CHAPTER X
LIZZIE BECOMES MISS RAND AGAIN
"So she put the handkerchief, and the pin, and the lock of hair back into the box, turned the key, and went resolutely about her everyday duties again."--Mrs. Ewing.
I
Lizzie was waiting for Lady Adela. She had finished her work for theday, had come from her own room to Lady Adela's and now stood at one ofthe high windows looking down upon the April sunshine that coloured thedignities of Portland Place.
The room was spacious and lofty, but curiously uncomfortable andlifeless. High book-cases with glass shutters revealed rows of"Cornhill" and "Blackwood" volumes, a long rather low table covered witha green cloth held a silver inkstand, a blotting-pad, pens and acalendar. There were stiff mahogany chairs ranged against the wall andold prints of Beaminster House (white-pillared, spacious with slopinglawns) and Eton College chapel faced the windows.
This was where Lady Adela spent several hours of every morning and shehad never attempted to "do" anything with it. A large marble clock onthe mantelpiece ticked out its sublime indifference to time and change."We're the same, thank God," it said, "as we've always been."
Lady Adela had told Lizzie that she would come in from a drive atquarter to four and she would like then to speak to her.
Lizzie's eyes were fixed upon Portland Place, deserted for the momentand catching in its shining surface some hint of the blue sky above it.There was a great deal just then to occupy her thoughts. Ten days ago,in the middle of a little dinner-party that Lady Adela was giving,upstairs the Duchess had had a stroke. Lizzie had, of course, not beenthere, but, coming next morning she had been told of it. Her Grace wassoon well again, no unhappy effects could be discovered, she had not,herself, been apparently disturbed by it, but it had rung, like awarning bell, through the house. "The beginning of the end.... We'vebeen watching, we've been waiting--soon these walls will be ours again,"said the portraits of those stiff and superior Beaminsters.
News ran through the Beaminster camp--"The Duchess has had a stroke....The Duchess has had a stroke."
But, for many weeks now, Lizzie had been aware that some crisis hadfound its hour. Rachel and her husband, Lady Adela and Lord John, eventhe Duke and Lord Richard had been involved. It was not her business toask questions, but every morning that saw her sitting down to her day'swork saw her also wondering whether it would be her last in thathouse....
Lady Adela, however sharply she may have changed in herself, had neverpermitted her relationship to Lizzie to be drawn any closer. When Lizziehad returned from that terrible Christmas at Seddon, Lady Adela hadasked her no questions, had shown no sign of human anxiety ortenderness. She had never, during all the years that Lizzie had beenwith her, expressed gratitude or satisfaction. She had, on the otherhand, never bullied nor lost her temper with her. She had separatedherself from all expression or human emotion. And yet Lizzie liked her.She would miss her when their association ended: yes, she would missher, and the house and the whole Beaminster interest when the end came.
She wondered, as she stood at the window, whether that old womanupstairs were suffering, what her struggle against extinction wascosting her, how urgently she was protesting against the passing of timeand the death of her generation. Flying galleons of silver clouds caughtthe sun and Portland Place passed into shadow; the bell of the RoundChurch began to ring. "Poor old thing," thought Lizzie; she would nothave considered her thus, a year ago.
Lady Adela came in; she reminded Lizzie of Mrs. Noah in her stiff woodenhat, her stiff wooden clothes, her anxiety to prevent any mobility thatmight give her away. She looked, as she always did, carefully about theroom, at the "Cornhills" and "Blackwoods," at the marble clock, at theprints of Beaminster House and Eton College Chapel, a little as thoughshe would ascertain that no enemy, no robber, no brigand, no outlaw, wasconcealed about the premises, a little as though she would say--"Well,these things are all right anyway, nothing wrong here."
"I'm sorry, Miss Rand," she said. "I hope that I haven't kept you."
"No, thank you, Lady Adela, I have only just finished."
Lady Adela sat down; they discussed correspondence, trivial things thatwere, Lizzie knew, placed as a barrier against something that frightenedher.
At length it came.
"Miss Rand, I wonder whether--the fact is, my mother has just decidedthat she wishes to be moved to Beaminster House. I must of course gowith her. I hope that this will not inconvenience you. You can, if youprefer not to leave your mother, come down every day by train; it onlytakes an hour. Just as you please...."
Lizzie's heart was strangely, poignantly stirred. The moment had comethen; the house was to be deserted. This could only mean the end. Sheherself would never return here, her little room, the large solemnhouse, that walk from Saxton Square, the Round Church, the Queen's Hall,Regent's Park....
But she gave no sign.
Gravely she replied: "I think I'd better come down with you, Lady Adela,if you don't mind. My mother has my sister. Perhaps I might come up forthe week-ends."
"Yes. That would be quite easy. The other places, you know, are let,but Beaminster has always been kept. The Duke has been there a gooddeal. It reminds me ... I was there for some years as a girl."
Lizzie realized that Lady Adela was very near to tears; she had neverbefore seen her, in any way, moved. She was distressed anduncomfortable. It was as though Lady Adela were, suddenly, after allthese years, about to be driven from a position that had seemed, in itsday, impregnable.
"Oh! don't, please don't, now!" was Lizzie's silent cry. "It will spoilit all--all these years."
Lady Adela didn't. Her voice became dry and hard, her eyes withoutexpression.
"We shall go down, I expect, on Monday if Dr. Christopher thinks that agood day."
"I hope that the Duchess----"
"My mother's very well to-day--quite her old self. I have just been upwith her. It is odd, but for thirty years she has never expressed anyinterest in Beaminster. Now she is impatient to be there."
"One often, I think, has a sudden longing for places."
"Yes. I shall be glad myself to be there again."
"This house?"
"Oh! we shall shut it up--for the time Lord John will come down toBeaminster with us. I have spoken to Norris, but to-morrow morning, ifyou don't mind, we will go through things."
"Certainly."
"The house has not been shut for a great number of years--a very greatnumber. During the last thirty years through the hottest weather mymother was here.
"It will seem strange ..." Her voice trembled.
"Is there anything more this afternoon?" Lizzie turned to the door.
"No, I think not. Except--perhaps ..." Lady Adela was in greatagitation. Her eyes sought Lizzie, beseeching her help.
"Miss Rand--I think it only right to say. I'm afraid one cannot--in thenature of things--it's impossible, I fear, to expect--my mother to livevery much longer." Her voice caught in a dry strangled cough. "Dr.Christopher has warned us. After my mother's death my life, of course,will be very different. I shall live very quietly--a good deal in thecountry and abroad, I expect.
"I shall not, of course, have a secretary."
"I quite understand," said Lizzie quietly.
"I want you to know, Miss Rand," Lady Adela continued, "that althoughduring all these years I have seemed very unappreciative.... It is notmy way--I find it difficult to express--But I have, nevertheless, beenvery conscious--we have all been--of the things that you have done forme, indeed for the whole house. You have been admirable; quiteadmirable."
"I have been very happy here," said Lizzie.
"I am very glad of that. I must have seemed often very blind to all thatyou were doing. But I should like you to know that it is more--it ismore--than simply your duty to the house--it is the many things that youhave done personally for me. You have not yourself been, I dare say,aware of the effect that your company has had upon me. It has been verygreat."
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Lizzie smiled. "I've loved the house and the work. It has meant a veryimportant part of my life. I shall never forget it."
Their embarrassment was terrible. After a moment of struggle LadyAdela's voice was hard and unconcerned again. "You know, Miss Rand,that--when the time comes for this change--anything that I, or any ofus, can do ... I do not know what your own plans may be, but you needhave no fear, I think."
"Thank you very much, Lady Adela. That is very kind."
There was a little pause--then they said good night.
As Lizzie went down the great staircase, on every side of her, thestones of the house were whispering, "You're all going--you're allgoing--you're all going."
Her heart was very sad.
II
As she passed the Regent Street Post Office Francis Breton came out ofit. They had not met often lately, but she was conscious that ever sincethat interview in Regent's Park, they had been very good friends. Herabsorption with Rachel and affairs in the Portland Place house hadassisted her own resolution and she had thought that she could meet himnow without a tremor. Nevertheless the tremor came as she caught sightof him there and, for a moment, the traffic and the shouting died awayand there was a great stillness.
He was very glad to see her. He stood on the post office steps lookingricher and smarter than she had ever known him. He wore a dark blue suitand a black tie and a bowler hat--all ordinary garments enough--but theysurrounded him with an air of prosperity that had not been his before.He seemed to her to gleam and glitter and shine with confidence andassurance. One hurried glimpse she had had of him some weeks before,miserable, unkempt, almost furtive. She was glad for his sake that allwas well with him, but he needed her more when he was unhappy....
But he was delighted. "Miss Rand. That's splendid! Are you going back toSaxton Square now? The very thing! I've been wanting badly to see you!"It was always, she thought, in little hurried and occasional walks thatthey exchanged their confidences. There was not much to show for all theelaborate palace that she had once been building--snatches ofconversation, clutches at words and movements, even eloquentinterpretation of silences--well, she was wiser than all that now!
But, when they started off together, she found that she was caught upinstantly into that fine assumption of intimacy that was one of his mostalluring qualities. Radiant though he was he still needed her; he wasmore eager to talk to _her_ than to anyone else even though he hadforgotten her very existence until he saw her standing there.
"I am glad to see you. I should have come down and tried to find you,anyway, in a day or two. I've been through a rotten time--reallyrotten--and one doesn't want to see anyone--even one's best friends--inthat sort of condition, does one?"
"That's just the time your _real_ friends--if they're worthanything--want to see you. If they can be of any use----"
"But you'd been such a tremendous help to me. I was ashamed to come toyou any more. Besides, you'd showed me, in a way, that I ought to getthrough on my own without asking help from anyone. You'd taught me thatI did try."
She saw that he was shining with the glory of one who had come,rather mightily, unaided through times of stress. A pleasantself-congratulatory pathos stirred behind his words. "It _was_ a badtime--but it's all right now. And I expect it was good for me," wasreally what he said.
"I do want to tell you," he went on eagerly, "about Rachel. It's allbeen so strange--wonderful in a way. After that talk I had with you inthe park I was absolutely broken up. Oh! but done for! I simply wentunder. I tried to go back to some of that old set I've told you aboutbefore, but the awful thing was that Rachel wouldn't let me. Thinking ofher, wanting her when all those other women were about. It simply wasn'tpossible....
"It got worse and worse. I thought I'd go off my head. Then--do youremember that awful thunderstorm we had?"
"Yes," said Lizzie, "I remember it very well."
"That night was a kind of climax. I'd dined with Christopher, then gotwandering about--it was horribly close and heavy--got into some musichall. I suppose I'd been drinking--anyway, I had suddenly a kind ofvision, there in the music hall. I thought Rachel was dead, that I'dlost her altogether. And then--it's all so hard to explain--but when Icame to myself I seemed to understand that the only way I could keep herwas by giving her up.... I've got it all muddled, but that was what itcame to."
"You were quite right," said Lizzie.
"Well, then--what do you think happened? The very next day my uncle,John Beaminster, came to see me--yes, came himself. Talked and was mostpleasant and wanted to be friends. At the same time--now just listen tothis--came a note from Seddon asking me to go and see him. I went, foundRachel there. Apparently my delightful grandmother had been telling himstories about Rachel and me, and he wanted to put things straight. Asthough this weren't enough, right upon us, without a word of warning,dropped my grandmother herself!"
He stopped that he might convey fully to Lizzie the drama of theoccasion.
There was, in his words, just that touch of absurdity and exaggerationthat she had noticed at her very first meeting with him. He was alwaystoo passionately anxious to thrill his audience!
"There _was_ a scene! You can imagine it! We all tried to behave atfirst, although of course it was immensely difficult. I don't thinkSeddon had in the least realized the kind of thing it would be. Thenshe--the old tyrant--could contain herself no longer and burst outconcerning me, the blackguard I was and the rest of it. She was furious,you see, at Seddon taking my friendship with Rachel so quietly. He was_splendid_ about it!
"Well, when she burst out about all the family cutting me and everybodycasting me out, the opportunity was too good. I _couldn't_ help it. Ihad to tell her that Uncle John had been round that very afternoon tosee me and that the family was holding out its arms."
"What happened?" said Lizzie, as he paused.
"She collapsed--altogether, completely. She never said another word--shejust went."
"You shouldn't have done it!" Lizzie cried, turning almost furiouslyupon him. "Oh! it was cruel--she was so old and all of you so young andstrong."
"Yes!" he answered her--"But think of the years that I've waited--thetimes she's given me, the suffering----"
"No," interrupted Lizzie, quiet again now. "If you're weak enough to bepushed down by anybody like that, then you're weak enough to sink byyour own fault, whether there's anyone there or no. She's been hard inher time, I dare say, but everything's left her now and she's ill andlonely. It was wrong of all of you. I shouldn't have thought SirRoderick----"
"He only wanted things to be straightened out," Breton said eagerly. "Hedidn't _intend_ to have a scene. But I expect you're right, Miss Rand,as you always are. I've been a brute, the most howling cad. But there'sone thing--I don't think it's hurt my grandmother. She likes thosescenes, and she's been none the worse since."
"She's been much worse," said Lizzie gravely. "She's dying--She's goingdown to Beaminster on Monday."
He stopped. "Oh! but I'm sorry ... That's dreadful ... I'd no idea. I'malways responsible----"
He had sunk to such depths that she was compelled to raise him.
"I don't think you need be disturbed, Mr. Breton. Something of the sortwould have been certain to happen very soon. She would have found out inany case ... and there were other things, I know. Rachel----"
"Ah!" he broke in, eager again and almost cheerful. "That was thewonderful thing. When I saw her there first with Seddon--I'd never methim before, you know--I felt angry and impatient. I wanted to carry heroff--away from everybody. And then, when Seddon began to speak I lostall sense of Rachel's belonging to me. She seemed older, ever so faraway from him, and he was so fine, so splendid about it all that Ifelt--I felt--well, that I'd do anything in the world for both ofthem--but never anything that could separate them or make him unhappy."
"You can't separate them now," said Lizzie, "nobody can."
"No. It was just finished--our episode together that wasn't really anepisode at all if
you consider the little that we saw one another....Besides, I've never got near Rachel, and I felt in some way that thenearer I got to her the farther away she was. Why, the only time that Ikissed her she was the farthest away of all!"
They were walking up the grey, peaceful square.
"You don't mind my telling you all this, do you, Miss Rand? You've seenit all from the beginning. But I'm odd in a way....
"Uncle John coming to me, Seddon being friendly to me, the family takingme back ... that seems to have made all the difference to me. AlthoughI'd never confess it, even to myself, I know that if Rachel and I hadgone off together I'd never have been happy. You see, we're both alikethat way. We're restless, one half of us, but oh! we're Beaminster theother, and even Rachel, who's been fighting the family all her days, hasone part of her that's happy to be married to Seddon and to be quiet andproper and English. That's why neither I nor Seddon ever could holdher--because to be with me she'd have had to give up the other. If shehad a child, that might----"
"She's going to have a child!" said Lizzie.
He stopped and stared at her.
"Miss Rand!... Is that certain?"
"Quite."
"Ah, well, Seddon's got her all right. They'll be happy as anything." Hesighed. "You know, Miss Rand, Rachel and I have been fighting the oldlady, and we seem to have won ... but I'm not sure whether, after all,she hasn't!"
On the step he paused.
"I'm sticking to Candles, I've got work. I'm recognized again. I've gotthat little bit of Rachel that she gave me and that nobody else canhave, and--I've got you for a friend--Not so bad after all!"
He laughed, opened the door for her, and then as they stood in the darklittle hall he said:
"All along you've been _such_ a friend for me. I want someone likeyou--someone strong and sensible, without my rotten sentiment andimpulses. We'll always be friends, won't we?"
He held her hand.
"Always," she said, smiling at him.
But, perhaps, to both of them there came, just then, sighing through thedark still hall, a breath, a whisper, of that hour when life had been atits intensest, that hour when Breton had held Rachel in his arms, thathour when Lizzie had dressed, with trembling hands, for the theatre....
For Breton his place once again in the world, for Lizzie work and peaceof heart, but once on a day life had flamed before both of them and theywould never forget--
"Well, good night, Mr. Breton."
"Good night, Miss Rand."
When he had gone, she stood in the hall a moment.
Their little dialogue had closed, with the sound of a closing door, astage in her life. She would never be the same as she had been beforethat episode. It had shown her that she was as romantic as the rest ofthe world. It had made her kinder, tenderer, wiser. And now once againshe was independent--once again her soul was her own. She could be, oncemore, his friend, seeing him with all his faults, his impetuosities, hisweak impulses.
Her place was there for her to fill. It was not the place that she wouldonce have chosen. But she had regained her soul, had once more controlof her spirit. She was free.
There stretched before her a world of work, of thrilling andever-changing interest. There were Rachel and Rachel's baby....
"You seem in very good spirits, Lizzie," said Mrs. Rand as she came in."I'm sure I'm very glad because it's too tiresome. Here's Daisy goneoff...."
III
Afterwards she said to her mother:
"I'm going down to Beaminster on Monday. I'm afraid I shall be away sometime."
"Oh! Lizzie!" said Mrs. Rand reproachfully. "Well, now--That _is_ apity. Why must you?"
"The Duchess is going and Lady Adela must go with her and I must go withLady Adela."
"Dear, dear. Whatever shall we do, Daisy and I? Daisy gets idler everyday. It's always clothes with her now.... I suppose we shall manage."
"I shall come up for week-ends."
"What a way you speak of it! Of course you don't care! If you went awayfor years you wouldn't miss us, I dare say. I can't think why it is,Lizzie, that you're always so hard. Daisy and I have got plenty offeeling and emotion and your father, poor man, had more than he couldmanage. But I'm sure more's better than none at all, where feelings areconcerned."
"I suppose," said Lizzie, speaking to more than her mother, "that ifeveryone had so much feeling there'd be nobody to give the advice.Feelings don't suit everybody."
"You're a strange girl," said Mrs. Rand, "and you're like no one in ourfamily. All your aunts and uncles are kind and friendly. I don't suggestthat you don't do your best, Lizzie. You do, I'm sure--and nobody coulddeny that you've got a head for figures and running a house. But alittle heart...."
"I've come to the conclusion I'm better without any," Lizzie laughed. "Iexpect I'm more like you and Daisy, mother, than you know----"
"Well, you're a strange girl," said Mrs. Rand again, "and I neverunderstand half you say."
Lizzie came to her and kissed her.
"You always miss me, you know, mother, when I'm away, in spite of myhard heart."
"Well, that's true," said Mrs. Rand, looking at her daughter with wideand rather tearful eyes. "But I'm sure I don't know why I do."