CHAPTER IV
MARCH 13th: BRETON'S TIGER
"If I'd had the power not to be born, I would certainly not have accepted existence upon conditions that are such a mockery. But I still have the power to die, though the days I give back are numbered. It's no great power, it's no great mutiny."--DOSTOEVSKY.
I
Christopher's knowledge of Rachel, long and intimate though it had been,had never made him sure of her. In his relations with his fellow-men heproceeded on the broad lines that best suited, he felt, anyinvestigation of his own character. Broad lines, however, did not catchthat subtle spirit that was Rachel; he had been baffled again and againby some fierceness or sudden wildness in her, and had often been heldfrom approaching her lest by something too impetuous or ill-consideredhe should drive her from him altogether. He had been aware that, sinceher marriage, she had been gradually slipping from him, and this hadmade him, during the last year, the more careful how he approached her.He loved her the more in that something that was part of her was strangeand mysterious to him; the idealist and the poet concealed in him behindhis frank worldliness cherished her aloofness. She was precious to himbecause nothing else in this life had quite her unexpected beauty.
Since that afternoon when the Duchess had paid her visit to Roddy hewished many times that he were a cleverer man. He felt that somethingmust instantly be done, but he felt, too, that one false step on hispart would plunge them all into the most tragical catastrophe.
He was baffled by his own ignorance as to the real truth; neither Bretonnor Rachel had taken him into their confidence. He could not say how anyof them could be expected to act, and yet he knew that something mustbe done at once. He saw Rachel through it all, like a strange darkflower, mysterious, shining, with her colour, beyond his grasp, but sobeautiful, so poignant! She had never appealed to him as now, in theheart of some danger that he could not define she eluded him and yetdemanded his help.
After much puzzled thinking he decided that it must be Breton whom hehad best approach, and so he wrote and asked him to come and dinequietly with him in Harley Street on the evening of March 13th. Bretonaccepted if he might be released at nine-thirty, as he had then anotherappointment.
"Can't stand a whole evening," thought Christopher, "thinks I want tobully him. Well, perhaps I do!"
He was detained to a late hour on that afternoon by a patient in HalkinStreet and it was after seven when he started home, driving throughPiccadilly and Bond Street.
It had been an afternoon of intense closeness, and now as evening camedown upon the town the thick curtain of grey that had been hanging allday overhead seemed, with a clanking and jolting, one might imagine, soheavy and brazen was its aspect, to fall lower above the dim greystreets. The lights were out, swinging pale and distended down thelength of Piccadilly, and already the carriages were pressing in a longrow towards the restaurants; boys were crying the latest editions withthe war news and upon all those ears their cries now fell drearily,monotonously, for so long had the town been filled with details ofescape, folly, death, ignominy, that it was tired and weary of any voiceor cry that concerned itself with War....
Christopher, waiting impatiently for his carriage to move on, thought ofBrun; this oppressive, stifling evening seemed to call, in some mannertoo subtle for Christopher's powers of expression, the houses, thestreets, the lamps, the very railings into some life of their own. Underthe iron sky that surely with every minute dropped lower upon theoppressed town the clubs opposite the Green Park raised their hoodedeyes and stirred ever so little above the people, and the twistedchimneys watched and whispered, as the trail of carriages wound,drearily, into the misty distance. Christopher was not an imaginativeman, but he thought that he had never known London so evilly perceptive.
It grew hotter and hotter, but with a heat that made the body perspireand yet left it cold. A dim yellow colour, that seemed to herald a fogthat had not made up its mind whether it would appear or no, hung atstreet corners. Figures seemed furtive in the half-light and,instinctively, voices were lowered as though some sudden sound wouldexplode the air like a match in a gas-filled room. A bell began to ringand startled everyone....
"There'll be an awful thunderstorm soon," thought Christopher. "I'venever known things so heavy. Everyone's nerves will be on the stretchto-night. Why, one might fancy anything." His own brain would not work.He had just left a case that had needed all his sharpest attention, buthe had found that it was only with the utmost difficulty that he couldkeep his mind alert, and now when he wanted to think about Breton he wascontinually arrested by some sense of apprehension, so that he had tostop himself from crying out to his driver, "Look out! Take care!There's someone there."
When he got to his house he found that his forehead was covered withperspiration and that he could scarcely breathe. Meanwhile he haddecided nothing as to the course he would pursue with Breton. When hehad dressed and come down he found that Breton was waiting for him.
"How ill he looks!" was Christopher's first thought. Perhaps Breton alsowas oppressed by the weather and indeed in the house, although thewindows were open, it was stifling enough.
"No, the man's in pieces." Christopher's look was sharp. He had neverseen Breton, who was naturally neat and a little vain about hisappearance, so dishevelled. His beard was untrimmed, his eyes bloodshot,his hair unbrushed, his face white and drawn and his mouth seemed, inthat light, to be trembling.
"Good heavens, man," said Christopher, "what _have_ you been doing toyourself?"
Breton smiled feebly--"Oh, nothing. Don't badger me--I can't stand it."
"Badger you? Who's going to badger you? only----" Christopher broke off,looked at him a moment, then put his hand on the other's shoulder.
"Look here, old man, why have you left me alone all these weeks?"
"Haven't felt like seeing anybody."
"Well, you might have felt like seeing me. I've missed you. I haven'tgot so many friends that I can spare, so easily, my best one."
"Oh, rot, Chris," Breton said almost angrily. "You know it's only thekind of interest you've got in all lame dogs that ties you to me atall."
"You're an ungrateful sort of fellow, Frank. But no matter--I'm fond ofyou in spite of your ingratitude. Come in to dinner and see whether youcan eat anything on this stifling night." It _was_ stifling, butoppressive with something more than the mere physical discomfort of it.It was a night that worked havoc with the nerves, so that Christopher,who had naturally a vast deal of common sense, found himself glancinground his shoulder, irritated at the least noise that his servant made,expecting always to hear a knock on the door.
Breton contributed very little to the conversation during dinner. He atealmost nothing, drank only water, looked about him restlessly, mutteredsomething about its being strangely close for March, crumbled up hisbread into little heaps.
When they were back in Christopher's smoking-room Breton collapsed intoa deep chair, lay there, staring desperately about him, then, with ajerk, pulled himself up and began to stride the room, swinging his arm,then pulling at his beard, crying out at last, "My God! it's stifling.Christopher--I must go out. I can't stand this. It's beyond my bearing."
Christopher made him sit down again and then, feeling that he could notmore surely hold the man than by plunging at once into what was, in allprobability, the heart of his trouble, said:
"Look here, Frank, I said I wouldn't badger you and I won't, but there'ssomething about which I must speak to you. You must tell me the truth.There's more involved than just ourselves."
Breton seemed instantly aware of Christopher's meaning. He sat up. "Iknew," he said, "that I was in for a lecture. Well, it can't make anydifference."
"No," Christopher answered brusquely. "Whether it makes any differenceto you or no you've _got_ to listen, Frank. It's simply this. I happenedto hear, a good time ago, that you had met Rachel. I knew that she hadbeen to your rooms. I knew that you had corresponded. I should dismissthat man-servan
t of yours, Frank."
Breton muttered something.
"You might have told me yourself, Frank. You might, both of you, havetold me. But never mind--it's all too late for that now. The point isthat it was your grandmother that told me."
"My God!" Breton cried. "She knows? She knew.... But there was nothing_to_ know. There was nothing anyone mightn't have known. If anyone daresto breathe a syllable against one of the purest, noblest ..."
"Yes, yes. I know all that," Christopher answered. "But the thing issimply this. I don't know--she doesn't know exactly what the truth isbetween you and Rachel. All that she does know is that Rachel went tosee you and wrote to you. Now Roddy Seddon isn't--or wasn't aware thathis wife had ever met you. He holds the more or less traditional familypoint of view about you. I believe that, two or three days ago, theDuchess told him about Rachel's visits. I am not sure of this. I hopethat by now Rachel herself has told her husband. But of that also I'mnot sure. All I know is that it's our duty--your duty and my duty tosave Rachel all the unhappiness we can, and still more to save Roddy.Remember the position he's in."
Breton sprang to his feet. "Look here, Chris, I should have told you ofall this long ago. I didn't know that you had heard. I wish to God I hadspoken to you. But as Heaven is my witness, Rachel is a saint. I'm amiserable cur--a misery to myself and a misery to everyone else. Butshe----"
"You've been fools, the couple of you," he answered sternly. "It's nouse cursing now. I won't go and urge Rachel to tell Roddy--she must dothat of her own free will--All our hands are tied. It depends upon thesteps that Roddy takes, and after all the old lady may never have toldhim. But I've warned you, Frank. It's up to you to do the right thing."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Breton.
"I don't know what you can do. You must see for yourself--only, Frank,"here Christopher's voice became softer, "by all our old friendship andby any affection that you may have left for me, I do conjure you to playfair by Rachel and her husband. Rachel is very, very young. Roddy ishelpless----"
"That's enough," Breton cried. "My God, Christopher, of you couldrealize the weeks I've been having you wouldn't think, perhaps, so badlyof me. It's been more, I swear, than any mortal flesh can endure. I'mdriven, driven--I'm at the end.... But she's safe from me, safe now andsafe forever. And that now that old woman should step in--now."
Christopher came and again put his arm on Breton's shoulder and heldhim up, it might seem, with more than physical strength.
His affection for Breton was an affection sprung from his very knowledgeof the man's weaknesses. He had in him that British quality of ruthlesscondemnation for the sinner whom he did not know and sentimentalweakness for the sinner whom he did. He had seen Francis Breton througha thousand scrapes, he would see him, doubtless, through a thousandmore.
"We'll say no more now, old boy--You look done up--I won't worry you,but if you want me here I am and I promise not to lecture. Only you oweme some confidence, you do indeed."
Breton got up and stood there, with his hand pressed tohis forehead. "What you've told me," he said. "I must dosomething ... something ... it's all been my fault. If they shouldtouch her----"
Then, turning to Christopher, he said: "You _are_ the only friend I'vegot, and I know it. I do value it--only lately I've been going to bitsagain. If it weren't for you and little Miss Rand I swear I'd have gonealtogether. You _are_ a brick, Christopher. Another day I'll come to youand tell you everything. To-night I'm simply past talking."
A servant came in and gave Christopher a note. It was from Lord Johnsaying that he was anxious about his mother and asking the doctorwhether he could possibly come round and see her.
Breton then said that he must go. He went, promising that he would sooncome again. When he had left the house Christopher stood, perplexed,wondering whether he should have left him alone. Then he put on his hatand coat and set off for 104 Portland Place.
II
Breton had, indeed, no destination. He had been frightened of a wholeevening with Christopher.
He was frightened of everything, of everybody--above all, of himself. Hefound himself, with a sense of surprise, as though he were the helplessactor in some bad dream, standing in Oxford Circus. Surely it _was_ adream.
The sky, grey and lowering, was yet tinged with a smoky red. He had anoverpowering sense of the minuteness of humanity, so that the crowdscrossing and recrossing the Circus seemed like tiny animals crawlingover the surface of a pond from which the water had been drained.
His old fancy of the waterways came back to him and now he thought thatOxford Circus, often a maelstrom of tossing, whirling humanity, had rundry and lay stagnant, filled with dying life, beneath the red-tingedsky.
Ever lower and lower that sky seemed to fall. Theatres, restaurants onthat evening were almost deserted. People stood about in groups, sayingthat soon the thunder would be upon them, wondering at this weather inMarch, watching, with curious eyes, the sky.
Breton was near madness that evening. He was near madness to thisextent, that he was not certain of reality. Were those lamp-posts real?What was the meaning of those strange high buildings in whose heartthere burnt so sinister a light? He watched them expecting that at anymoment these would burst into flame and with a screaming rattling flarego tossing to the sky.
Near him a girl said, "All right--of course it ain't of no moment what Imight happen to pre-fere--Oh, no!"
A mild young man answered her: "Well, if yer want ter go to the Oxfordwhy not say so? _That's_ what I say. Why not say so 'stead of 'angin'about----"
"Oh! 'angin' about! Say that again and off I go. 'Angin' about! I'd liketo know----"
"I didn't say anythink about your 'angin' about. Yer catch a feller upso quickly, Bertha. What I mean to say----"
"Oh! yer and yer meanin's. Don't know what yer _do_ mean, if the truthwere known. 'Ere's a pleasant way of spendin' an evenin'----"
Breton regarded them with curiosity. Were they real? Did they feel thestrange oppression of this lowering sky as strongly as he did? Were theyuncertain as to whether these buildings were alive or no? Perhaps theycould tell him whether those omnibuses that came lumbering so heavily upRegent Street were safe and secure.
Oddly enough, although he tried, he could not remember exactly what itwas that Christopher had told him. Something, of course, to do with hisgrandmother. Everything was to do with her.... She was the one who wasdriving him to destruction. Always she was stepping forward, sending himdown when he was climbing up, at last, to safety, always it was she whostood behind him, on the watch lest some happiness or success shouldcome his way.
He felt as though he would like to go and force his way into 104Portland Place and face the woman and tell her what she had done to him.Yes, that would be a fine thing--to see all those Beaminster relationsgathering round, protesting, frightened.
And then it occurred to him that he really did not know the way toPortland Place. Things were so strange to-night. He knew that it wasclose at hand, but he was afraid that he would never find it. He wasreally afraid that he would never find it.
Some man jostled into him, apologized and moved away. The contactcleared his brain, asserted the reality of the buildings, the crowds,the cabs and carriages. He pulled himself together and began slowly towalk down Oxford Street in the direction of Tottenham Court Road.
He remembered very clearly and distinctly what it was that Christopherhad told him. Rachel was in danger because her husband had heard of herfriendship with him, Breton....
It would not have been Francis Breton if he had not taken this piece ofnews and looked at it in its most sensational colours. He had, throughall these last weeks, been striving to accustom himself to the agony ofenduring life without her. He dimly perceived that it was the emptinessof life rather than any actual loss of any particular person that was soterrible to him. He had still, very fine and beautiful, his memory ofthe day when she had come to him in his rooms, and had that day beenfollowed by a secret relationship betwee
n them and many hours spenttogether, then his passion would have been very genuine and moving.
But, after all, she had flashed into his life, and then flashedout of it again, and, so swiftly with him did moods follow one uponanother, and ideals and ambitions and despairs and glories jostletogether in his brain, that she might have remained, very happily raisedto a fine altar in his temple, very distantly recognized as a beautifulepisode now closed and contemplated only from a worshipping distance,had any other figure or incident definitely occupied his attention.
But no figure, no incident had arrived. He had had, during all theseweeks, no drama into which he might fling his fine feelings, his greatambitions, his glorious sacrifices. Of genuine sincerity were thesemoods of his--he had never stood sufficiently beyond himself to arriveat any definite insincerity about any of his movements or impulses--butof all things in the world he could not endure that his life should beempty, and empty now it had been for, as it seemed to his swiftimpatience, a long, long time.
Christopher's news did touch him very deeply. He would instantly havesacrificed his life, his honour, anything at all, for Rachel, and thefact that he would enjoy the drama of that sacrifice did not rob it ofany atom of its sincerity.
But the pity of it was that he really did not see what he could do. Hadhe been able, here and now, to rush into the Portland Place house andseize his grandmother by the throat and shake her, or had it beenpossible to appear before Roddy Seddon, to declare himself the onlyculprit, to proclaim that he was ready for any condemnation, anypunishment, then, in spite of all his unhappiness, he would be now ahappy man, but, alas, the only possible action was to pause, to see whathappened, to wait--and waiting it was that sent him mad.
One action indeed _was_ possible and that was that he should put a closeto his wretched existence. On this close and sterile night such anaction did not appear at all absurd. It had fine elements about it, itwould deal a sure blow at his grandmother and all that family who hadtreated him so basely. What a headline for the papers! "Suicide ofmember of one of England's noblest families!" Rachel should be, nolonger, annoyed with his unfortunate presence: he would make it, ofcourse, quite obvious that she had had nothing to do with his sad end.
He looked about him, with an air of fine melancholy, at the passers-by.Little they knew of the terrible tragedy that was even now preparing intheir midst!
He felt almost happy again as he turned this solution over and overagain. Some people would be sorry--Christopher, Lizzie Rand, and Rachel:above all, it must be heavy upon the consciences of the Duchess and herwretched children. They had driven him to his death and must bear theblame to the grave and beyond.
Very faintly the rolling of thunder could be heard as the stormapproached the town.
He was standing outside the Oxford Music Hall, and he thought that hewould go inside for a little time that he might avoid the rain ... andthen upon that followed the reflection that it did not matter whether hewas wet or no--he would soon be dead.
Faintly behind these gloomy resolves some voice seemed to tell him thatif he could only pass safely through this night fortune would again bekind to him. "Wait," something told him. "Be patient for once in yourlife".... But no, to wait any more was impossible. Some fine action,some splendid defiance or heroic defence, here and now ... otherwise hewould show the world that he had courage, at least, to die. Most of hisimpetuous follies had their origin in his conviction that the eyes ofthe world were always upon him.
He paid his money and walked into the circle promenade. Behind him was abar at which several stout gentlemen and ladies were happilyconversational. In front of him a crowd of men and women leaned forwardover the back of the circle and listened to the entertainment.
On the stage, in a circle of brilliant light, a thin man with amelancholy face, a top hat and pepper-and-salt trousers was singing--
"Straike me pink and straike me blue, Straike me purple and crimson too I'll be there, Lottie dear, Down by the old Canteen."
"Now," said the gentleman, "once more. Let's 'ave it--all together."
There was a moment's pause, then the orchestra began very softly and, ina kind of ecstasy the crowd sang--
"Straike me pink and straike me blue, Straike me purple and crimson too," etc.
Breton sat down on a little velvet seat near the bar and gloomily lookedabout him. Did they only realize, these people, the tragedy that was soclose to them, then would they very swiftly cease their silly singing.The place was hot, infernally hot. It glowed with light, it crackledwith noise, it was possessed with a glaring unreality. It occurred tohim that to make a leap upon the railing at the back of the circle, tostand for one instant balanced there before the frightened people, thento plunge, down, down, into the stalls--that would be a striking finish!How they would all scream, and run and scatter! ... yes ...
Against the clinking and chatter of the bar he would hear the voice ofthe funny man: "And so I says to 'er, 'Maria, if you're tryin' to proveto me that it's two in the mornin', then I says what I want to know isoo's been 'elpin' yer to stay awake all this time? That's what....'"
It was then that, in spite of himself, he was drawn from his moodythoughts by the eyes of the girl standing near the bar against the wall.She was a small, timid, rather pale girl in a huge black hat. She wore along trailing purple dress and soiled white gloves, and was looking,just now, unhappy and frightened.
He had noticed her because of the contrast that her white face and smallbody made with her grand untidy clothes, but, looking at her moreclosely, he saw something about her that stirred all his sympathy andprotection.
Like most Englishmen he was at heart an eager sentimentalist and he was,just now, in a mood that responded instantly to anyone in distress.
He forgot for the moment his desperate plans of self-destruction. A fatred-faced man came from the bar towards her, with two drinks; he washimself very unsteady and uncertain in his movements and his smile wasboth vacuous and full of purpose. He lurched towards her, put his handupon her shoulder to steady himself, then, as one of the glassesspilled, cursed.
She refused the drink, but he continued to press it upon her. His fathand wandered about her neck, stroked her chin, and he was leaning nowso that his face almost touched hers.
Breton heard him say--
"Well, if you won't drink--damme--come along, my dear--let's be goin'."She shook her head, her eyes growing larger and larger.
"Nonshensh," he said. "Darn nonshensh." She glanced about herdesperately, but no one, save Breton, was watching them. She caught hiseyes, pitifully, eagerly.
The man put his arm about her and tried to draw her from the wall.
"Come," he said. "We'll go home."
She drew away. He pulled at her hand. "Damn the O----Place. Wash thematter? You got to come."
Then he seized her by the arm, and, still lurching from side to side,began to move away.
"No, no," she whispered, obviously terrified of a scene, but using allher strength to resist. Her eyes again met Breton's.
"That lady," he said, advancing to the stout gentleman, "is a friend ofmine."
The man looked at him with an expression astonished, simply and ratherpuzzled.
"Wash--wash...?" he said.
"You'll be so good as to leave that lady alone."
"Well, I'm b----well damned. Oh! gosh." The stout gentlemancontemplated him with furious amazement.
"'Oo the b----'ell I'd like to know? Get out or I'll kick yer out."
The quarrel had by now gathered its crowd.
The stout gentleman, lurching forward, aimed a blow at Breton whichmissed him.
"Let her alone, do you hear?" cried Breton.
The stout gentleman, amazed, apparently, at a world that defied all theprobabilities, turned, caught the girl by the body and, dragging herwith him, pushed past his opponent.
Breton seized him by the waist, turned him round so that, with a littlepuzzled gasp, he half fe
ll, half sat upon the cushioned seat against thewall.
Then Breton offered the girl his arm and walked away with her, consciousthat an attendant had arrived rather late upon the scene and was nowabusing the stout gentleman, whilst a sympathetic little crowd listenedand advised.
He walked down the stairs with the girl. "That _was_ decent of you," shesaid. "Most awfully----"
Beyond the doors the world was a hissing, spurting deluge of rain.
A cab was called and she climbed into it.
"What about coming back?" she said. He shook his head.
"Not to-night. You have a good rest. That's what you want."
"Well, I _am_ done. Meet 'nother night p'raps----"
"I hope so," he said politely. He raised his hat and the cab splashedaway.
"Another cab, sir?" said the commissionaire.
"No, thanks," said Breton, and plunged out into the rain. The air wasfresh and cool. Streams of water danced and spurted on the gleamingpavements.
Breton walked along. The little adventure had swept completely from hismind his earlier desperate decisions.
There were still things for him to do! Poor little girl ... he was gladthat he had been there! What a fool he had been all these weeks, sittingthere, letting himself go to pieces because the world had gone badly!What sort of a creature was he? Well, he was some good yet. Just onetwist of the hand and that man had gone down ... Yes, she wasgrateful.... Her eyes had shone.
And what of the candles, his business? Why had he allowed that to dropwhen he had made, already, so good a start? He would be in the Cityearly to-morrow. Business was humming just now.
And Rachel? Rachel!
Let him be content to have her as his ideal, his fine beacon to lighthim on, to hold him to his work and do the best that was in him!
After all, things were for the best. They would always have their finememories, one of the other. Nothing to spoil that idyll.
He arrived, soaked to the very skin, at his door. "Funny," he thought,"how that thunder depresses one. I've been moody for weeks. Air's everso much clearer now. God, didn't that old beast tumble?--Poor littlegirl--she _was_ grateful though!"
Then as he opened the door, he remembered what Christopher had, thatevening, told him.
"To-morrow," he said to himself, in a fine glow of hope and confidence,"to-morrow I'll get to work and soon stop that wicked old woman's mouth.Rachel--God bless her--I'll show her what I'm like...."
He climbed the dark stairs as though he were storming a town.