CHAPTER V
MARCH 13th: RACHEL'S HEART
"When God smote His hands together, and struck out the soul at a spark, Into the organized glory of things, from drops of the dark,-- Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form, As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little ground-worm? 'I have sinned,' she said."
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
I
Meanwhile Rachel had not spoken to Roddy. Bad though the months had beensince that terrible afternoon at Seddon these days that followed theDuchess's visit were the worst that she had ever known.
During the weeks that immediately followed Roddy's accident she wasallowed no line for thought. She discovered--and she never forgot thesharpness of the discovery--that she was the poorest of nurses.Everything that she did was clumsily and slowly done; she watched LizzieRand with admiration and wonder. Dimly through the absorption that heldher, thoughts of Francis Breton pierced, but always to be instantlydismissed.
Before her was simply the amazing, incredible fact that Roddy, the mostactive, the most vigorous of human beings, would never stand upon hisfeet again. She could see nothing but Roddy, and no service, nosacrifice, was too stern or too difficult. Meanwhile subtly, almostunconsciously, she was influenced by Lizzie Rand. It was not strange toher that Lizzie should have changed so swiftly from hatred to friendshipand affection. Rachel was passionate enough herself to understand that awoman will go, instantly, to the person who needs her most, even thoughshe has hated that same person five minutes before. No, the thing thatwas wonderful to her was that Lizzie Rand should combine such feelingwith such discipline.
To watch her as she moved about Roddy's rooms was to deny to her thepossibility of emotion, of anything that could disturb that efficiency.And yet Rachel knew ... she had seen depths of feeling in Lizzie thatmade her own desires and regrets small and puny things.
But it did not need Lizzie's power to abase Rachel before Roddy. Itwould have been enough for her to have remembered what her thoughts andintentions had been on that day to have brought her on her knees to beghis pardon, but when she saw the fashion in which he bore his sentence,his endurance, his stubborn will beating down any temptation to despair,she recognized that it was very little of Roddy that she had knownbefore this crisis.
Then as the weeks passed and the world settled into this new shape andform, thoughts of Francis Breton returned to her. She had written to himsoon after the accident, but that was for herself, that she might clearher mind of anything except her husband, rather than for Breton. She hadconsidered him whilst she wrote that letter, had seen him as someone inher old, old life, someone who had stirred her then but possessed now nopower to move her. She wanted him to be happy, but wished never to seehim again; once, long ago, there had been a scene in a room and she hadbeen carried up to strange and dangerous heights and the world hadtossed and stormed about her--but oh! how long ago that was! How youngershe had been then!
But, as the weeks passed, that scene drew closer to her and life creptback into its heart. Sometimes, when Roddy was sleeping and she wassitting there beside him, and, about her, the house slumbered and thevery birds were still, her heart would beat, beat thickly, her cheekswould flush, and she would remember that, had it not been for a horsethat stumbled, she might be now far away, leading a life that might betragedy, but that was, at any rate, Life!
She would beat the thought down--she would tell herself what, now, fromthis distance, she knew to be true, that she would not have been happyhad she gone with Breton. She remembered that even at that suprememoment in Breton's rooms when he had kissed her for the first time herswift thought had been "Poor Roddy!" She knew, with an older wisdom thanshe had possessed two months ago, that Breton on his side would not haveheld her any more than Roddy, in his so different fashion, could holdher now. Was she to be always thus, wanting something that was not hers?
During the weeks that had immediately followed the accident she hadthought that, at last, love for Roddy had really come to her. Then, asthe days threaded their way, she knew that it was not so. He was more toher, much more to her, helpless and courageous, than he could ever havebeen under the old conditions.
But it was not passion--it was care, affection, even love; she lovedhim, yes, but she was not in love with him. He held all of her save thatone part that Breton alone, of all human beings, had called out of her.
But she had learnt discipline during these weeks--down, down she droverebellion, memory. She was Roddy's--she had dedicated her life to hishappiness.
Then they came to London, Lizzie returned to her mother and to LadyAdela, and Rachel was alone. Life was again very difficult for her.Roddy was wonderfully cheerful, but Rachel found that she could not dovery much for him. He liked to have her there, but she knew that many ofhis friends who could tell him the town gossip, the latest from clubs,the hunting and racing chatter entertained him more than she did. Shehad not, since her marriage, made many friends and she knew that almosteveryone who came to their little house came for Roddy's sake ratherthan for hers. She did not mind that--she was glad that he washappy ... but she wished that he needed her a little more. Roddy urgedher to drive, to see people, to dine and go to the theatre. She wentbecause she saw that it disturbed him if he felt that she stayed indoorsfor his sake, but she did not enjoy her gaiety. When she was out shewished to hurry back to him and then, when she was with him again, sheoften wondered whether her presence made him any happier. Through allhis intercourse with her she discerned a wistful restraint as though hewould like to ask her for something that he had not got and yet wasafraid. When she felt this in him she redoubled her affection towardshim, but she thought that he noticed this and knew her effort.
Her thoughts went often now to Francis Breton, not as to anyone whom shewould ever see again--but she hoped that he was happy, wondered whetherthere was anyone to look after him, wished that he had some friend sothat she might know that he was safe. Her pride did not allow her tospeak to Lizzie Rand about him; they had had one talk when Lizzie hadtaken her letter, but that was all.
Then, as February drew to a close, she was unwell; that was so unusualfor her that she might have been disturbed had it been anything morematerial than headaches, strange fits of indifference to everything anda general failure of energy. She thought that she was indoors too muchand was now in the air as often as her duties to Roddy allowed her.
But the indifference persisted. Her feelings for Roddy were an oddconfusion; there were times, when she was away from him, and the thoughtof him made her heart beat--"This is love--at last." There were timesagain when, as she sat beside him, she could have beaten her handsagainst the walls for very boredom and for his impenetrable taciturnityas he read _The Times_ from the Births and Marriages on the front pageto the advertisements on the last and flung her details--"LondonScottish won their game at Richmond--That Fettes man got over threetimes," or "I wouldn't give a button for that horse of old TrantyStummits they're all so gone on. You mark my words...." "I'd like to seethat new piece of Edwardes'"--"They've got a girl in it who dances onher nose--jolly pretty she is, too, so Massiter says. He's been fivetimes and there's a song about moonlight or some old rot that they sayis spiffin'----" How to adjust this horrible stupidity with the courage,the humour, the affection, even the poetry that she found in him atother times?
There were days when she cared for him with a new thrilling emotion,something that had in it a quality of curiosity as though he were comingbefore her as someone unknown and unexpected. There were other days whenshe wondered how he could have remained, through all the crisis, soprecisely the same Roddy.
Meanwhile between all these uncertainties she lost touch with herself.It was as though her soul flew, like some bird in a strange country,from point to point, restless, unsatisfied....
II
Then those few hurried words with Christopher on the afternoon of theD
uchess's visit flung, at an instant, her whole life into crisis. Evenas the words left him she knew that it was up to this that all her dayshad been leading, that at last she was, in very truth, face to face withher grandmother, that the battle between the two of them had commenced.
She knew, in those few minutes whilst she stood there, motionless, inthat room, other things. She knew--and this was the first sharpconviction that struck her heart--that, at all costs, whatever elsemight come to her, she must not now lose Roddy's love. Strangely, as shestood there facing her danger, some warm glow heightened her colour asshe felt from this what Roddy really meant to her. She thought then ofFrancis Breton, of his danger if her family understood how implicated hewas with her. It was true that she had, not very long ago, contemplatedrunning away with him, and surely nothing could have implicated himmore than that, but now that he should suffer and yet not have her,secured, as his reward for his suffering--that, at all pain to herself,she must prevent.
Her first impulse after Christopher had left her was to go downinstantly to Roddy and confess everything. Then she paused.
Perhaps, after all, her grandmother had not spoken? In that case howcruel to make Roddy miserable with something that was dead and alreadyremote. In her heart too was terror lest she should precipitate Bretoninto some peril. On every side it seemed to her better that she shouldwait and discover, perhaps through Christopher, perhaps by her ownintelligence, what exactly had occurred.
Four days afterwards, on the afternoon of that day that brought Bretonto dine with Christopher, she had not yet spoken. She had taken no stepsat all; despising herself, afraid for Breton, feeling at one instantthat Roddy knew everything, at another that he knew nothing, ill withthis same lassitude that had hung about her now for so many weeks,determining at one moment that she would confront her grandmother, atanother that she would go instantly and confess to Roddy.
Yet Rachel hesitated and did nothing.
On this close and heavy afternoon Rachel sat up in her littledrawing-room, wondering whether she would wait there for possiblecallers, or go down to Roddy, who was being entertained at the moment byLord Massiter, or, complete confession of surrender to nerves andgeneral catastrophe, go up to her bedroom, pull down the blinds and liethere, hunting sleep.
The day was intolerably heavy. The windows of the little room had allbeen flung open and, through the park, figures wearily draggedthemselves and the waters of the lake lay as though they had fallen,because of this leaden heaviness, from the grey sky.
She sat there, listening for every sound, starting at every opening orclosing of a door, thinking that were Lord Massiter not there she wouldgo down now and tell everything to Roddy, yet knowing in her heart thatif Peters were to come now and tell her that his master was alone shewould not move.
Peters _did_ come, but it was to tell her that Lord John would like tosee her. Uncle John! She scarcely knew whether she hailed him as arelief or no.
"Oh! ask him to come up, Peters, at once. Bring tea here. Lord Massiterwill have his downstairs, I expect."
Had her grandmother told Uncle John anything? Was his visit inconnection with anything that he had heard? Of all the changes that hermarriage had brought her, that she should have slipped away from UncleJohn was one of the saddest. She loved him as dearly as ever, butrestraint had been there between them, struggle against it though theymight. He was, like Roddy, so ineloquent that anything like a situationwas real agony to him; he could never explain his feelings aboutanything and he would eagerly agree with you that it was a great pitythat he had any. What had made this trouble between them? Rachel onlyknew that now there were so many things in her life which Uncle Johncould not understand. At her heart her love for him was as clear andsimple as it had ever been.
But oh! Uncle John was glad to see her! His picture of her, as she satthere, her cheeks flushed, in a rose-coloured dress, with the room assoft and delicate as a shell around her, filled him with delight:changes had come to him even since their last meeting. The lines in hisforehead seemed to her a little deeper, his eyes were anxious and hissmile less sure and genial. He wore a beautiful white waistcoat and satthere, with his chest out, his white hair rising into a crest, lookingexactly like a pouter pigeon.
"Dear Uncle John! I'm _so_ glad!"
"Well, my dear, I was just passing. Been to some woman who's got aparty in Harley House. War party, of course, there were characters ofthe names of different generals and if you won you paid a guinea to theWar Fund--quite a reversal of the ordinary proceedings. I'm sure, mydear, I don't know why I went. Well, it was so close that I felt Icouldn't walk back, even to 104, without a cup of tea from you. How'sRoddy?"
"All right. Lord Massiter's been down there chatting to him ever sincethree o'clock. Would you like us to go down and have our tea with_them_, or shall we stay cosily up here by ourselves?"
"Why, stay up here of course! You're not looking very well, my dear.You've not been the thing lately, have you? This business withRoddy?..." (he took her hand and held it)--"Don't you think it would bea good thing if you went away for a week or two and had a change?"
"No, Uncle John dear, thank you. I _am_ tired and I _will_ go away lateron, but just now it would only make me anxious and I should worry aboutRoddy."
Tea was brought. She looked at Uncle John and thought that he had heardnothing. His guileless eyes smiled back at her; all that she coulddiscern in him was apprehension lest he should say something todisplease her, to make her angry. Bless his heart, he need not be afraidof that now!
As she gave him his sugar she felt that some of the old intimaterelationship between them was creeping back.
"Of course you heard of grandmother's wonderful visit to us the otherday," Rachel said. "Wasn't it amazing? and Christopher says that she wasnone the worse--rather the better."
"Amazing," said Uncle John very solemnly. "Perfectly astonishing. Yourgrandmother, Rachel, is an astounding woman. Just when we were all of usthinking that she was really not quite so well, quite so fit as she usedto be, she comes along and does something that she hasn't done forthirty years. I confess I was nervous when I first heard of it, butChristopher reassured me--said it would do her no harm, and it hasn't."
"It shows what her affection for Roddy is," Rachel said slowly.
"And for you, dear," Uncle John said timidly. "I know that youhaven't--well, haven't--that is, weren't always very friendly, but Ihope that now you've come to understand her a little more. She's adifficult woman. She wouldn't be so splendid if she weren't sodifficult."
He saw those hard lines that he knew of old strike into Rachel's face.He shrank back himself, afraid that he had, by one ruthless sentence,lost all the happy intimacy that had returned to them.
She had risen and walked to the window. "Dear Uncle John," she said, "Iknow you'd like us to be friends, bless you. But you may as well givethat idea up, once and for ever. Grandmother and I--the old and the newgeneration, you know. There's never been anything but war and never willbe. Besides, she's never forgiven me for marrying Roddy, although shearranged it all."
"Oh! my dear!" said Uncle John.
"No, it is so. I shouldn't be astonished," she continued bitterly, "if Iwere to hear that she thinks that I flung Roddy from his horse andtrampled on him. It would be quite likely."
Then, suddenly, she came back from the window to the sofa where UncleJohn, looking greatly distressed, was sitting. She leaned down, put herarms round his neck and her cheek next to his.
"Uncle John dear. Don't you worry about grandmother and me. That's anold, old story and it can't alter. The case of us two, you and me, ismuch more important. I've been a beast, for a long time, Uncle John.We've got away from one another somehow and it's all been my fault. I'vebeen a prig and all sorts of horrid things, and I've let things comebetween us. Nothing shall ever come between us again--never."
He kissed her and his fat body thrilled with happiness. Amongst all thedistressing things that this last year had brought him, nothing had be
enmore distressing than his separation from Rachel; now the old Rachel hadcome back to him again.
They sat on the sofa there and he talked of a number of things in hisold happy, disconnected way. Some of her apprehension lifted fromRachel, she forgot the closeness of the day and sat there, happier thanshe had been for many weeks. Six o'clock struck and he got up to go.
"Taking your aunt out to dinner. You going anywhere to-night, my dear?"
"Yes. It's such a nuisance, but Roddy insists on my going. I'd so muchrather stay with him. It's only a silly little dinner at Lady Carloes'.She's asked a harpist in afterwards! Fancy, harpist!"
But Uncle John liked Lady Carloes. She was an old friend of his. "Don'tlaugh at Lady Carloes, dear. She's a kind creature, and been a friend ofthe family's for ever so long--a devoted friend."
He stopped suddenly. "By the way, something I meant to have told you."He dropped his voice. "You needn't say anything about it and I don'twant to worry your grandmother. I'm afraid she wouldn't like it. But theblack sheep is to be restored to the fold."
"The black sheep?" said Rachel, wondering.
"Yes," said Uncle John. "Your Cousin Frank Breton, my dear. Your UncleVincent and your aunt and I thought that he'd behaved so well, been soquiet and steady all this time, that really something ought to be doneabout him. It's been on my conscience, I can assure you, for a long timepast. Well, I've written to him. I'm going to see him. Of course it'sbetter to be quiet about it whilst your grandmother feels as shedoes--but in time----"
Rachel's voice was sharp and rather harsh as she said, "Dear Uncle John,that _is_ kind of you. I'm so glad. Poor Cousin Frank! I always felt itunfair."
John looked at her with one of his supplicating,"Please-don't-be-hard-on-me" glances.
Rachel really _was_ strange. She seemed to dislike the idea of Breton'sredemption. He had thought that she would have been delighted.
She kissed him. "Nothing's ever to come between us again," shewhispered. He pressed her hand.
"I must just look in upon Roddy," he said, and they went down together.
III
The thought that instantly occurred to her was that she must not allowUncle John to talk to Roddy about Breton. She saw some innocent wordfalling, like a match into a haystack, and starting immediately the mosthorrible blaze.
There were other thoughts behind that--thought of her grandmother'sactions when she heard of this, thoughts of Roddy's probable decisionabout it, thoughts that she, Rachel, might prove to be the one person inthe world who had helped to drive Breton out, thoughts intolerable werethey, for a moment, indulged--but now, as she walked, laughing,downstairs, with Uncle John, her one urgent resolve was to prevent animmediate scene.
She need not have feared. Massiter, stout, red-faced, hearty and stupid,held the stage. He had been holding it since three o'clock and Roddy'swhite face showed fatigue, his eyes were half closed and, although hesmiled, his mind, distressed and exhausted, was far away.
Rachel's glance at him told her that his visitor had been too much forhim. When she saw Roddy like this she longed to have him alone, awayfrom all the world, to love him and care for him; although, in hardfact, when he was worn out, Peters was of more value than she. Shelooked at him now, loved him and was also afraid; she hated LordMassiter, at this moment, and hoped that he would go.
He talked in his cheerful voice, as though he were addressing anassembly in the open air. He spoke of the hunting (pretty rotten), ofthe musical comedies (absolutely rotten), of our tactics in South Africa(rotten of course beyond all words), and of farming on his land in thecountry (unspeakably rotten), and was cheerful about all these things.He knew that he had been self-sacrificing and had spent a wholeafternoon in cheering up "that poor devil, Seddon. Got to lie on hisback all his life, poor chap. Active beggar he was too."
He overwhelmed Lord John, whom he liked but scorned. "Never takes anydecent exercise, John Beaminster. Always about with a parcel of women."Finally he departed, carrying with him a faint scent of soap andtobacco, swearing that it was the closest night he'd ever known andwiping his red forehead with the air of one who rules this country andis going very shortly to enjoy an excellent meal.
Soon Uncle John also departed.
Roddy, alone with Rachel, faintly smiled and then closed his eyes again.
"Better go and dress, dear. It's gone half-past six."
"What on earth did he stay all that time for, roaring like a bull?" shecried indignantly. "Tired you out. Roddy, dear, I don't think I'll goout to dinner. I'll send a wire to Lady Carloes."
"No, you must," he said firmly. "It's too late to disappoint her."
"It's such an appalling night. I'm not feeling awfully well. I don'tthink I could stand one of her dinners. There'll be old Lord Crewner,old Mrs. Brunning and young somebody or other for me, and I believeUncle Richard. I simply couldn't stand it."
"Aren't you well?" He looked up at her sharply.
"Not very." Their eyes met; she turned hers away. She was desperatelynear to tears, near to flinging herself down at his side and hiding herhead and telling him all. "Wait--wait--perhaps he knows nothing ..."
Still looking away from him she said, "Oh yes! I must go, of course.It's only this thunder that one feels."
She bent down, hurriedly, and kissed him. They said good night to oneanother and she left the room.
Later, in the carriage, she saw his white face and was miserable. Shethought of Breton and that made her miserable too. To everyone sheseemed to bring unhappiness. The stifling evening held a hand at herthroat; the carriage moved languidly along--on every side of her she sawpeople listlessly moving as though controlled by an enchantment. Shereally was ill. "If I don't look out," she thought, "I shall behysterical to-night. I shall just have to hold on and keep quiet. I'venever felt like this before. Fancy being hysterical before UncleRichard. _How_ surprised he'd be and how he'd disapprove!"
In Lady Carloes' small and stuffy drawing-room bony Mrs. Brunning andLord Crewner were being polite to one another. One would suppose that ithad been Lady Carloes' intention to gather together into a confinedspace as many of her grandmother's possessions as possible. Hergrandmother had known Sir Walter Scott and had Lord Wellington to teaand spent several days in the country with Joanna Baillie. The littleroom had an old faded wall-paper covered thickly with prints, miniaturesand fading water-colours. On the many little tables were scattered oldkeepsakes, "bijouterie" of every kind, dragon china, coloured stones andeven an ebony box with sea-shells. There were cabinets and glass cases,several chattering clocks, nodding mandarins and shepherdesses on themantelpiece, a faded illustrated edition of Sir Walter's poems and,finally, three cats with large blue bows and tinkling bells. All thesethings added, immensely, to Rachel's distress; on such an evening thisjumble of small objects rose, like the sound of the sea, and threatenedto throttle her. A fire was burning and only the upper part of onewindow was open. Rachel felt that she was in real peril of fainting;that she had never done, but to-night she had the sensation that at anymoment the floor with its old faded carpet would rise slanting beforeher and pitch her into the street. Lady Carloes, more hunched togetherthan usual, her voice thick and husky and her dress of blue satin,hurried in. Uncle Richard, untouched by the closeness of the evening,clean and starched and dignified, made his majestic entry; a young manfrom the Embassy, so beautifully dressed that he appeared to have spenthis days in the effort to make his personality of less importance thanhis studs and his waistcoat buttons, apologized from behind his shiningcollar for being the last of the party. They all went down to dinner.
Rachel felt, as the young man led her downstairs, that at last she knewwhat Panic was. Panic was the state of standing, surrounded by ordinaryeveryday things and people, waiting for the bolt to fall, the enemy toadvance, danger to spring, but seeing, in actual vision, nothing tojustify terror. She had reached to-night the climax of months of alarm,and, during these past days, unbroken suspense. She was at the end ofendurance....
&nb
sp; How was she ever to compass this horrible meal? The young man wasfinding her difficult. She was aware that Uncle Richard watched her andwas expecting her to sustain the family ease and dignity. They were at alittle round table, so that he was able to hear all the conversation.
"Yes," she said desperately. "I quite agree with you. The lack ofenterprise at Covent Garden is shameful. We want more competition...."
"So I said to her, 'My good woman, if you really imagine that I'm takenin by your pretending that that's Dresden'..."
"Herr Becknet is coming in afterwards," old Lady Carloes said. "You'lllike him, my dear. He plays the harp too wonderfully. I've asked a fewfriends to come in. Of course the drawing-room isn't very large, but Ihope----"
The room was swimming before Rachel. A stuffed bird in a glass casesailed across the table towards her and the fireplace tottered andstaggered. She was just able to gasp: "Lady Carloes--please--it's thisheat or something----"
There were cries of agitation. The young man gave her his arm into thepassage, she was surrounded by anxious servants; someone fanned her, shedrank water and was conscious of Lady Carloes' blue satin and UncleRichard's shirt-front.
She knew now what she wanted; she pulled herself together and absolutelyrefused Uncle Richard's escort.
"No, I shall be _quite_ all right--really. No, Uncle Richard, I won'thear of it. It was silly of me to come out really. I've been feelingthis thundery weather all day. No, Lady Carloes, thank you, I'll just gostraight back and go to bed. I won't hear of anyone coming with me,thanks. No, _really_ I _am_ so sorry, Lady Carloes. I shall be all rightin the morning. Yes, if you'd call a cab, please. No, Uncle Richard, I'drather not."
She was better. She knew what she wanted. At last the cab was there, butit was not "York Terrace" that she had commanded, but "24 SaxtonSquare."
It was Lizzie whom she needed.
IV
It was a long drive to Saxton Square. She was better now, but stillstrangely unwell, and to open both the windows was of no use: not abreath stirred, the trees, dark and sombre, were of iron, the lamps gaveno radiance and the sky was black.
She was terribly frightened, frightened because here in the dark of hercarriage, thoughts of Breton attacked her as they had never done before.She hid her face in her burning hands; her body was shivering. Bretonwas before her as he had been in his room. She felt his hands abouther, his breath on her cheek, his mouth was pressed against hers, herfingers knew again the stuff of his coat and the back of her hand hadtouched his neck....
And yet, it was at this moment, with those very memories crowding abouther, that she knew definitely and with absolute assurance, that it wasRoddy, and Roddy only in all the world, whom she now loved.
Her passion for Breton had been a passion of rebellion, of discontent--amoment perhaps in her education that carried her from one stage toanother.
She loved Roddy. She could not trace the steps by which her love hadgrown, but affection had first been changed into something stronger onthat day when he had been carried back into his house from whose gateshe had passed, that morning, so strong and sure. Pity had been thebeginning of it, admiration of his courage had continued it, this momentof this stormy night had struck it into flame--
And now, perhaps, in another day or so, she would learn that he had donewith her for ever.
She sat there, huddled, trembling, her eyes burning, her throat dry.
Oh! why wouldn't the carriage go faster! If only this storm would comeand that terrible sky would break! She knew that Mrs. Rand and Daisywere away in the country and Lizzie went out very seldom. She would findher. She _must_ find her. She shuddered to think what she might do wereLizzie not at home.
They were there. Yes, Miss Rand was at home: Rachel went in.
Lizzie was sitting quietly by the open window, reading. She looked upand saw Rachel in a dress of black and gold, her face very pale, as shestood there in the doorway.
"Lizzie dear--Lizzie." Rachel flung off her cloak, stood for a momentmotionless, then without another word, huddled up on to the sofa and,her face buried in her arm, began to cry. Lizzie came across to her,took her hand, and sat there without speaking.
After a long time she said, "Rachel dear. What is it?"
Rachel clung to her, holding her fiercely. At last, looking up but awayfrom Lizzie, she said, "Oh! if you hadn't been here. I don't know--Isimply don't know what--I think it's this night. This awful night. It'sso close and the storm is so long coming."
"Has anything particular happened?"
"Yes. The Duchess has told Roddy about--about Francis--or I think shehas. Roddy's said nothing to me, but I ought to speak to him, to tellhim.... I've put it off."
Lizzie said softly. "You must tell him, Rachel. You know that you must.It's the only thing. I thought it would come to that sooner or later."
"But it's more than that. I'm not well. I don't know what it is, butI've never felt like it before, and it makes me more frightened thanI've ever been. To-night I've been more frightened."
But Lizzie was thinking.
"Has your grandmother told many people?"
"I don't know. I know nothing; that's what makes it so hard. It's allhad a climax to-night. There was an awful dinner at old Lady Carloes'and it was so hot and stuffy that I nearly fainted. I had to leave. Andthen, coming here ..."
Rachel began to tremble again and, creeping close to Lizzie, she heldher tighter.
"Lizzie ... in the cab coming here ... Francis ... I had such thoughts.I couldn't have believed...."
Lizzie's eyes gazed out into the square, far away--not like a Poolto-night, Mr. Breton. All hard and cruel and even the Nymph has nosoftness.
She kissed Rachel. "It's the night, dear. When the weather's like thisit affects one. London's awful to-night. There'll be such a stormsoon."
"But it's worse, Lizzie. I seem to-night to have seen myself as Iam--more clearly than before. My priggishness--talking so much aboutTruth and then--the things I do. Roddy, Francis, all the same. I'vetreated them all badly. I've been true to no one. I'm no good...."
"Promise me, dear, that you'll tell him--yourhusband--everything--to-morrow. Promise me."
"But Lizzie, perhaps----"
"No--no--no. Everything. To-morrow."
"He'll hate me. He'll----"
"No matter. You must. To-morrow."
Rachel was silent. Then she looked into Lizzie's face. "Yes," she said,"I will."
Then, with a little sigh, she fainted.
V
When she rose to a realization of life again she was lying upon Lizzie'sbed and the storm had broken over the house. Lizzie was holding herhand; the thunder roared. Coming with stealthy steps closer and closer,sometimes to creep stealthily away again, sometimes to break, withcrashing splendour, upon their very heads.
The lightning flung Lizzie's bedroom into pale brilliance and was gone;Life leapt into vision, then surrendered to the candle flare, then leaptagain.
Rachel smiled faintly. She felt around her and about her a great peace.She knew that all her terror had departed; her one thought now was toreturn to Roddy and tell him everything.
She sat up. "How silly of me to faint. It's a thing I've never done inmy life. How _did_ you get me here?"
"The maid and I carried you in. It's better for you in here."
"I think I'll go now, Lizzie dear."
"Wait a little while."
They stayed in silence. Then they heard the rain that lashed thewindows.
"Isn't the rain terrific?... Oh! Lizzie, it's all gone, all the terror,all that awful fright." She added solemnly, "I don't believe I'll everfeel like that again. It'll never come back--I'm sure of it."
Rachel sat silently for a moment, then turned and buried her head inLizzie's dress.
"Lizzie dear, I've been so frightened--of something else."
"Of what?"
"I'm going to have a child. I've known it for some time. At first Iwasn't sure. Then I knew. I was frightened and miserable. Th
en, as withevery day I seemed to grow fonder and fonder of Roddy I became gladabout it. Then very happy----"
"Oh, Rachel dear, I'm _so_ glad!"
"Yes. But now, with this, about Roddy it's all dreadful again. If heshould turn on me now just when I've begun to care."
She sat up in bed, her eyes staring, her hands clutching the clothes.
"Lizzie, if it _should_ come right!--if it _should_! Just think what achild would mean for him; he's so brave, lying there all day, makinghimself amused and interested. I watch him often and wonder where allthat courage comes from. _I_ couldn't have done it.... But now, if thechild's a boy, he'll be able to put all his old strength and keennessinto _him_--and the Place! Think what it will mean to him to have that!"
"And for you?" asked Lizzie.
"I believe it's what I've wanted. Oh! if only things are all right withRoddy, then I can start again and have some decent pride about it all.I've made _such_ a mess of things so far."
They talked for a little. Then Rachel got up and dressed.
"I'm all right now. Everything seems to have cleared. I'll tell Roddyeverything to-morrow, Lizzie dear."
"Come and see me as soon as ever you can, won't you?"
"I will."
Rachel said good night. She held Lizzie's shoulders.
"Lizzie, you're wonderful. Don't think I don't know how wonderful youare. I'll never forget what you've been to-night. And if it's all rightto-morrow. Oh! I _am_ going to be happy."
"That's all right," said Lizzie. "Don't go and get frightened again."
"I'll never be so frightened as I was to-night--never."
"I'm afraid you've got dreadfully wet," she said to the cabman.
"It don't matter, mum--but it _does_ come down."
Lizzie stood in the doorway and waved her hand.
The rain slashed the panes and whipped the shining deserted streets.Very far away the faint whisper of thunder bade the town farewell.