“You are excused, Richard Exon.”
I bowed and went.
Whilst Winter packed, I wrote the best letter I could.
Madam,
By the time that you read this letter, I am very nearly sure that ‘the Count’ will have disappeared. Whether he has or has not, you will know the best use to make of these documents. I told him that he would be arrested unless he made himself scarce and that Virgil had ‘disappeared’ under fear of being changed with the theft of Elizabeth’s jewels. Elsa is ‘wanted’ for abortion: when she knew that I’d found that out, she may have thought it better to find a new place. I think that’s all. I’m rather worried about the servant who saw me drop my shirt. Perhaps you could straighten that out, for you can do what you will with the servants of Brief. Of course I’m not coming back. It’s better so. I mean, there’s no more to be done, and as I can neither ‘glaze her’ nor ‘rope myself off’, it wouldn’t be fair to her to make matters worse than I have.
Madam, I have so much to thank you for,
Your obedient, affectionate servant
Richard Exon
With this I enclosed two documents.
One was the statement, indorsed by Lord Ferdinand, and the other the death certificate of Matthew Gering.
Then I sealed the envelope up and addressed it to the Duchess of Whelp. And then Winter fetched Parish again and I gave it into his hand – and made him swear to hold it till ten the following day.
At half-past three I saw the Duchess again.
She spoke to me very kindly and said that my lady had told her of our ‘most unpleasant experience’ the night before and hoped that I was no worse for my struggle to save my life. After that she wished me good luck ‘in the matters you now have in hand’ and said she should look for my coming in four days’ time. And when I kissed her hand, she lifted me up and held my face against hers and thanked me for ‘plucking our darling out of the jaws of death’.
Then, though I knew my way, she called Godolphin and told her to show me out; and, before I knew where I was, I was passing through the state of the bedroom which Brief reserved for persons of royal descent. Thirty seconds later I stood in the picture-gallery…
Elizabeth turned from a window and came to my side.
“Come and sit down, my darling.” She put her arm through mine and led the way to a seat. “You look so tired and shaken, and though God knows you have cause, it isn’t like you. And now you’re going straight off – to travel day and night to London and back. Oh, I wish I was going with you. I shan’t know a moment’s rest till I see you again.”
“I’m all right,” I said somehow. “I’ll get a good sleep tonight.”
“Will you write me a letter tomorrow? I’d like to hear. Only a little letter – to say that you had a good night. I don’t want to know anything else – I promised Old Harry I’d ask you no questions at all. But it worries me so to see you unlike yourself and to think you must make such a journey at such a time.”
“I promise I’ll write, my darling. But you mustn’t worry – really. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m only tired.”
With that, I made to glance at my wrist, but she caught my hand.
“I know the time,” she said gently. “I’ll tell you when you must go. We’ve ten minutes more together… The Rolls is out on the terrace and your luggage is down.”
‘Ten minutes more.’
My brain seemed to sway and stagger, as a man that is heavy-laden crossing uneven ground. There was so much to be said: yet I could say none of it, because she must not know that this was the end. And yet, how could I leave her without a word? Somehow I must contrive to say one or two things which, when she later remembered, would show her that Richard Exon had been trying to take his leave.
“It – it hurts me to leave you,” I said. “And I wouldn’t have left you – nothing on earth would have made me – if I didn’t know you were safe. But now I know that, and – well, I gave my word, my darling, and so, you see, I must keep it – at any cost.”
Her beautiful fingers tightened upon my wrist.
“Of course. Poor Crawley. Do you think they’ll listen to you?”
“I shall try to make them. And now let’s talk about you. I do not want you to worry – I shall be quite all right. Now don’t forget that, my beauty, because I mean what I say. If you feel like fretting, sit at Old Harry’s feet. She’s wise – she’s terribly wise, and she has an understanding which doesn’t belong to this world. You told me once that you’d come to lean upon me. Very well. I’m going away. The moment I’ve gone I want you to lean upon her. If you don’t, you’ll feel left – when I go off in the Rolls. And I don’t want you to feel left.”
“How can I feel anything else? Half of me’s going to London – the better half.”
“You won’t, if you stick to her. She’s a sort of Rock of Ages. If you don’t want me to worry, you’ll do as I ask.”
“Richard darling, of course I shall lean upon her. And she upon me – until our idol comes back. We’re, both of us, silly about you. When I told her about last night, the tears ran down her cheeks. ‘He’s thoroughbred,’ she kept saying. ‘He was beaten all ends up: and yet he won through – for his great heart wasn’t broken: and a thoroughbred’s never beaten until you break his heart.’ And so you needn’t tell me to stick to her. We shall spend our time talking about you, until you come back.”
I put a hand to my head. Matters were bad enough, and I seemed to be making them worse.
“You put it too high,” I said slowly. “Don’t magnify what I did. I had a chance and I took it, but more than once I nearly did everything in. And you got me out of that well – no doubt about that. Never mind. We can’t argue now: But let’s – let’s both try and pretend it was only a dream, some of it bitter and some unforgettably sweet… You know, dreams are like that. And if we try hard enough and really make believe, it’ll come to seem like one and we shall ask ourselves if these things really happened or whether the dying leap of some falling star just brushed our lives with brilliance…and held us up to the peep-hole of immortality.”
“Richard! What are you saying?” Her beautiful brows were knit and a startled presence looked out of her glorious eyes. “Oh, my dear, I don’t like you to go like this. What happened last night has changed you. You’re not yourself. And since then – oh, I don’t want to know, but I’m sure that something’s upset you… You’re always so calm and stable: but now Richard Exon’s on edge.”
The worst was happening: something had to be done.
With a superhuman effort, I braced myself for the part which I could not play. Somehow I had to play it – for both our sakes. She simply must not know that this was the end.
I got to my feet and drew her into my arms.
“My sweet,” I said, “if I seem to you unnatural, that is because I am trying to play a part. I am trying my best to pretend – to make myself believe that I do not mind taking my leave. If you cannot help me to this, then my resolution will crack and I shall not go. After all, I’ve a fine excuse – ‘I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.’ And the man I promised to speak for can go to hell…
“Now I never realized how much it was going to cost me to keep the promise I made. It is costing me so much that I dare not consider the price, because, if I did, I know that I shouldn’t pay it – and yet it’s got to be paid, if I am to keep my word. So I’m trying to make believe.
“Now, of course, it’s utterly hopeless to pretend that I don’t mind going and leaving you here. I might as well pretend that I liked being down in that well. So I’ve made up my mind to pretend that, when I run into Innsbruck, I’m running out of some dream. After all, it’s been rather like one – for me, I mean. Raven, Tracery, Brief: and the Duchess of Whelp – and you. Who ever saw anyone like you outside some dream? Who ever saw such beauty of face and form? What hair ever smelled so sweet? What temples were ever so lovely? What hands were ever so cool? And what
queen ever spoke so gently, or told a man that she loved him, or put up her darling mouth – except in a dream? So I’m going to pretend I’ve been dreaming…for if I’ve been dreaming, I don’t have to leave you behind. My dream, my shining wonder, will always be here – in my heart. There can be no separation. No miles can lie between us, because you are not of this world. When I’m crossing the Channel, I shall hold you as close in my arms as I’m holding you now. Day and night you’ll be with me – always: sleeping and waking, I’ll have my cheek against yours.” I threw back my head and laughed. “I shall be so rich I’ll be almost afraid to come back, because that will mean the rendering up of my dream.”
“Dropping shadow for substance,” she smiled. “Perhaps you won’t like me so well.”
Then she laid her head on my chest and I laid mine against hers. And so we stayed, while the merciless sands ran out – and the blood ran with them, out of some hole in my heart.
Some clock struck four, and I felt a tremor run through her before its knell.
Once more I braced myself.
Then I put my hand under her chin and lifted her lovely head.
“Goodbye, Elizabeth Virgil.”
“Goodbye, my love.”
I kissed her lips.
Then we let one another go, and I turned and walked out of the gallery, down to the hall.
One minute later the Rolls was clear of the terrace and was whipping up to the woods that neighboured the entrance-drive.
I remember next to nothing of the journey we made that night.
A petrol-pump, highways and mountains and the growl of a frontier-guard; a bridge, all white in the moonshine, and then the glare of my head-lights fading before the dawn – these things make up the nightmare through which I drove, with Winter asleep beside me against his will.
I know that at ten the next morning we came to Basle, and, because I could go no further, I drove to the hotel at which I had lain for two nights three weeks before.
From there I wrote to my darling – a halting, pitiful note, in which I tried to make out how rich we must always be, because we had picked our flower when it was in full flush, so that now it could never wither or run to seed.
That evening we left for Strasbourg, and, after driving all night, embarked at Calais for Dover the following afternoon.
It was as I walked the deck and saw the cliffs of England taking their ancient form that it first occurred to me that when I stepped ashore I should come to the end of my plans. My one idea had been to retrace my steps and to put the sea between me and my heart’s desire: but now, in a few minutes’ time, I should have achieved this purpose and since life had to be lived, I should have to take thought for the morrow and, plainly, decide what to do. For a moment I knitted my brows… But either because I was tired or because, to be honest, I did not care what I did, the effort seemed not worth making, and I let my thoughts fly back – to a slim figure standing alone…in an echoing picture-gallery, full of the lenient splendour of afternoon sun.
The steamer had berthed, and I was standing amidships, watching my fellow-passengers hasten ashore, when I found a man standing beside me, with a hand to his hat.
“Mr Exon, sir?”
He was a commissionaire, and he had a note in his hand.
“That’s right,” said I.
He gave me the note at once.
Within was a type-written sheet.
The Duchess of Whelp presents her compliments to Mr Richard Exon and begs that, as soon as may be, he will present himself at Tracery, where he will hear of something to his advantage.
With a hammering heart, I stared at the messenger.
“How did you know,” I said, “that I should be coming this way?”
“I didn’t, sir,” he said simply. “There’s a man with a note for you at each of the ports. Every boat from France has been met for twenty-four hours.”
12: I Look Out of a Window
“No, you don’t, sir,” said Winter, stoutly. “I don’t care what’s in the wind. I promised her ladyship I’d make you look after yourself… I ’aven’t done nothing so far – because of the look in your eyes. But now that’s gone, thank Gawd. An’ if you won’t rest here a day before startin’ back – well, I’ve got the Rolls locked and I’ll chuck the keys into the sea.”
So it came about that nearly four days went by before, after sleeping at Innsbruck, I saw the chimneys of Tracery rising against the blue.
Heavy rain must have fallen the night before, for woods and pastures were green as I had never seen them, and the countryside was glancing before the smile of the sun. All the fragrance of earth and her fruits was lading the lively air, and the mountain-tops were making a mock of distance and hoisting their lovely detail for all the world to see.
As twice before, I entered the wasting courtyard and berthed the Rolls: but before I was out of the car, the doors of the mansion were opened and Parish was descending the steps…
Five minutes later I stood before the Duchess of Whelp.
She was dressed in grey, as usual, and was sitting at ease in a salon, the open windows of which gave on to the mouldering splendour of terrace and park: as usual, by painting her face, she had done her best to disfigure her splendid countenance, and, as usual, its noble features and her majestic air were turning their motley into a robe of state: on a table, beside her, lay papers – among them my letter and the statement which had been indorsed.
As the door closed, she looked up, and after a moment or two she put out her hand.
I went forward and kissed it at once.
As I straightened my back she spoke.
“Come for your cake, have you?”
“Madam, I have obeyed the orders you saw fit to send.”
She pointed to a chair.
“Sit down.” I did as she said. “I was right when I said you had taken the bit in your teeth: but it never occurred to me you were going to bolt.”
“Madam,” said I, “I did as—”
“I know. You acted for the best.” She raised her eyes to heaven and let out a sigh. “You must get out of that habit. No need to tell you to act. You are a man of action. ‘He hath done all things well.’ But you must not act – for the best. That hideous qualification has been the ruin of many a great career. Besides, your judgment is filthy – I told you so. The very first time you came here, I said to you ‘Never reflect.’ And then you go off and do it. The dog returns to his vomit. And I actually helped you to – to that disgusting repast. ‘Leave him alone,’ I said. ‘He’s got the bit in his teeth.’” She drew in her breath. “Bit in your teeth! If only I’d known, you’d have had a flea in your ear.”
“Madam,” said I, “with respect, I shall always believe I was right to do as I did.”
“Without speaking to me?”
“Yes, madam – because I had nothing to say. It was understood between us that, when I had done what I could, I should ‘bow and go.’”
“Quite so,” said Old Harry, “quite so. But you needn’t have gone like that.”
“Madam,” said I, “the water was up to my chin. That night when – when Elsa fled, we were more or less pitchforked into each other’s arms. Had I stayed—”
“Why didn’t you come to me and tell me the truth?”
“And ask to be let off – in view of what I had done? Forgive me, madam, but I don’t think you’d have done that.”
“No. I shouldn’t,’ said Old Harry. “I should have come and demanded the hand of the Countess of Brief.” I started at that, but she took no notice at all. “And if my demand had been questioned, I’ll tell you what I should have said. I should have said, ‘Look here. That she loves me is nothing: that I love her is less. But I’ve saved her life twice over and damned near lost my own, I’ve made one man cut his throat and I’ve killed two more… And if you imagine I’ve done all these parlour tricks to keep her nice and warm for somebody else, then, by God,’ I’d have said, ‘you’ve made a mistake in your man.’”
>
I stood up and folded my arms.
“Madam,” I said, “I’ll see you. Take it as said.”
Old Harry regarded me straitly.
“This, to me, Richard Exon?” was all she said – but the words were sharply spoken and stung my ears as a lash.
Such rank injustice was more than my blood could stand.
“And this, madam. Your wisdom is infinite, and you can draw distinctions which I cannot comprehend. You speak of ‘judgment’ and ‘instinct’ as if the one was black and the other white. But I can see no difference between the two. In all I have done in this matter, I have acted as I thought best: and when I left Brief last Wednesday, I was acting according to my lights. You saw fit to call me back…
“Five minutes ago I told you a thundering lie. I said that I had come in obedience… Madam, I did nothing of the kind. I came to receive your permission to marry the Countess of Brief. Had your note not promised me that, you might have called me until you were black in the face…and I would never have answered, much less have come. And now, if you please, I should like to have my cake.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said Old Harry. “‘Black in the face’. Never in all my life has anyone ever dared to address me like that. The more’s the pity, of course. If only they had, I should be more tolerant now.”
“I do not find you intolerant, madam.”
“I’m much obliged,” said the Duchess; “but don’t let’s get on to my faults, or we shall be here all night. One picks up quite a number in seventy years. And now unfold those arms and sit down in that chair. You shall have your cake in due course. But first, as once before, I must take a hammer and chip the scales from your eyes. I like to think, Richard Exon, that when you came into this chamber you found your reception cold. I mean, I didn’t burst into tears and throw my arms round your neck.”
She Painted Her Face Page 24
