CHAPTER XI
HER GRACE'S DAY
I
The Duchess had suffered, during the last five or six years, fromsleeplessness, and throughout these hot days and nights of June and Julysleep almost deserted her. Grimly she gave it no quarter, allowing to noone that she was sleeping badly, pretending even to Christopher that allwas well.
Nevertheless those long dark hours began to tell upon her. She had knownmany nights sleepless through pain, certain nights sleepless throughanxiety, but they, terrible though they had been, had not worn so sterna look as these long black spaces of time when all rest and comfortseemed to be drawn from her by some mysterious hand.
To herself now she admitted that she dreaded that moment when Dorchesterleft her; she began to do what she had never in her life done before, tofall asleep during the daytime. Small mercy to anyone who might attractany attention to those little naps.
She fell asleep often towards six or seven and, therefore, without anycomment, Dorchester, seeing her fatigue, left her to sleep until late inthe morning. She had not for many years left her room before midday, butshe had been awake with her correspondence and the papers by half-pastseven at the latest. Now it was often eleven before she awoke.
She found that she did not awake with the energy and freshness that shehad always known before. About her there always hovered a great cloud offatigue--something not quite present, but threatening at any moment todescend.
On a certain morning late in July she awoke after two or three hours'restless sleep. As she woke she was conscious that those hours had notremoved from her that threatening cloud: she heard a clock strikeeleven. Dorchester was drawing back the curtains and from behind theblinds there leapt upon her a blazing, torrid day.
Her bedroom carried on the touch of fantasy that her other room hadshown; she was lying in a red lacquer Japanese bed that mounted upbehind her like a throne. Her wall-paper was an embossed dull gold andthe chairs were carved Indian, of black ebony.
Lying in bed she appeared very old and ugly; the sharp nose wasexceedingly prominent and her white hair scattered about the pillow gaveher face the colour of dried parchment.
Dorchester brought her her chocolate and her letters and _The Times_ andthe _Morning Post_.
"Another terribly hot day, your Grace."
"Yes--I suppose so." As she took her letters she felt, for the firsttime in her life, that it would perhaps be better to lie in bed for therest of her life and conduct the world from there.
She put the letters down and stared at the day--
"Draw the curtains again, Dorchester, and kindly ask Lady Adela if shewill be so good as to come and see me in a quarter of an hour's time."
When Dorchester had gone she lay back and closed her eyes and dozedagain, whilst the chocolate grew cold and the births and deaths andmarriages grew aged and stale. She did not care, she did not want to seeher daughter ... she did not want to see anyone, nor was there anythingnow in the world worth her energy or trouble. Her body, being now atease, was called back to days, brighter days, days filled with thrillingevents and thrilling people, days when the world was a world and not adried-up cinder. Those were men ... those were women ... and then,suddenly, she was conscious first that her daughter was speaking andthen that her daughter was a tiresome fool.
She sat up a little and her nightdress fell back showing a neck bony,crinkled and yellow.
"I said a quarter of an hour," she snapped.
"It is a quarter of an hour, mother," said Lady Adela.
Lady Adela hated and dreaded these morning interviews. In the firstplace she disliked the decorations of her mother's bedroom, thought themalmost indecent, and could never be comfortable in such surroundings.She was also aware, by long experience, that her mother was always ather worst at this hour in the morning and many were the storms of temperthat that absurd bed and those unpleasant black chairs had witnessed.Thirdly she knew that she herself looked her worst and was her weakestamongst these eccentricities and shadowed by this dim light.
She waited now whilst her mother fumbled her letters.
"There's your chocolate, mother," she said at last. "It'll be cold."
The Duchess was looking at her letters, but was absorbing only a littleof their contents. She was summoning all her will to her aid; she wantedto order the blind to be pulled down, to command her daughter to avoidher presence for at least a week, to scatter her correspondence to thefour corners of the earth, and to see none of it again; at the same timeshe was driving into her brain the fact that before Adela, of all peoplein the world, she must be alert and wise and wonderful; Adela, theugliest and most foolish of living women, must see no weakness.
"Shall I read your letters to you, mother?"
She did not answer; slowly, steadily at last, her will was flooding herbrain. She could feel the warmth and the colour and the strength of itpervading again her body. The day did not now appear of so appalling aheat and the weight of the things to be done was less heavy upon her.
Lady Adela, meanwhile, watching her mother was struck once again by thatchill dismay that had alarmed her first on that May evening, after thevisit to the picture gallery. In that half-light her mother did seemvery, very old and very, very feeble. Lady Adela had a dreadfultemptation to say in a brusque sharp voice, "What do you let yourchocolate get cold like that for? Why don't you get someone to read yourletters sensibly to you instead of groping through them like that?" andat the mere horror of such a thought a shudder shook her and her heartbegan wildly to beat. Let once such words as those cross her lips and anedifice, a wonderful, towering temple raised by submissions and subdualsand self-denials, would tumble to the ground.
For some moments the struggle in Lady Adela's breast was sharp, then bya tense dominion of her will she produced once again for herself theCeremonial, the Terror, the agitated, humble Submission.
"Julia Massiter," the Duchess said, "has asked Rachel for the lastweek-end in July--She'll go of course----"
"Yes," said Lady Adela.
"Roddy Seddon is going----"
"Yes."
"Roddy is going to marry Rachel. He's coming to see me this afternoon."
Lady Adela was silent.
"A very suitable business. I'd intended it for a long time." Then, aftera pause--
"You may tell Dorchester I will dress now."
Lady Adela, conscious, as she left the room, of the relief of herdismissal, joyfully yielded that relief as witness--
The Terror was still there, and she was glad.
II
Very different, however, at three in the afternoon. Now she sat in herhigh black chair waiting for Roddy Seddon. Very difficult now to imaginethat early discourage of the morning. Magnificent now with her blackdress and flashing eyes and white hair, waiting for Roddy Seddon.
This that she had long planned was at length to come to pass. RoddySeddon was to be united to the Beaminster family, never again to beseparated from it.
Of Rachel she thought not at all. She had never liked Rachel; indeed itwas a more positive feeling than that. Alone of all the family wasRachel still in rebellion; even the Duke, although he was so oftenabroad or in the country (he hated London), was submissive enough whenhe was with them. But Rachel the old woman knew that she had nottouched.
Frightened--yes. The girl hated that evening half-hour and would give agreat deal to avoid it, but the terror that she showed did not bring herany closer to her grandmother's power; she stood outside and away.
The Duchess had attempted to influence the girl's brain, to catch sometrait, some preference, some dislike, that she could hold and use.
Still Rachel's soul was beyond her grasp, beyond even her guessing at.But she knew Roddy Seddon--she knew Roddy Seddon as no one knew him. AndRoddy Seddon knew her.
Even when he was a boy he had known her as no one else knew her. He hadseen through all her embroideries and disguises, had known where she wastheatrical and why she was so, had discovered her plots and pri
des, herdefeats and victories--and together they two, Pagan to the very bone ofthem, had laughed at a credulous, superstitious world.
The London that knew Roddy Seddon thought him a country bumpkin withdissipated tastes and an amiable heart. But she knew him better thanthat. He was not clever--no. He was amazingly innocent of books, he hadno intellectual attainments whatever--yet had he received any kind ofeducation, she knew that he might have had one of the finest brains inthe country.
He had preferred dogs and horses and the simple enjoyments of hissensations.
Bowing to the outward rules and laws of the modern world he was lessmodern than anyone she had ever known.
Pagan--root and branch Pagan. In his simplicities, in his complexities,in his moralities and immoralities, in his kindnesses andcruelties--Pagan.
When they were together it was astonishing the number of trappings thatthey were able to discard. They were Pagan together.
But Rachel? Rachel?
Well, Rachel did not matter. It would be a rather good sight to seeRachel suffer, to watch her proud spirit up against something that shecould not understand.
And meanwhile the Beaminster family was strengthened by a great additionand the campaign against this new generation, that refused to be led,that wished to lead, that thought itself so very, very brilliant, shouldgo victoriously forward....
"Sir Roderick Seddon, your Grace."
As she looked at the healthy and red-faced Roddy sitting opposite toher, for an instant, some sharp warning, some foreordained consciousnessof trouble to come, bade her pause. She knew that a word from her, now,would be enough to prevent the match. He would not prosecute it were sheagainst it. After all, ought Roddy to marry anybody? Could a girl, asignorant of the world as Rachel, put up any fight against Roddy's simplecomplexities?
What, after all, did Roddy think of the girl? Did he imagine that he wasin love with her? Did he know her, understand her?
Then, looking at him, the affection that she had for him--the onlyaffection that she had for anyone in the world--swept over her. Thismarriage would bind him to her, would give her another ally before theworld--yes, it should go on.
She smiled at him.
"Well, Roddy, have you no news for me, now?"
He had been silent, gazing before him, his brows puckered.
Now he smiled back at her.
"Well, there's been the usual doin's the last week or two. I've beendancin' every night till I'm tired. 'Bout time for the country agen----"
"Have you been down to Seddon at all?"
"Yes. Two nights last week--all dried up--Place wants me a bit oftenerdown there----"
"What's this I hear about young Olive Ormond marrying Besset Crewe'sdaughter?"
"So they say--can't imagine it myself. The girl's about eighty-four anda half and he's the most awful kid. Saw them at the opera the othernight----"
"What about Scotland this summer, Roddy? Are you going?"
"Don't think so. Depends----"
Then there was silence. The little conversation had been as stiff as itwas possible a conversation could be. The China dragons must havewondered--never before so constrained a dialogue between these two!
Now another pause, then suddenly Roddy, his hands clutching one another,his face redder than ever--
"I want--I wonder--dash it--have I your leave to ask your granddaughterto marry me?"
She laughed.
"Really, my dear Roddy, you've been very long about it--coming out withit, I mean. Didn't you know and didn't I know that that's what you camefor to-day?"
"Well then, may I?"
She paused and watched his anxiety. Between both of them there hung,now, the recollection of so many things--conversations and deeds andthoughts known to both of them, so many, many things that no others inall the world could know. She waited for his eyes, caught them and heldthem.
"Are you in love with her?"
"Yes--that is--she's splendid----"
"You haven't known her very long and you're a little impulsive, ain'tyou, Roddy, about these things?"
"No--I don't know her now. But we've seen a lot of one another theselast months--a fearful lot. She's--oh! hang it! I never can saythings--but she's a brick."
"Do you think she'll accept you?"
"How can any feller tell? I think she likes me--she's odd----"
"Yes--she is--very. She's a mixture--she's very young--and she won'tunderstand you."
His eyes were suddenly troubled and, as she saw that trouble, she wasalarmed. He really _did_ care....
"Yes, I know--I don't understand myself. I'm wild sometimes--I wish Iweren't----"
"Marriage is going to make you a model character, Roddy. Of course I'mglad--but it won't be easy, you know. And she won't be easy."
"I want her though. I've never thought of marriage before. I do wanther."
"My dear Roddy, you speak as though she were a sheep or a dog. It's onlyher first season. Don't you think you'd better wait a little?"
"No. I want her now."
"Well, you're definite enough--" She paused and then, in a voice thathad, in spite of her, real emotion, "You have my consent. You've got_my_ blessing."
He rose and came clumsily towards her.
"You don't know--I'm no use at words, but I'm dam' grateful--Rippin' ofyou!"
For a second he touched her dried, withered hand--how cold it was! andin this hot weather, too.
"You'll ask her at Julia Massiter's next week?"
"Expect so--I say you are----"
Then he sat down again. The room was relieved of an immense burden; oncemore they were at ease together.
"The other night--" he said, bending forward and chuckling ever solittle.
III
Lady Carloes, Agnes Lady Farnet, and old Mrs. Brunning were coming toplay bridge with her. The ceremonial was ever the same! They arrived athalf-past nine and at half-past eleven supper for four was served in theDuchess's little green room, behind her bedroom (a little room like abox with a green wall-paper, a card-table and silver candlesticks). Theyplayed, sometimes, until three or four o'clock in the morning; theDuchess played an exceedingly good game and Mrs. Brunning (a bony littlewoman like a plucked chicken) was the best bridge player in London. Theother two were moderate, but made mistakes which allowed the Duchess thefree use of her most caustic wit and satire.
Lord John came just before dinner as he always did for a few minutesevery evening. He stood there, fat and smiling and amiable and, asalways, a little nervous.
"Well, John?"
She liked John the best of her children, although he was, of course, themost fearful fool, but she liked his big broad face and he was alwaysclean and healthy; moreover, she could use him more easily than any ofthem.
"Bridge to-night, mother, isn't it?"
"Yes. Not so hot this evening. Just give me that book. Turn the lamp upa little--no--not that one. The de Goncourt book. Yes. Thank you."
"Anything I can get for you, mother? Anyone I can send to you?"
He was thinking, as he smiled down at her, "She's old to-night--old andtired. This hot weather...."
She looked up at him before she settled herself--
"Roddy Seddon came this afternoon----"
"Yes. I know."
Suddenly his heart began to beat. He had known, during all these lastweeks, of what the common talk had been. He knew, too, what hisconscience had told him, and he knew, too, how perpetually he hadsilenced that same conscience.
"He asked me whether he had my permission to propose to Rachel----"
"Yes."
"Of course I gave it him. I thought it most suitable in every way."
Now was Lord John's moment. He knew, even as it descended upon him, whatwas the right to do. He must protest--Roddy Seddon was not the right manto marry Rachel, Rachel who was to him more than anyone in the world--
He must protest--
And then with that impulse went the old warning that because his motherseemed to him
older and feebler to-night than he had ever known her,therefore if he spoke now, it would involve far more than the immediatedispute. There was a sudden impulse in him to risk discomfort, to risk ascene, to break, perhaps, in the new assertion of his authority, all theold domination, to smash a tradition to pieces.
He glanced at his mother. She met his eyes. He knew that she was daringhim to speak. After all to-morrow would be a better time--she was tirednow--he would speak then. His eyes fell, and after a pause and a wordabout some indifferent matter, he said good night and went.
IV
Once, in some early hour of the morning when the candles were burninglow, the thought of Rachel came to her.
Even as she noticed that her hand shone magnificently with hearts shewas conscious that the girl stood opposite to her, there against thegreen wall, straight and fierce, all black and white, looking at her.
Christopher? John?...
For a second her brain was clouded. Might she not have attempted somerelationship with the girl? Given her some counsel and a littlekindness? She must have been lonely there in that great house without afriend. She was going now into a very perilous business.
She pushed the weakness from her. Her eyes were again upon the cards.
"Hearts," she said. The odd trick this game and it was her rubber. Thedying flame rose in the silver sconces and the four old heads bobbed,wildly, fantastically, upon the wall.