble and dispute, as pleasant for everyoneeverywhere as it could possibly be. He was a Beaminster in so far as hethought the Beaminsters were a splendid and ancient family, and thatthere was no other family to which a man might count himself sofortunate to belong. But he was kind and pleasant about the rest of theworld. He would like everyone to have a good time, and it was vaguely apuzzle to him that it should be so arranged that life should have anydifficulties--it would be so much easier if everything were pleasant.When, however, difficulties did arise they must at all costs bedismissed. There had been no time in his life when he had not been inlove with some woman or other, but the hazards and difficulties ofmarriage had always frightened him too much.
He was not entirely selfish, for he thought a great deal about thewishes and comforts of other people, but unpleasantness frightened him,like a rabbit, into his hole. He lived the life of the "CompleatBachelor" at 93 Portland Place, having a multitude of friends of bothsexes, spending hours in his clubs with some of them, week-ends incountry houses with others of them, and months in delightful placesabroad with one or two of them.
He was very popular, always smiling and good-natured, and cared more forRachel than for anyone else in the world ... but even for Rachel hewould not risk discomfort.
There they all were, then.
Gradually they had emerged, for her, out of the mists and shadows,arranging themselves about her as possible protections against thathorrible half-hour of hers. She soon found that, in that, at any rate,they would, none of them, be of use to her except Uncle John. UncleVincent did not count at all. Uncle Richard only counted as china orpictures counted.
Uncle John could not count as a very strong defence, it was true, but hewas fond of her; he showed it in a thousand ways, and although he mightnever actually stand up for her, yet he would always be there to comforther.
Not that she wanted comfort. From a very early age indeed sheresolutely flung from her all props and sympathies and sentiments. Shehated the house, she hated the loneliness, most of all she hatedgrandmother ... but she would go through with it, and no one should knowthat she suffered.
II
Then, when she was seventeen, came Munich.
On the day that she first heard that she was to go to Germany to be"finished" the flashing thought that came to her was that, for a time atany rate, the "half-hour" would be suspended. Standing there thinking ofthe days passing without the shadow of that interview about them waslike emerging from some black and screaming, banging, shouting tunnelinto the clear serenity of a shining landscape. Two years might countfor her escape, and perhaps, on her return, she would be old enough forher grandmother to have lost her terrors--perhaps....
Meanwhile, that Germany, with its music and forests and toys andfairies, danced before her. Her two years in it gave her all that shehad expected; it gave her Wagner and Mozart and Beethoven, it gave herGoethe and Heine, Jean Paul and Heyse, Hauptmann and Moerike, it gave hera perception of life that admitted physical and spiritual emotions onprecisely the same level, so that a sausage and the _UnfinishedSymphony_ gave you the same ecstatic crawl down your spine and did not,for an instant, object to sharing that honour.
Munich also gave her the experience and revelations of May Eversley.
There were some twenty or thirty girls who were, with Rachel, under thefinishing care of Frau Bebel, but Rachel held herself apart from themall. She could not herself have explained why she did so. It was partlybecause she felt that she had nothing, whether experience or discovery,to give to them, partly because they seemed already so happy andcomfortable amongst themselves that they had surely no need of her, andpartly because she feared that from some person or some place, suddenlyround the corner there would spring the terror again. She could evenfancy that her grandmother, watching her, had placed horrors behindcurtains, closed doors, grimed and shuttered windows.--"If you think, mydear," she might perhaps be saying, "that you've escaped by this year ortwo in Germany, you're mightily mistaken.--Back to me you're coming."
But May Eversley was different from the other girls. She was differentbecause she saw things without a muddle, knew what she wanted, knew whatshe disliked, knew what was delightful, knew what was intolerable.
To Rachel this clear-cut decision was more enviable than any otherquality that one could have. At this stage of her experience it was theassent, so it seemed to her, that could give life its intensest value."Sit down and see, without any exaggeration
or false colouring, whatyou've got. Take away, ruthlessly, anything that you imagine that you'vegot but haven't. See what you want. Take away ruthlessly everythingthat you imagine that you would like to have but are not confident ofsecuring. See what's happened to you in the past. Take away ruthlesslyany sentimental repentances or sloppy regrets, but learn quiteresolutely from your ugly mistakes."
Rachel's world had hitherto been limited very largely to the schoolroomin Portland Place, the park and Beaminster House, the countryplace-in-chief (three others, one in Leicestershire, one inNorthumberland, one in Norfolk), but even within this limited countrythe terrific importance of those rules was driven in upon her.
She felt that her grandmother was clear-headed, but, no, none of theothers--not Aunt Adela, nor the uncles, nor any of the governesses. Shewas allowed to meet one or two little boys and girls of her own age. Shewalked with them in the park, played with them at Beaminster House, hadtea with them occasionally, but they were, none of them, clear-headed.
She was not priggish about this discovery of hers. She did not despiseother people because their definite rules did not seem to them ofimportance. She did not talk about these things.
To see facts very steadily without blinking was impelled upon her by thenecessity for courage. It was the only weapon wherewith to fight hergrandmother. "Now," she might say to herself, "this half-hour of yours.Is it so bad? What definitely do you fear about it? Is it the knock atthe door? Is it the crossing the room? Is it answering questions?"
So challenged her terror did fall, a little, away from her, ashamed atits inadequate cause. So she went to face every peril--"Is the dangerreally so bad? What exactly is it?..."
May Eversley was thin and spare, small with sharp features, pince-nez,hair brushed sternly back, and every inch of her body trained to thepurpose that it was meant to fulfil. She rang her sentences on the airlike coin on a plate. Meanwhile, as she explained to Rachel, she hadbeen fighting since she was five. Her mother, Lady Eversley, was thewidow of Tom Eversley, now happily deceased, once the most dissolutescamp in Europe. He had died leaving nothing but debts behind him. Sincethen his widow and his daughter had lived in three little rooms above apublic house off Shepherd's Market, and the widow had battled to keep upthe gayest of appearances. May had been, at a very early age, introducedto the struggle. "My silver mug and rattle were pawned to get a dressfor mother to go to a drawing-room in. I shouldn't be here now if itweren't for an uncle, and it's the last thing he'll do for us. So back Igo in two year's time--to do my damnedest."
Of course she was clear-headed--she had to be.
"There are only two sorts of people," she said to Rachel. "Likesoup--thick and clear--the Clear ones get on and the Thick don't."
May obviously liked Rachel, but was amused by her. Nobody, it seemed toMay, showed so nakedly her emotions as Rachel, and yet, also, nobodycould produce, more suddenly, the closest of reserves. May, to whom theworld had been, since she was six, a measured plain of contest,marvelled at the poignancy of Rachel's contact with it. "If she's goingto be hurt as easily as this by everything, how on earth is she going toget through?"
Then, as the Munich days passed, May found, to her own delight, Rachel'skeen sense of humour. Munich afforded enough food for it, and finallyone discovered that Rachel smiled more readily than she trembled, butshe hid her smile because, as yet, she was not sure of it.
"All she wants," May Eversley concluded, "is to be told things."
Nobody in the world could be better adapted to give out theserevelations. London, to May Eversley, was an open book; moreover, themost stormy of battle-fields on which the combatants fought, werewounded, were slain, were gloriously victorious.
She told Rachel a great deal--a great deal about people, a great dealabout sets and parties, a great deal about likes and dislikes. She hadon her side one burning curiosity to know about Rachel's Duchess. "Isshe as terrible, so tremendous as people say? Has she such a brain evennow? Old Lady Grandon, who was a great friend when they were both girls,says that she wasn't clever then a bit--rather stupid and shy--but younever know. Jealousy on old Grandon's part, I expect. They say she'swonderful still."
Questions of taste never worried May Eversley, and it did not worry hernow that Rachel might dislike so penetrating an inquisition. But atleast May got nothing for her trouble. Rachel told her nothing.
May's final word was, "You care too much about it all--care whether it'sgoing to hurt, whether it's going to be frightening or not. My advice toyou is, just dash in, snatch what you can, and dash out again. Itdoesn't matter a hair-pin what anyone says. Everyone says everything inLondon, and nobody minds. They've all got the shortest memories."
Rachel, sitting now in her little room and thinking of Munich wonderedhow completely her own discovery of London would coincide with May's.May's idea of it was certainly not Aunt Adela's. Aunt Adela, Rachelthought, was far too dried and brittle to risk any sharp contact withanything. None of her uncles, she further reflected, liked sharpcontacts, and yet, how continually grandmother provided them!
How comfortable all of them--Aunt Adela and the uncles--would be withouttheir mother, and yet how proud they were of having her! For herself,Rachel faced her approaching deliverance with a tightening of all themuscles of her body. "I won't care. It shall be as May says--and thereare sure to be some comfortable people about, some people who want tomake it pleasant for one."
Then there was a tap at the door and Uncle John came in. Uncle Johnoften came in about half-past five. It was a convenient time for him tocome, but also, perhaps, he recognized that that approaching half-hourthat Rachel was to have with his mother demanded, beforehand, some kindof easy, amiable prologue.
To-day, however, there was more in his comfortable smiling countenancethan merely paying a visit warranted. He stood for a moment at the doorlooking over at her, rather fat but not very, his white hair, his pearlpin, his white spats all gleaming, a rosiness and a cleanliness alwaysabout him so that he seemed, at any moment of the day, to have comestraight from his tub, having jumped, in his eagerness to see you, intohis beautiful clothes, and hurried, all in a glow, to get to you.
"They're all chattering downstairs--chattering like anything. There'sRoddy Seddon, old Lady Carloes and Crewner and some young ass Crewner'sbrought with him and your Uncle Dick looking bored and your Aunt Adelalooking nothing at all--and so out of it I came."
He came over and sat on the broad, fat arm of her chair and looked out,in his contented, amiable way, over the light, salmon-coloured and pale,that now had persuaded Portland Place into silence. His eyes seemed tosay: "Now this is how I like things--all pink and quiet andcomfortable."
Rachel leant a little against his shoulder, and put her hand on hisknee--
"You've had tea down there?"
"Yes, thank you--all I wanted. What have you been doing all theafternoon?"
He put his own hand down upon hers.
"Oh! Aunt Adela and I went to look at grandmother's portrait."
"Well?"
"It's as clever as it can be. To anyone who doesn't know her, it's themost wonderful likeness. It's what grandmother would like herself."
He caught the note in her voice that threatened the pink security ofPortland Place. He held her hand a little tighter.
"In what way?"
"Oh, it's got the dragons and the tapestry and the purple carpet. Allthe coloured things that grandmother like so much and that help her so.Why, imagine her for a second in an ordinary room, in an old arm-chairwith a worn-out carpet and everlastings on the mantelpiece; what _would_she do? The young man, whoever he is, has helped her all he can."
Rachel felt his grasp of her hand slacken a little.
"Yes, I know it's wrong of me to talk like that. But it's all so sham.It's like someone in one of those absurd fantastic novels that peoplewrite nowadays when half the characters are out of Dickens only put intoa real background. I'm frightened of grandmother--you know I always havebeen--but sometimes I wonder whether---
-"
She paused.
"Whether there's anything really to be frightened of. And yet the reliefwhen I can get off this half-hour every evening--the relief even nowwhen I'm even grown up--oh! it's absurd!"
"Well, my dear, you're coming out, you're going to break away from allof us--you'll have your own life now to make what you like of."
"Yes, that's all very well. But I've been brought up all wrong. Mostgirls begin to come out when they're about ten and go on, more and more,until, when the time actually comes, well, there's simply nothing in it.I've never known anyone intimately except May, and now at the thought ofcrowds and crowds of people, at one moment I'd like to fly into aconvent somewhere, and at the next I want to go and be rude to the lotof them--to get in quickly you know, lest they should be rude to mefirst."
Now that she had begun, it came out in a flood. "Oh! I shall make such amess of it all. What on earth am I to talk about to these people? Whatdo they want with me or I with them? What have I ever to say to anybodyexcept you and Dr. Chris, and even with you I'm as cross as possiblemost of the time. Grandmother always thought me a complete fool, and soI suppose I am. If people aren't kind I can't say a word, and if theyare I say far too much and blush afterwards for all the nonsense I'vepoured out. It doesn't matter with you and Dr. Chris because you knowme, but the others! And always behind me there'd be grandmother! Sheknows I'm going to be a failure, and she wants me to be--but just toprove to her, just to prove!"
She jumped up, and standing in front of the window, met, furiously, ahostile world. Her hands were clenched, her face white, her eyesdesperate.
"--Just to prove I'll be a success--I'll marry the most magnificenthusband, I'll be the most magnificent person--I'll bring it off----"
Suddenly her agitation was gone--she was laughing, looking down on heruncle half humorously, half tenderly.
"Just because I love you and Dr. Chris, I'll do my best not to shameyou. I'll be the most decorous and amiable of Beaminsters.--No one shallhave a word to say----"
She bent down, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Then she satdown on the edge of the arm-chair with her hands clasped over his knee.Uncle John would not have loved her so dearly had he not been, on somany occasions, frightened of her. She was often hostile in the mostcurious way--so militant that he could only console himself by thinkingthat her mother had been Russian, and from Russia one might expectanything. And then, in a moment, the hostility would break into atenderness, an affection that touched him to the heart and made thetears come into his eyes. But for one who loved comfort above everythingRachel was an agitating person.
Now as he felt the pressure of her hands on his knees, he knew that hewould do anything, anything for her.
"That's all right, Rachel dear," was all that he could say. "You hold onto me and Christopher. We'll see you through."
The little silver clock struck six. She got up from the chair and smileddown at him. "If I hadn't got you and Dr. Chris--well--I just don'tknow what would happen to me."
Meanwhile Uncle John had remembered what it was that he had come to say.His expression was now one of puzzled distress as though he wondered howpeople could be so provoking and inconsiderate.
He looked up at her. "By the way," he said, "it's doubtful whethermother will see you this evening. You'd better go and ask, but Iexpect----"
"What's happened?"
"I may as well tell you. You're bound to hear sooner or later. Yourcousin Francis is back in London. He's written a most insulting letterto your grandmother. It's upset her very much."
"Cousin Frank?"
"Yes. He's living apparently quite near here--in some cheap rooms."
May Eversley had, long before, supplied Rachel with all details as tothat family scandal.
Rachel now only said: "Well, I'll go and see whether she would like meto come."
For a moment she hesitated, then turned back and flung her arms againabout her uncle's neck.
"Whatever happens, Uncle John, whatever happens, we'll stick together."
"Whatever happens," he repeated, "we'll stick together."
His eyes, as they followed her, were full of tenderness--but behind thetenderness there lurked a shadow of alarm.
The Duchess of Wrexe, Her Decline and Death; A Romantic Commentary Page 2
