Chapter XXIV
They reached the hotel rather early in the afternoon, so that mostpeople were still lying down, or sitting speechless in their bedrooms,and Mrs. Thornbury, although she had asked them to tea, was nowhere tobe seen. They sat down, therefore, in the shady hall, which was almostempty, and full of the light swishing sounds of air going to and fro ina large empty space. Yes, this arm-chair was the same arm-chair in whichRachel had sat that afternoon when Evelyn came up, and this was themagazine she had been looking at, and this the very picture, a pictureof New York by lamplight. How odd it seemed--nothing had changed.
By degrees a certain number of people began to come down the stairs andto pass through the hall, and in this dim light their figures possesseda sort of grace and beauty, although they were all unknown people.Sometimes they went straight through and out into the garden by theswing door, sometimes they stopped for a few minutes and bent over thetables and began turning over the newspapers. Terence and Rachel satwatching them through their half-closed eyelids--the Johnsons,the Parkers, the Baileys, the Simmons', the Lees, the Morleys, theCampbells, the Gardiners. Some were dressed in white flannels and werecarrying racquets under their arms, some were short, some tall, somewere only children, and some perhaps were servants, but they all hadtheir standing, their reason for following each other through the hall,their money, their position, whatever it might be. Terence soon gave uplooking at them, for he was tired; and, closing his eyes, he fell halfasleep in his chair. Rachel watched the people for some time longer; shewas fascinated by the certainty and the grace of their movements, and bythe inevitable way in which they seemed to follow each other, and loiterand pass on and disappear. But after a time her thoughts wandered, andshe began to think of the dance, which had been held in this room, onlythen the room itself looked quite different. Glancing round, she couldhardly believe that it was the same room. It had looked so bare andso bright and formal on that night when they came into it out of thedarkness; it had been filled, too, with little red, excited faces,always moving, and people so brightly dressed and so animated that theydid not seem in the least like real people, nor did you feel that youcould talk to them. And now the room was dim and quiet, and beautifulsilent people passed through it, to whom you could go and say anythingyou liked. She felt herself amazingly secure as she sat in herarm-chair, and able to review not only the night of the dance, but theentire past, tenderly and humorously, as if she had been turning in afog for a long time, and could now see exactly where she had turned. Forthe methods by which she had reached her present position, seemed to hervery strange, and the strangest thing about them was that she had notknown where they were leading her. That was the strange thing, thatone did not know where one was going, or what one wanted, and followedblindly, suffering so much in secret, always unprepared and amazed andknowing nothing; but one thing led to another and by degrees somethinghad formed itself out of nothing, and so one reached at last this calm,this quiet, this certainty, and it was this process that people calledliving. Perhaps, then, every one really knew as she knew now where theywere going; and things formed themselves into a pattern not only forher, but for them, and in that pattern lay satisfaction and meaning.When she looked back she could see that a meaning of some kind wasapparent in the lives of her aunts, and in the brief visit of theDalloways whom she would never see again, and in the life of her father.
The sound of Terence, breathing deep in his slumber, confirmed her inher calm. She was not sleepy although she did not see anything verydistinctly, but although the figures passing through the hall becamevaguer and vaguer, she believed that they all knew exactly where theywere going, and the sense of their certainty filled her with comfort.For the moment she was as detached and disinterested as if she hadno longer any lot in life, and she thought that she could now acceptanything that came to her without being perplexed by the form in whichit appeared. What was there to frighten or to perplex in the prospectof life? Why should this insight ever again desert her? The world was intruth so large, so hospitable, and after all it was so simple. "Love,"St. John had said, "that seems to explain it all." Yes, but it was notthe love of man for woman, of Terence for Rachel. Although they sat soclose together, they had ceased to be little separate bodies; they hadceased to struggle and desire one another. There seemed to be peacebetween them. It might be love, but it was not the love of man forwoman.
Through her half-closed eyelids she watched Terence lying back in hischair, and she smiled as she saw how big his mouth was, and his chinso small, and his nose curved like a switchback with a knob at the end.Naturally, looking like that he was lazy, and ambitious, and full ofmoods and faults. She remembered their quarrels, and in particularhow they had been quarreling about Helen that very afternoon, and shethought how often they would quarrel in the thirty, or forty, or fiftyyears in which they would be living in the same house together, catchingtrains together, and getting annoyed because they were so different. Butall this was superficial, and had nothing to do with the life thatwent on beneath the eyes and the mouth and the chin, for that life wasindependent of her, and independent of everything else. So too, althoughshe was going to marry him and to live with him for thirty, or forty,or fifty years, and to quarrel, and to be so close to him, shewas independent of him; she was independent of everything else.Nevertheless, as St. John said, it was love that made her understandthis, for she had never felt this independence, this calm, and thiscertainty until she fell in love with him, and perhaps this too waslove. She wanted nothing else.
For perhaps two minutes Miss Allan had been standing at a littledistance looking at the couple lying back so peacefully in theirarm-chairs. She could not make up her mind whether to disturb them ornot, and then, seeming to recollect something, she came across the hall.The sound of her approach woke Terence, who sat up and rubbed his eyes.He heard Miss Allan talking to Rachel.
"Well," she was saying, "this is very nice. It is very nice indeed.Getting engaged seems to be quite the fashion. It cannot often happenthat two couples who have never seen each other before meet in the samehotel and decide to get married." Then she paused and smiled, and seemedto have nothing more to say, so that Terence rose and asked her whetherit was true that she had finished her book. Some one had said thatshe had really finished it. Her face lit up; she turned to him with alivelier expression than usual.
"Yes, I think I can fairly say I have finished it," she said. "Thatis, omitting Swinburne--Beowulf to Browning--I rather like the two B'smyself. Beowulf to Browning," she repeated, "I think that is the kind oftitle which might catch one's eye on a railway book-stall."
She was indeed very proud that she had finished her book, for no oneknew what an amount of determination had gone to the making of it. Alsoshe thought that it was a good piece of work, and, considering whatanxiety she had been in about her brother while she wrote it, she couldnot resist telling them a little more about it.
"I must confess," she continued, "that if I had known how many classicsthere are in English literature, and how verbose the best of themcontrive to be, I should never have undertaken the work. They only allowone seventy thousand words, you see."
"Only seventy thousand words!" Terence exclaimed.
"Yes, and one has to say something about everybody," Miss Allan added."That is what I find so difficult, saying something different abouteverybody." Then she thought that she had said enough about herself, andshe asked whether they had come down to join the tennis tournament. "Theyoung people are very keen about it. It begins again in half an hour."
Her gaze rested benevolently upon them both, and, after a momentarypause, she remarked, looking at Rachel as if she had rememberedsomething that would serve to keep her distinct from other people.
"You're the remarkable person who doesn't like ginger." But the kindnessof the smile in her rather worn and courageous face made them feel thatalthough she would scarcely remember them as individuals, she had laidupon them the burden of the new generation.
"And in tha
t I quite agree with her," said a voice behind; Mrs.Thornbury had overheard the last few words about not liking ginger."It's associated in my mind with a horrid old aunt of ours (poor thing,she suffered dreadfully, so it isn't fair to call her horrid) who usedto give it to us when we were small, and we never had the courageto tell her we didn't like it. We just had to put it out in theshrubbery--she had a big house near Bath."
They began moving slowly across the hall, when they were stopped by theimpact of Evelyn, who dashed into them, as though in running downstairsto catch them her legs had got beyond her control.
"Well," she exclaimed, with her usual enthusiasm, seizing Rachel by thearm, "I call this splendid! I guessed it was going to happen from thevery beginning! I saw you two were made for each other. Now you've justgot to tell me all about it--when's it to be, where are you going tolive--are you both tremendously happy?"
But the attention of the group was diverted to Mrs. Elliot, who waspassing them with her eager but uncertain movement, carrying in herhands a plate and an empty hot-water bottle. She would have passed them,but Mrs. Thornbury went up and stopped her.
"Thank you, Hughling's better," she replied, in answer to Mrs.Thornbury's enquiry, "but he's not an easy patient. He wants to knowwhat his temperature is, and if I tell him he gets anxious, and if Idon't tell him he suspects. You know what men are when they're ill! Andof course there are none of the proper appliances, and, though heseems very willing and anxious to help" (here she lowered her voicemysteriously), "one can't feel that Dr. Rodriguez is the same as aproper doctor. If you would come and see him, Mr. Hewet," she added,"I know it would cheer him up--lying there in bed all day--and theflies--But I must go and find Angelo--the food here--of course, with aninvalid, one wants things particularly nice." And she hurried past themin search of the head waiter. The worry of nursing her husband had fixeda plaintive frown upon her forehead; she was pale and looked unhappy andmore than usually inefficient, and her eyes wandered more vaguely thanever from point to point.
"Poor thing!" Mrs. Thornbury exclaimed. She told them that for somedays Hughling Elliot had been ill, and the only doctor available was thebrother of the proprietor, or so the proprietor said, whose right to thetitle of doctor was not above suspicion.
"I know how wretched it is to be ill in a hotel," Mrs. Thornburyremarked, once more leading the way with Rachel to the garden. "I spentsix weeks on my honeymoon in having typhoid at Venice," she continued."But even so, I look back upon them as some of the happiest weeks in mylife. Ah, yes," she said, taking Rachel's arm, "you think yourself happynow, but it's nothing to the happiness that comes afterwards. And Iassure you I could find it in my heart to envy you young people! You'vea much better time than we had, I may tell you. When I look back uponit, I can hardly believe how things have changed. When we were engagedI wasn't allowed to go for walks with William alone--some one had alwaysto be in the room with us--I really believe I had to show my parents allhis letters!--though they were very fond of him too. Indeed, I may saythey looked upon him as their own son. It amuses me," she continued,"to think how strict they were to us, when I see how they spoil theirgrand-children!"
The table was laid under the tree again, and taking her place beforethe teacups, Mrs. Thornbury beckoned and nodded until she had collectedquite a number of people, Susan and Arthur and Mr. Pepper, who werestrolling about, waiting for the tournament to begin. A murmuring tree,a river brimming in the moonlight, Terence's words came back to Rachelas she sat drinking the tea and listening to the words which flowed onso lightly, so kindly, and with such silvery smoothness. This long lifeand all these children had left her very smooth; they seemed to haverubbed away the marks of individuality, and to have left only what wasold and maternal.
"And the things you young people are going to see!" Mrs. Thornburycontinued. She included them all in her forecast, she included them allin her maternity, although the party comprised William Pepper and MissAllan, both of whom might have been supposed to have seen a fair shareof the panorama. "When I see how the world has changed in my lifetime,"she went on, "I can set no limit to what may happen in the next fiftyyears. Ah, no, Mr. Pepper, I don't agree with you in the least," shelaughed, interrupting his gloomy remark about things going steadily frombad to worse. "I know I ought to feel that, but I don't, I'm afraid.They're going to be much better people than we were. Surely everythinggoes to prove that. All round me I see women, young women, women withhousehold cares of every sort, going out and doing things that we shouldnot have thought it possible to do."
Mr. Pepper thought her sentimental and irrational like all old women,but her manner of treating him as if he were a cross old baby baffledhim and charmed him, and he could only reply to her with a curiousgrimace which was more a smile than a frown.
"And they remain women," Mrs. Thornbury added. "They give a great dealto their children."
As she said this she smiled slightly in the direction of Susan andRachel. They did not like to be included in the same lot, but they bothsmiled a little self-consciously, and Arthur and Terence glanced ateach other too. She made them feel that they were all in the same boattogether, and they looked at the women they were going to marry andcompared them. It was inexplicable how any one could wish to marryRachel, incredible that any one should be ready to spend his life withSusan; but singular though the other's taste must be, they bore eachother no ill-will on account of it; indeed, they liked each other ratherthe better for the eccentricity of their choice.
"I really must congratulate you," Susan remarked, as she leant acrossthe table for the jam.
There seemed to be no foundation for St. John's gossip about Arthur andSusan. Sunburnt and vigorous they sat side by side, with their racquetsacross their knees, not saying much but smiling slightly all the time.Through the thin white clothes which they wore, it was possible tosee the lines of their bodies and legs, the beautiful curves of theirmuscles, his leanness and her flesh, and it was natural to think of thefirm-fleshed sturdy children that would be theirs. Their faces had toolittle shape in them to be beautiful, but they had clear eyes and anappearance of great health and power of endurance, for it seemed as ifthe blood would never cease to run in his veins, or to lie deeply andcalmly in her cheeks. Their eyes at the present moment were brighterthan usual, and wore the peculiar expression of pleasure andself-confidence which is seen in the eyes of athletes, for they had beenplaying tennis, and they were both first-rate at the game.
Evelyn had not spoken, but she had been looking from Susan to Rachel.Well--they had both made up their minds very easily, they had done in avery few weeks what it sometimes seemed to her that she would never beable to do. Although they were so different, she thought that she couldsee in each the same look of satisfaction and completion, the samecalmness of manner, and the same slowness of movement. It was thatslowness, that confidence, that content which she hated, she thought toherself. They moved so slowly because they were not single but double,and Susan was attached to Arthur, and Rachel to Terence, and for thesake of this one man they had renounced all other men, and movement, andthe real things of life. Love was all very well, and those snug domestichouses, with the kitchen below and the nursery above, which were sosecluded and self-contained, like little islands in the torrents of theworld; but the real things were surely the things that happened, thecauses, the wars, the ideals, which happened in the great world outside,and went so independently of these women, turning so quietly andbeautifully towards the men. She looked at them sharply. Of coursethey were happy and content, but there must be better things than that.Surely one could get nearer to life, one could get more out of life,one could enjoy more and feel more than they would ever do. Rachel inparticular looked so young--what could she know of life? She becamerestless, and getting up, crossed over to sit beside Rachel. Shereminded her that she had promised to join her club.
"The bother is," she went on, "that I mayn't be able to start workseriously till October. I've just had a letter from a friend of minewhose brother is in busine
ss in Moscow. They want me to stay with them,and as they're in the thick of all the conspiracies and anarchists, I'vea good mind to stop on my way home. It sounds too thrilling." She wantedto make Rachel see how thrilling it was. "My friend knows a girl offifteen who's been sent to Siberia for life merely because they caughther addressing a letter to an anarchist. And the letter wasn't from her,either. I'd give all I have in the world to help on a revolution againstthe Russian government, and it's bound to come."
She looked from Rachel to Terence. They were both a little touched bythe sight of her remembering how lately they had been listening to evilwords about her, and Terence asked her what her scheme was, and sheexplained that she was going to found a club--a club for doing things,really doing them. She became very animated, as she talked on and on,for she professed herself certain that if once twenty people--no, tenwould be enough if they were keen--set about doing things instead oftalking about doing them, they could abolish almost every evil thatexists. It was brains that were needed. If only people with brains--ofcourse they would want a room, a nice room, in Bloomsbury preferably,where they could meet once a week. . . .
As she talked Terence could see the traces of fading youth in her face,the lines that were being drawn by talk and excitement round her mouthand eyes, but he did not pity her; looking into those bright, ratherhard, and very courageous eyes, he saw that she did not pity herself,or feel any desire to exchange her own life for the more refined andorderly lives of people like himself and St. John, although, as theyears went by, the fight would become harder and harder. Perhaps,though, she would settle down; perhaps, after all, she would marryPerrott. While his mind was half occupied with what she was saying,he thought of her probable destiny, the light clouds of tobacco smokeserving to obscure his face from her eyes.
Terence smoked and Arthur smoked and Evelyn smoked, so that the air wasfull of the mist and fragrance of good tobacco. In the intervals whenno one spoke, they heard far off the low murmur of the sea, as the wavesquietly broke and spread the beach with a film of water, and withdrew tobreak again. The cool green light fell through the leaves of the tree,and there were soft crescents and diamonds of sunshine upon the platesand the tablecloth. Mrs. Thornbury, after watching them all for a timein silence, began to ask Rachel kindly questions--When did they allgo back? Oh, they expected her father. She must want to see herfather--there would be a great deal to tell him, and (she lookedsympathetically at Terence) he would be so happy, she felt sure. Yearsago, she continued, it might have been ten or twenty years ago, sheremembered meeting Mr. Vinrace at a party, and, being so much struckby his face, which was so unlike the ordinary face one sees at a party,that she had asked who he was, and she was told that it was Mr. Vinrace,and she had always remembered the name,--an uncommon name,--and he hada lady with him, a very sweet-looking woman, but it was one of thosedreadful London crushes, where you don't talk,--you only look at eachother,--and although she had shaken hands with Mr. Vinrace, she didn'tthink they had said anything. She sighed very slightly, remembering thepast.
Then she turned to Mr. Pepper, who had become very dependent on her,so that he always chose a seat near her, and attended to what she wassaying, although he did not often make any remark of his own.
"You who know everything, Mr. Pepper," she said, "tell us how did thosewonderful French ladies manage their salons? Did we ever do anything ofthe same kind in England, or do you think that there is some reason whywe cannot do it in England?"
Mr. Pepper was pleased to explain very accurately why there has neverbeen an English salon. There were three reasons, and they were verygood ones, he said. As for himself, when he went to a party, as one wassometimes obliged to, from a wish not to give offence--his niece, forexample, had been married the other day--he walked into the middle ofthe room, said "Ha! ha!" as loud as ever he could, considered that hehad done his duty, and walked away again. Mrs. Thornbury protested. Shewas going to give a party directly she got back, and they were all to beinvited, and she should set people to watch Mr. Pepper, and if sheheard that he had been caught saying "Ha! ha!" she would--she would dosomething very dreadful indeed to him. Arthur Venning suggested thatwhat she must do was to rig up something in the nature of a surprise--aportrait, for example, of a nice old lady in a lace cap, concealing abath of cold water, which at a signal could be sprung on Pepper's head;or they'd have a chair which shot him twenty feet high directly he saton it.
Susan laughed. She had done her tea; she was feeling very wellcontented, partly because she had been playing tennis brilliantly, andthen every one was so nice; she was beginning to find it so much easierto talk, and to hold her own even with quite clever people, for somehowclever people did not frighten her any more. Even Mr. Hirst, whom shehad disliked when she first met him, really wasn't disagreeable; and,poor man, he always looked so ill; perhaps he was in love; perhaps hehad been in love with Rachel--she really shouldn't wonder; or perhaps itwas Evelyn--she was of course very attractive to men. Leaning forward,she went on with the conversation. She said that she thought that thereason why parties were so dull was mainly because gentlemen will notdress: even in London, she stated, it struck her very much how peopledon't think it necessary to dress in the evening, and of course if theydon't dress in London they won't dress in the country. It was reallyquite a treat at Christmas-time when there were the Hunt balls, and thegentlemen wore nice red coats, but Arthur didn't care for dancing, soshe supposed that they wouldn't go even to the ball in their littlecountry town. She didn't think that people who were fond of one sportoften care for another, although her father was an exception. But thenhe was an exception in every way--such a gardener, and he knew all aboutbirds and animals, and of course he was simply adored by all the oldwomen in the village, and at the same time what he really liked best wasa book. You always knew where to find him if he were wanted; he would bein his study with a book. Very likely it would be an old, old book, somefusty old thing that no one else would dream of reading. She used totell him that he would have made a first-rate old bookworm if only hehadn't had a family of six to support, and six children, she added,charmingly confident of universal sympathy, didn't leave one much timefor being a bookworm.
Still talking about her father, of whom she was very proud, she rose,for Arthur upon looking at his watch found that it was time they wentback again to the tennis court. The others did not move.
"They're very happy!" said Mrs. Thornbury, looking benignantly afterthem. Rachel agreed; they seemed to be so certain of themselves; theyseemed to know exactly what they wanted.
"D'you think they _are_ happy?" Evelyn murmured to Terence in anundertone, and she hoped that he would say that he did not think themhappy; but, instead, he said that they must go too--go home, for theywere always being late for meals, and Mrs. Ambrose, who was very sternand particular, didn't like that. Evelyn laid hold of Rachel's skirt andprotested. Why should they go? It was still early, and she had so manythings to say to them. "No," said Terence, "we must go, because we walkso slowly. We stop and look at things, and we talk."
"What d'you talk about?" Evelyn enquired, upon which he laughed and saidthat they talked about everything.
Mrs. Thornbury went with them to the gate, trailing very slowly andgracefully across the grass and the gravel, and talking all the timeabout flowers and birds. She told them that she had taken up the studyof botany since her daughter married, and it was wonderful what a numberof flowers there were which she had never seen, although she had livedin the country all her life and she was now seventy-two. It was a goodthing to have some occupation which was quite independent of otherpeople, she said, when one got old. But the odd thing was that one neverfelt old. She always felt that she was twenty-five, not a day more or aday less, but, of course, one couldn't expect other people to agree tothat.
"It must be very wonderful to be twenty-five, and not merely to imaginethat you're twenty-five," she said, looking from one to the other withher smooth, bright glance. "It must be very wonderful, very wonderfulinde
ed." She stood talking to them at the gate for a long time; sheseemed reluctant that they should go.