The Duchess of Wrexe Part 29

Often had he seen this especial G.o.d bringing his cousin and himself together. Always he had known that, in some way, they two were to be chosen to work out, together, vengeance and destruction against all the Beaminsters. When, therefore, that meeting in the Rands' drawing-room had taken place he had accepted it all. She was even more wonderful than he had expected, but he had known, instantly, that she was his companion, his chosen, his fellow-traveller; between them he had realized a claim, implied on some common knowledge or experience, at the first moment of their meeting.

From the age of ten, when he had been petted by one of his father's mistresses, his life had been entangled with women; some he had loved, others he had been in love with, others again had _loved him_.

He did not know now whether he were in love with Rachel or no--he only knew that the whole current of his life was changed from the moment that he met her and that, until the end of it, she now would be intermingled with all his history.

At first so sure had he been of the workings of fate in this matter that he had been content (for the first time in all his days) to wait with his hands folded. During this period all thought of action against the Beaminsters on the one hand or a relapse into the company of the friends of his earlier London days on the other, had been out of the question.

This certainty of Rachel's future alliance with himself had made such things impossibly absurd.

Then had come the announcement of her engagement to Seddon. For a moment the shock had been terrific. He had suddenly seen the face of his especial G.o.d and it was blind and stupid and dead....

Then swiftly upon that had come thought of his grandmother. This was, of course, her doing--Rachel was too young to know--She would discover her mistake: the engagement would be broken off.

During this time he had met Rachel on several occasions, and although the meetings had been very brief, yet always he had felt that same unacknowledged, secret intimacy. After every meeting his confidence had risen, once again, to the skies.

Then had come the news of her marriage.

From that moment he had known no peace. At first he had wildly fancied that this had happened because he had not come to her and more plainly declared himself; his picture of her idea of him was confused with all the dramatic untruth of _his_ idea of her; then, interchanging with that, had come moods when he had seen things more plainly as they were and had told himself that all relations between herself and him had been invented by himself, that any kindness that she had shown him had been kindness sprung from pity.

During the early months of the autumn Rachel and her husband were abroad, and during this time, Breton told himself that he was waiting for her return before taking any action. Then a certain Mrs. Pont, a lady whose beauty had been increased but her reputation lessened by several scandals and a tiresomely querulous Mr. Pont, had suggested to Francis Breton a continuation of certain earlier relations.h.i.+ps.

He knew himself well enough to be sure that one evening in Mrs. Pont's company would put an end to his struggles, so weak was he in his own knowledge that the only possible evading of a conflict was by the denial of the enemy's very existence.

He denied Mrs. Pont and, throughout those dark gloomy autumn weeks, clinging to Christopher and Lizzie Rand, waited to hear of Rachel's return.

Although he would confess it to no man alive, he longed now, with an aching heart, for some sort of reconciliation with the family. He would have astonished them with his humility had they given him any sign or signal. He fancied that Lord John or even the Duke might come.... Once admitted to his proper rank again and what a citizen he would be! Vanish for ever Mrs. Pont and her tribe and all that dark underworld that waited, like some sluggish but confident monster, for his inevitable descent. Wild phantasmic plans crossed his brain every hour of every day--nothing came of it all; only when at last it was announced that Sir Roderick and Lady Seddon had returned to England he discovered that he had nothing to do, nothing to say, no step to take.

That return had been at the end of October; from then until the end of November he waited, expecting that she would write to him; still, by this antic.i.p.ation, were Mrs. Pont and Mrs. Pont's world kept at bay.

No word came. Driven now to take some step that would shatter this silence, he wrote to her a long letter about nothing very much, only something that would bring him a line from her.

For ten days now he had waited and there had come no word. As these first flakes of snow softly, relentlessly, fell past his window the nebulous cloud of all the uncertainties, disappointments, rebellions, of this pointless wasted thing that men called Life crystallized into form--"I'm no good--Life, like this, it's impossible--I'm no good against it--I'd better climb down...."

And here the irony of it was that he'd never climbed _up_.

The awful moments in Life are those that threaten us by their suspension of all action. "Just feel what's piling up for you out of all this silence," they seem to say. Breton's trouble now was that he did not know in what direction to move. His relation to Rachel was so nebulous that it could scarcely be called a relation at all.

He only knew that she alone was the person for whom now life was worth combating. He had told her in his letter that she could help him, and the absence of an answer spoke now, in this threatening silence, with mighty reverberating voice. "She doesn't care."

Well then, who else is there? Almost he could have fancied that his grandmother, there in the Portland Place house, was withdrawing from him all the supports in which he trusted.

Now the snow, falling ever more swiftly, ever more stealthily, seemed to be with him in the room, stifling, choking, blinding.

He felt that if he could not find company of some kind he would go mad, and so, leaving the storm and the silence behind him in his room, he went to find Lizzie Rand.

II

Lizzie Rand did not conceal from herself now that she loved him. So long had her emotional life been waiting there, undesired, that now it could be kept by her utterly apart from her daily habit, but it became a flame, a fire, that lighted with its splendid warmth and colour the whole of her accustomed world. She indulged it now without restraint, through the long dark autumn she had it treasured there; she did not, as things then were, ask for more than this splendid knowledge that there was now someone upon whom she loved to spend her care. She had not loved to spend it upon her mother and sister, but that had been a duty defined and necessary. Now everything that she could do for Breton was more fuel to fling to her flame. That further question as to whether he might care for her she kept just in sight, but nevertheless not definite enough to risk the absolute challenge.

At least, now, as the weeks pa.s.sed, he sought her company more and more.

She helped him, she cheered and comforted him, enough for her present need.

Even, beyond it all, could she survey herself humorously. This the first love affair of her life made her smile at her capture and defeat.

"Well, I'm just like the rest--And oh! I'm glad, I'm glad that I am."

Finally she knew that there was still a step that might be taken, between them, at any moment. He had, she knew, something to tell her.

Again and again lately he had been about to speak and then had caught the impulse back.

This too she would not examine too closely, but from the moment that he should demand from her definite concrete a.s.sistance, from that moment she would be to him what she knew no one now living could claim to be.

Breton was glad when the little maid told him that Mrs. Rand was out, but that Miss Lizzie was at home. He saw her in the warm cosy room, sitting before the fire with her toes on the fender and her skirts pulled up, drying her shoes.

She looked up and smiled at him and told him to sit down, but did not move from her position.

"Mother's out at a matinee with Daisy. I got away early this afternoon.

Do you hate snow, Mr. Breton?"

"I hate it to-day. I've got the dumps. I had to find someone to talk to or I'd have gone screaming into the street----"

"Couldn't find anyone better, so took me--thank you for the compliment.

But I like the snow. Your pool's more like a pool now than ever, Mr.

Breton."

He went across to the window and stood there looking at the little square now white with the gaunt trees rising black from the heart of it and the grey houses that hemmed it in. Over it the snow, yellow and grey and then delicately white, swirled and tossed.

He came back and sat down beside her and wondered at her neat comfort and air of calm control of all her emotions and desires.

She, looking at him, saw that he was ill. Dark lines beneath his eyes, his cheeks pale and an air of picturesque melancholy that made her want first to laugh at him and then mother him.

"I know what's the matter with you," she said, nodding her head.

"What?"

"Something to do. That's what you want." She turned towards him, looking at him with a little smile and yet with grave seriousness in her eyes.

"Oh! Mr. Breton, why don't you? What is the use of sitting here month after month, doing nothing, just waiting for something to happen--something that can't happen unless you make it? Things don't fall into people's mouths just because they sit with them open."

He coloured. "Everybody's always scolding me," he said.

"Christopher--you--everybody. n.o.body understands--how difficult...."

He broke off. So intangible were his difficulties that no words would define them, and yet, G.o.d knew, they were real enough.

"I know--" she said, nodding her head. "It's the thought of them all at Portland Place that's holding you back. You began by fancying that you wanted to cut their throats, and you still wouldn't mind slaughtering them if only they in their turn would do something definite. It's their doing _nothing_ that just holds you up. But really as long as your grandmother's alive I'm afraid that it's no good thinking of them. When she's dead--and she _can't_ live for ever--anything may happen.

Meanwhile why not show them what you _can_ do?"

"But what _can_ I do?" he answered her fiercely. "I've never been brought up to do anything--except what I oughtn't--There's my arm and one thing and another--Besides, there's more than that in it, Miss Rand.

It's the fact that--well, that there's n.o.body that cares that's--so freezing. If only somebody minded----"