The Duchess of Wrexe Part 21

"I'd go back at once--I've almost gone back already--not abroad, that never again for long--but back to my friends, the unfortunates--" He laughed. "They're anxious to have me. They'll welcome me. I can have my cards and the rest then, with no one to object or to lecture--and I'll be done for quite nicely, completely done for."

Then he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders. "But one thing keeps me," he said. "Something's happened in the last few weeks--I've met somebody----"

"Yes," she said almost in a whisper.

"Somebody who's made it worth while for me to fight on a bit." She could feel his agitation: his voice, although he tried very hard to control it, was shaking. Then he laughed, raised his voice and caught and held her eyes with his.

"But there, Miss Rand. I've talked a fearful lot, only I wanted to tell you--I had to tell you. And now--if you feel--that you'd rather not know me, you've only got to say so."

She laughed a little unsteadily.

"Thank you for taking me into your confidence. You shall never regret it. I'm glad you're going to hold on, and, after all, we're all doing that more or less."

"It's done me a world of good talking like this. It's what I've been wanting for months."

She quieted her emotion. Looking out into the stars she knew that she believed every word that he had said. She thought that she valued Truth above every other quality; the directness that there was in Truth; its honesty and clarity. He might not always be honest with her, but she would never forget that he had, on this night, at least, spoken no falsehood.

Life--her work, her surroundings, Portland Place, her home--this was full of falsehood and deceit and muddle.

Here, this evening, at last, was honesty.

They said no more, but sat there silently and listened to the echo of dance music from some house.

Mrs. Rand, whom their conversation had lured into oblivion of them, was roused now by their silence.

She looked up. "It's quite splendid," she said, "you must read it, Lizzie. The part about the Riviera is lovely." Then, slowly remembering, "Really, Mr. Breton, I'm afraid you must consider me very rude."

He came towards her, a.s.suring her that his evening had been delightful.

Lizzie was happy, happier than she could ever remember to have been before. She felt her cheeks burn. She leant out of the window to cool them. She flung back, over her shoulder:

"By the way, Mr. Breton--a piece of gossip. Your cousin is to marry Sir Roderick Seddon!"

She could not see him. He said nothing. Mrs. Rand said:

"Really, Lizzie! How interesting! How long's that been announced?"

"Oh! it isn't announced. I don't believe that he's even asked her, but all the house knows it. It's settled. I believe she likes him immensely and, of course, the d.u.c.h.ess is devoted to him."

Anything would do to talk about. What did it matter? Only that she should keep on talking so that they should not see how happy she was--how happy!

He said good night, rather sharply; his voice was constrained as though he too were keeping in his emotion.

After he had gone Mrs. Rand said, "I don't like him, my dear. I can't help it--you may laugh at me--but my impressions are always right. He hardly spoke to me all the evening."

"Why, mother, you were reading. How could he?"

"That's all very well, but I don't like him. And I believe he's in love with his cousin. He went quite white when you spoke about the engagement."

"Mother--how absurd you are. He's only seen her once----"

"Well, my dear, that's a book you ought to read; really, I haven't enjoyed anything so much for weeks. I simply----"

Up in her bedroom Lizzie flung wide her window and laughed at the golden moon. Then she lay, for hours, staring at the pale light that it flung upon her ceiling.

Oh! what a fool she was! But she was happy, happy, happy. And he needed someone to look after him--he did, indeed!

CHAPTER XI

HER GRACE'S DAY

I

The d.u.c.h.ess had suffered, during the last five or six years, from sleeplessness, and throughout these hot days and nights of June and July sleep almost deserted her. Grimly she gave it no quarter, allowing to no one that she was sleeping badly, pretending even to Christopher that all was well.

Nevertheless those long dark hours began to tell upon her. She had known many nights sleepless through pain, certain nights sleepless through anxiety, but they, terrible though they had been, had not worn so stern a look as these long black s.p.a.ces of time when all rest and comfort seemed to be drawn from her by some mysterious hand.

To herself now she admitted that she dreaded that moment when Dorchester left her; she began to do what she had never in her life done before, to fall asleep during the daytime. Small mercy to anyone who might attract any attention to those little naps.

She fell asleep often towards six or seven and, therefore, without any comment, Dorchester, seeing her fatigue, left her to sleep until late in the morning. She had not for many years left her room before midday, but she had been awake with her correspondence and the papers by half-past seven at the latest. Now it was often eleven before she awoke.

She found that she did not awake with the energy and freshness that she had always known before. About her there always hovered a great cloud of fatigue--something not quite present, but threatening at any moment to descend.

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 not removed from her that threatening cloud: she heard a clock strike eleven. Dorchester was drawing back the curtains and from behind the blinds there leapt upon her a blazing, torrid day.

Her bedroom carried on the touch of fantasy that her other room had shown; she was lying in a red lacquer j.a.panese bed that mounted up behind her like a throne. Her wall-paper was an embossed dull gold and the chairs were carved Indian, of black ebony.

Lying in bed she appeared very old and ugly; the sharp nose was exceedingly prominent and her white hair scattered about the pillow gave her face the colour of dried parchment.

Dorchester brought her her chocolate and her letters and _The Times_ and the _Morning Post_.

"Another terribly hot day, your Grace."

"Yes--I suppose so." As she took her letters she felt, for the first time in her life, that it would perhaps be better to lie in bed for the rest 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 she will 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 dozed again, whilst the chocolate grew cold and the births and deaths and marriages grew aged and stale. She did not care, she did not want to see her daughter ... she did not want to see anyone, nor was there anything now in the world worth her energy or trouble. Her body, being now at ease, was called back to days, brighter days, days filled with thrilling events and thrilling people, days when the world was a world and not a dried-up cinder. Those were men ... those were women ... and then, suddenly, she was conscious first that her daughter was speaking and then 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.