The Duchess of Wrexe Part 86

"She wouldn't listen when I wanted to tell her how sorry I was. She seems now not to care."

"She's never forgiven anyone anything before," said

Rachel.

"Hush, my dear, I don't think you ought to say that. We've never understood her, any of us. She's always been beyond us. You'll realize to-morrow, Rachel, how wonderful, how _wonderful_ she is!"

But he was very happy. He had his old Rachel back, the old Rachel whom he had expected never to see again. She sat between him and Christopher, at dinner, no longer fierce and ironical, with sudden silences and swift angers, but affectionate, sympathetic, happy.

"Mother will see you to-morrow," Adela told her. "She's glad that you've come. The morning's rather a bad time for her. Could you stay for the whole day?"

"Of course," Rachel said.

At the end of the evening she went up to Lizzie's room; when midnight rang from the tower they parted, but first, Rachel said:

"Lizzie, I wonder whether you realize what you've been--to all of us--to me of course ... but to the others--to the whole family."

"Oh! Nonsense!"

"Roddy was speaking about it yesterday. He said that you were the most wonderful person in all the world for making all the difference without saying or doing anything--by just being there."

"Oh, Roddy thinks everybody----"

"But this is what I'm coming to. You can't yourself know how much difference you make to everyone. But there's just this.... Roddy feels and I feel that when--He--comes (of course it'll be a boy) we'd rather have you for his friend than anyone in the whole world. You will--you will be, won't you?"

"My dear--I should _think_ so. I'll whack him and bath him and snub him and teach him his letters--anything you like." Then she added, rather gravely:

"There's one thing, Rachel, I've wanted to say for some time. I want you to know definitely, that all wounds are closed now, everything's healed--about Mr. Breton, I mean. I was afraid that you might think I still cared.... That's all ended, closed up, that little episode.

"You needn't be afraid, Rachel. I'm happier, I'm freer than I've ever been in my life.... Good night, my dear. Your friends.h.i.+p is more to me than any number of heart-burnings.... I was always meant to be independent, you know...."

II

It was very strange to Rachel, who had been, on so many, many evenings, to that other room, to pause now outside this new door, to knock with the house solemn and still around her, to hear Dorchester's voice, then, with the old hesitation and--yes--with some of the old fear, to enter.

She had considered what she would say. Coming down in the train she had turned it over and over--her apology, her submission, her cry: "See, I'm different--utterly different from the Rachel whom you knew.... I was a prig of the very worst. I deserved everything you thought of me. Just say you forgive me even though you can't like me." This was the kind of thing that, in the train, had seemed possible enough; now, with the opening of the door and that sharp recurrence of the old thrill, she was not at all sure that she wanted to be submissive and affectionate. "I don't feel fond of her--nothing could make me--there are too many things...."

s.p.a.ce and silence saluted Rachel. Two great mirrors ran from floor to ceiling, high windows flooded the room with light and everything seemed to be intended only for such a situation as this--the very house, the grounds, the colour of the day had arranged themselves, in their purity and air and silence, about the central figure. The d.u.c.h.ess lay in a long low chair before the window; she was wrapped in white shawls and thick rugs covered her body; Dorchester, the same stern, unbending Dorchester, said gravely to Rachel, "Good afternoon, my lady. I hope that you are well," then moved into another room.

The d.u.c.h.ess had not stirred at the sound of the closing doors, nor at Dorchester's voice, nor at Rachel's approach. She was gazing out, beyond the windows, to the expanse of sunlit country, fields that sloped towards the river, an orchard, white with blossom, running down the hill, its colour, dazzling, almost visibly trembling against the sky.

Rachel had only seen her in the Portland Place rooms, with the china dragons, the gold ornaments, the red lacquer bed, the blazing wall-paper. It had seemed then that she must have those things around her, that she needed the colour and extravagance to support her flaming pa.s.sion for life, so curbed and shackled by disease.

Their absence made her older, feebler, more human, but also grander and more impressive. Rachel had always feared her, but despised herself for her fear; now she was in the presence of something that made her proud to be afraid.

She thought that she might be asleep, so she moved, very quietly, a chair forward near the window and, sitting down, waited. The only sound in all the world was the steady splash--splash--splash of the fountain below, the only movement the stealthy creeping of the long shadows, flung by white boulder clouds, across the s.h.i.+ning fields.

Suddenly, without turning her head, the d.u.c.h.ess spoke.

"Very good of you, Rachel. I hoped that you would come."

Her voice was weak, her words indistinct as though she were speaking through m.u.f.fled shawls, but, nevertheless, behind them the presence of the old dominating will was to be discerned, but now it was a will quiescent, struggling no longer for power.

"I would have come before if you had sent for me. I'm so glad that you did."

"I can't talk for very long, my dear, and I don't suppose that you want to spend hours in my company any more than you've ever done. No, you needn't protest. We're neither of us here for compliments.... But there's something that I must say to you. Christopher allows me half an hour."

"I hope you're better--that being here has done you good."

"Better? Nonsense. I don't want to be better. That's all over and done with. I had another stroke three days ago and the next one will finish me. So don't pretend. You used to be honest enough. I've asked you to come because I want to speak to you about Roddy."

"He wrote," Rachel said.

"Yes. I got his letter. I couldn't reply. I can't write myself and I won't have anyone else do it for me. Besides, there was nothing to write about. He said he was sorry about that little conversation we all had together the other day."

"And I--" Rachel began eagerly, "I was so sorry. I've been longing to tell you--it was all wrong, but Roddy has no imagination. He didn't realize in the least----"

"Ah, my dear. I expect I know Roddy a great deal better than you do.

He'll do the same sort of thing to you, one day. He's got the devil in him and will always have it, however much you coddle him or let him lie there thinking over his sins. Do you suppose I'd have been so fond of Roddy all these years if I hadn't known him capable of such little revenges? I liked it. There was no need to write to me and he knew it--but I'm afraid you influence him a good deal."

Rachel coloured. "I hope----"

"Oh yes, you do, and that's exactly why I wanted to see you."

She turned then and, very carefully, very slowly, her eyes searched Rachel's face.

"I let him marry you, you know. I thought it would be good for you. If I'd guessed the effect that you'd have had upon him I'd have prevented it."

Rachel's anger was rising.

"What effect?"

"He's begun to worry about other people--a fatal thing with a man like Roddy who was meant to do things, not think about them. But, anyway, that's all too late now.... Waste of time discussing it.... What I wanted you for is this----"

Her eyes left Rachel's face and returned to the window.

"You're the one person now that influences him and you will always be so. I can see ahead well enough. Poor Roddy ... and he might have been a fine man. All the same, I admire him for it; there are things about you I could have liked if I'd wanted to find them, but we've been fighting from the beginning until now--when it's the end ..." She caught her breath, stayed for an instant struggling for words, then went on:

"We can call a truce now. We don't like one another, but just at the moment you're moved a little because I'm feeble and shall be dead in a fortnight. That disturbs you.... It needn't. Some months ago a moment did come when I realized that I should die soon. I hated it--I fought and struggled with all my might ... but now that it has come it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I regret nothing. I've had my time. I hate the new generation, the manly woman and the soft man with all this sentimental nonsense about caring for other people. Think of yourself, fight for yourself, keep up your pride--that's the only way the world's ever been run. You're a sentimentalist and you're making one of Roddy.... Nonsense it all is.... But all this isn't what I really wanted to say." She turned back and her eyes, as again they held Rachel, were softer.

"Roddy's been my only weakness. I've loved that boy and he's far too good and fine for a wobbler like yourself. That's why I hated it the other day. I couldn't bear that he should see me beaten by the pair of you, both of you thinking yourself so n.o.ble with your fine confessions--not that I believe a word that you said--but it was clever of you. You _are_ clever and know how to manage men.

"Yes, that hurt me, but afterwards I loved him all the better, I believe. I'd rather he hadn't written me that soppy letter, but that was your doing, of course.... But listen. After I'm gone, I want Roddy to think of me kindly. He's going to think very much what you make him.

It's in your hands. You, when you've got past this sentimental moment, will hate the memory of me. It's natural that you should and I'm sure I don't mind. But I want you to leave Roddy alone. If he likes to think of me kindly, let him. Don't blacken his mind to me. I wish to feel--my only weakness I do believe--that Roddy will be fond of my memory. That rests with you."

She stopped with a little final movement of her head as though, having said what had been in her mind for a long while, she was finished, absolutely, with it all, and wanted no word more with any human being.