The Duchess of Wrexe Part 76

Hard and utterly selfish in all her ordinary dealings with a world that she professed to despise but really adored, her love for Roddy was a little golden link to a thousand softnesses and, as she termed them, weak indulgences. Why had she loved him so? She was like the grim pirate of some conventional fiction. See him on his dark vessel surveying with cold and cruel eye the beautiful captives provided by the stricken s.h.i.+p, on every side of him! See him select, for the very flavour that the contrast gave him, some ordinary slave from the crowd to whom he shows weak indulgence! So much blacker, he feels, does this kindness make his infamies.

But the d.u.c.h.ess's career as the dark pirate of her period was swiftly vanis.h.i.+ng; the black hulk of her vessel remained, but upon its boards only the little slave was to be seen, and even he, with furtive eye, sought his way of escape.

Yes, on this torrid evening every soul in that vast city, surely, felt that he was alone, abandoned, in a desert of a world. But the fear that she was losing even Roddy brought the d.u.c.h.ess very close to panic. She had not grasped before how resolutely she had been using him to bolster up life for her, how important his friendly existence was for her.

Since his marriage that friendliness had grown, with every hour, weaker. Something she must do now to repair her error of the other day; she was even ready to pretend affection for her granddaughter if that would bring Roddy back to her.

She watched the sky and longed for the threatened storm to break; her bones were indeed old and feeble to-day, to move at all was an effort and, with it all, there was a sense of apprehension as though she were some terrified bird conscious of the hawk's approach, she who had, until now, been herself the hawk. She remembered the day when she had realized more poignantly than ever before, that the hour must come--and indeed was not far away--when she would inevitably meet death. She had loathed that realization, attempted to defy it, been defeated by it. Now on this evening, she suspected again the invasion of that same power. But to-night there was no resistance in her, she lay there, whitely submitting to the tyranny of any enemy. She could scarcely breathe; London, like a scaly dragon, flung its hot breath upon her and withered her defiance. She would have moved away from the window had not those grey roofs held her, by their ugly indifference, with a terrible fascination. "I'm going--I'm going--and they don't care. Just like that--just like that--long after I'm gone."

The evening slipped away and Dorchester, coming to her, thought that she was sleeping; she did not disturb her, but ordered her evening meal to be kept until she should wake.

The d.u.c.h.ess did sleep. She awoke to find, in the sky above the now vanis.h.i.+ng roofs, a golden glow and in the room behind her the shaded lamps, the fire burning, and her table spread.

But she had had a horrible dream; she struggled to recall it and, even as she struggled, trembling seized her body as the vague horror that it had left behind it still thrilled and troubled her.

She could recollect nothing of her dream except this, that she had died, and that being dead, she was immediately aware that G.o.d awaited her.

She could remember her frantic effort to rea.s.sert all those earthly convictions that had been based on the definite creed that the d.u.c.h.ess existed but _not_ G.o.d. She had still with her the sensation of hurry and dismay, the dismal knowledge that she had only a moment with which to break down the discoveries of a lifetime and place new ones in her stead.

She had, above all, the horrible knowledge that her punishment was settled, that at last she was in the hands of a power stronger than herself and that nothing, nothing, nothing could help her.

She was frightened, but she knew not by what or by whom. She tried to tell herself that she had been dreaming, that this breathless evening was responsible, that she would be all right very soon. But she was seized by that terrible vague uncertainty that had been with her so much lately, uncertainty as to what was real and what was not. She looked at the French novel lying upon her lap; that was real, she supposed, and yet as she touched its pages her fingers seemed to seize upon nothing, only air between them.

The fits of trembling shook her from head to foot and yet she could scarcely breathe, so close and heavy was the night.

"That was only a dream--only a dream. Suppose it should be true though.

What if I _were_ to die--to-night?"

Dorchester came to her and was alarmed.

"Dinner is ready, Your Grace."

Her mistress did not answer, but lay there, looking through the open window and s.h.i.+vering.

"Your Grace will catch cold by that open window. I had better close it."

"It's stifling--stifling."

"Will you have dinner now?"

"No--no. Why do you worry me? I can eat nothing."

Dorchester was seriously alarmed; an evening like this might very easily.... She determined to send word round to Dr. Christopher.

She went away, gave directions about the dinner, saw that her mistress's bedroom was warm and comfortable.

She came back. The d.u.c.h.ess was sitting up, colour in her cheeks and her eyes sparkling. On her lap lay a note.

"I've had a dream, Dorchester--a horrid dream. I was disturbed for a moment. I think I will eat something after all."

"The way she goes up and down!" thought Dorchester. "Must say I don't like the look of her--not knowing her own mind, so unlike her--Who's the letter from, I wonder?"

It was the letter, plainly, that had done it. Sitting up and enjoying her soup, forgetting that black sky and the Dragon's scaly menace, the d.u.c.h.ess knew that that dream--that dream about G.o.d--had been as silly, as futile as dreams always are.

The note, brought to her by Norris and lying now beside her plate, had told her so. The note of course had been from Roddy. It said:

"DEAR d.u.c.h.eSS,

I don't want to ask anything impossible of you, but, encouraged by your coming to me the other day and hearing that you took no harm from your expedition, I am wondering whether to-morrow afternoon about five you could come again and have tea with me.

There is something about which you can help me--only you in all the world. If I don't hear from you I will conclude that you can come--five o'clock.

Your affectionate friend,

RODDY."

That letter showed the perfection of his tactful understanding....

No absurd talk about her age, her feebleness, the weather, but simply it was taken for granted that of course she would be there. Well, of course, she _would_ be there--nothing should stop her. She was aware that Christopher, hearing that to-night she had not been so well, would certainly forbid her to move. He should, therefore, know nothing about it, nothing at all. His visit would be paid in the morning--she would have the afternoon to herself--Norris and Dorchester should help her to the carriage.

Christopher expected, on his arrival, to find her in a very bad way, exhausted by the closeness of the evening: it was possible that he might have to remain all night. He found her in bed, a lace cap on her head, a crimson dressing-gown about her shoulders, and all her rings glittering upon her fingers. An old-fas.h.i.+oned ma.s.sive silver candlestick with six branches illuminated the lacquer bed, the black Indian chairs, the fantastic wall-paper. The windows were closed and the dry heat of the room was appalling.

She was in her mildest, most amiable mood, had enjoyed an excellent dinner, laughed her cracked, discordant laugh, was delighted to see him.

"Sit down, there, close to me. Have some coffee."

"No, thank you."

"Dorchester can bring it in a minute."

"No, really, thank you."

"Who sent for you?"

"Lord John."

"Yes, I thought so. Pretty state of things with them all hanging round like this waiting for me to die--never felt better in my life."

"So I see--delighted. I'll go."

"Not a bit of it. Stay and talk. I feel like telling someone what I think of things, although you've heard it all often enough before. But the truth is, Christopher, I _did_ have a nasty dream--a very nasty dream--and the nastiest part of it was that I couldn't remember it when I woke up.

"But it's the weather--I was frightened for a minute although I wouldn't have anyone else know."

"But you had a good dinner."

"Splendid dinner, thank you."

She lay back in bed and looked at him; delightful to think that she would play a little game with him to-morrow; he would in all probability be angry when he knew--that would be very amusing; delightful, too, to think that, just when she was afraid that she had seriously alienated Roddy away from her, he should write and say that he needed her. She would go to-morrow and would be exceedingly pleasant to him and would rea.s.sure him about Rachel....

Yes, she had seldom felt so genial. She told Christopher stories of men and women whom she had known, wicked stories, gay stories, cruel stories, and her eyes twinkled and her fingers sparkled and her old withered face poked out above the dressing-gown, with the white hair, fine and proud beneath the lace cap.