The Rain-Girl/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII
THE DELUGE
WHEN a man is thinking epics it is difficult for him to compose an ordinary letter. Beresford leaned back in his chair frowning. For fully an hour he had been engaged upon the unequal struggle. On the table before him lay a number of discarded sheets of note-paper. Some broke off suddenly at the second line, others ran to the end of the first page, whilst one had actually turned the corner and showed two lines written upon the second page.
Had ever man such a letter to write in all the world before? Why write at all? Just because he had behaved like an ass, there was no need to make a fuss about it, as if it were a reduction in his golf-handicap; yet he must tell her, at least
"Damn!"
With a great air of decision he seized the pen and, snatching a clean sheet of paper from the rack, wrote:—
"Dear Rain-Girl."
Then he paused. That was where he always paused. There were innumerable sheets of note-paper on the table that testified to the fact. He bit the end of the pen. He felt like a man with an impediment in his speech, who all his life had been striving to say "good-bye"; but had never been able to get beyond the preliminary "gug-gug."
He added a comma after "Girl," then he made a slight alteration in the tail of the "R"; finally he got going.
For five minutes he wrote slowly and laboriously, then picking up the letter he read it deliberately, only to throw it down in disgust. It was difficult to strike the medium between the flippant and the sentimental. He had a horror of appearing like the heroine of a melodrama bent on secretly leaving home, who for five minutes stands in a draughty doorway bidding good-bye to the furniture. No, there must be no self-pity in anything he wrote to Lola.
After all, what did it matter how he expressed himself? All that was necessary was to tell her that he was going away, and that in as few words as possible. Once more he selected a sheet of note-paper, this time with an air of grim determination, and proceeded to write slowly and without hesitation:—
"It's the end of the holiday, Rain-Girl. In a few hours I am going away—ever so far away. Good-bye; even a midsummer madness must end. It has all been rather wonderful.
"R. B."
With great deliberation he reached for an envelope, folded and inserted the note, stuck down the flap and addressed it. Then, leaning back in his chair, he sighed his relief.
For the next half-hour his pen moved rapidly over the paper. Letter after letter was written, read and approved. He was engaged in putting his house in order.
He found himself regarding everything with a strange air of detachment. It was as if it all concerned another rather than himself. Lola had gone out of his life—nothing really mattered now.
It was futile to indulge in vain regrets. There had been a time when he felt that Fate had played him a scurvy trick in bringing Lola into his life at a time when she could mean nothing to him; but that was past. Now he was able to regard everything in its just relation to his own destiny.
It was strange how easily the mind seemed to adjust itself to new conditions. He remembered how in France his first instinct had been one of fear, then had come indifference, a soul-numbing fatalism, finally caution, a sort of gun-shyness that had come with the full realisation of the awfulness of it all. Would the same mental processes manifest themselves now? He was certainly in the indifferent stage. It would be horrible if, at the last moment, he were to hesitate. No, he must cut his loss and clear out.
"Dropping down the river on a nine-knot tide." Somewhere he remembered having read the line. He had been struck with it at the time, now it possessed for him a very special significance. At half-past six on the morrow he would be "dropping down the river on a nine-knot tide."
That morning he had been down to the docks and arranged everything. He had signed-on aboard the Allanmore as assistant-purser outward bound for Sydney. It was all through Tallis. What a splendid fellow he was. Dr. Seaman seemed to expect him and had arranged everything.
He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Rising, he picked up his hat and went out into the sunshine. Just why he did it he could not have said. He strolled along Regent Street, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the warmth. Opposite Gérard's he encountered Edward Seymour, gazing about him with the air of a dog that is to be called for. Beresford recognised the symptoms. Edward Seymour was shopping with Mrs. Edward, and had been left outside.
Seymour nodded in his usual off-hand manner. Beresford decided that he looked more than ever like a sandy ferret.
"Edward, you ought to meet Mr. Deacon Quelch," he said. It was always amusing to spring irrelevant remarks upon Edward Seymour, who would take a parliamentary candidate's promises seriously.
"Who's he?" demanded Seymour, "and why ought I to meet him?"
"His happiness, like yours, Edward, is linked up with the other world."
Edward Seymour screwed up his face, with him always an indication that he was puzzled. At that moment they were joined by Mrs. Edward.
"D'you know Deacon Quelch?" he asked, following his unvarying rule of appealing to his wife for guidance.
Mrs. Edward turned to Beresford, of whom she was always suspicious.
"I was merely telling Edward of the joys of the hereafter," he explained, "when Aunt Caroline has gone there, that is, and he is left with what she couldn't take with her."
"Why don't you get something to do, Richard?" Mrs. Edward felt safe in carrying the war into the enemy's country.
"But isn't the Ministry of Munitions closing down?" he enquired innocently.
Mrs. Edward flushed.
"What are you doing here?" she asked quickly.
"I'm going to buy some flowers," said Beresford. He had just been struck with the idea of sending Lola a parting gift.
"For Miss Craven, I suppose," sneered Edward Seymour.
Beresford smiled. "Good-bye," he said, and lifting his hat he entered the florist's shop.
The flowers ordered and paid for, Beresford continued his stroll, choosing thoroughfares where he was least likely to encounter friends or acquaintance. Finding himself at Baker Street he decided to spend an hour with the squirrels in Regent's Park. It was very difficult, he decided, for a man to know how to occupy his last day in England. He felt like an excursionist who has come south to see the final of the football cup, and finds himself landed in London at three a.m., whereas the match is due to start at three-thirty p.m.
At half-past six he was back at his chambers. For half an hour he glanced over the newspapers he had brought in with him, and then proceeded leisurely to dress. By a quarter to eight he was ready. Picking up the letters he had writen, his gloves and stick, he walked down the stairs rather than ring for the lift. Giving the porter the letters and half-a-crown, he told him to have them stamped and posted. He then strolled slowly along Jermyn Street in the direction of the Ritz-Carlton, where he had booked a table for dinner.
Sometimes at the thought of Lola a passion of protest would surge up in him; but he had by now reasoned himself to a state of almost ice-cold logic. That morning he had settled matters once and for all as far as his future was concerned. The Challices were noted for their grim determination. His great-uncle, the Admiral, had been known as "Bulldog Challice," and in the Peninsular war old Sir Gilbert Challice had fought one of the most remarkable and tenacious rearguard actions in history, an action that had drawn grudging praise from Napoleon himself.
Yes; he had made up his mind, and he was going to see things through; at least, the old brigade of Challices should not have cause to feel ashamed of a mercenary descendant.
The dinner was excellent, the temperature of the burgundy perfect. The maître d'hôtel, himself, supervised the service, and when at half-past nine Beresford rose from the table, he was conscious of a feeling of artistic content. Yes, he would run into the Empire. It would bring back memories of the old Oxford days, and those illicit excursions to London.
He was not particularly interested in the performance; such things, as a rule, rather bored him. He waited to the end, even for the pictures. As he passed out and joined the crowd moving slowly westward, he found himself wondering what Aunt Caroline would say, what the Edward Seymours would say to each other and to Aunt Caroline. What would old Drew think?
He at least would be a little sorry, he
"All right, sir, I'll move on."
Beresford had almost fallen over a bundle of rags huddled upon a doorstep.
"Here, hold out your hand," he cried, struck with a sudden idea. Putting his hand in his pocket he drew out all the loose silver and copper he had and dropped it into the grimed and shaking hand that was extended. Then he passed on, conscious of a splutter of thanks behind him. He was not the only one up against things.
What would Lola think? Would she be sorry; would she? He gritted his teeth. Here had been the danger-point all along. Time after time she had presented herself to his thoughts, and he had shut her out. Once let her in, he realised, and that would be the end—the wrong end. As he reached the entrance to his chambers, for some reason that he was unable to explain, he turned and looked first up and then down Jermyn Street. Yes, he was glad the tablets had not won.
He pushed open the door.
"There's a lady to see you, sir."
The porter had approached unseen. Beresford looked blankly at his expressionless face. For a moment he was dazed.
"I showed her up, sir. She could not wait down here"
"Showed her up where?" asked Beresford. Even he was conscious of the strange note in his voice, suggestive of surprise and curiosity.
"In your sitting-room, sir. She's been here nearly two hours." The man moved automatically towards the lift and Beresford followed. "She wouldn't give a name, sir," he added, as the lift stopped with a jerk.
A lady to see him. Of course, it was either some stupid blunder on the part of the porter, or else it was a dream. Ladies did not call The porter crashed open the gate.
Beresford passed on to the outer door of his flat. A lady in his sitting-room. Wasn't it Drewitt who had said something about a rhinoceros being in Lola's bathroom? Suddenly he found his pulses beating wildly.
Lola! Was it With trembling fingers he took out his keys and fumbled to get the outer door open. Why was he so awkward, he who a moment ago had been calmness personified? Would the wretched key never find its way in and the door open? Ah! that was it. Closing the door quickly he took three steps, threw open the sitting-room door and there
It was Lola!
He stood staring at her, his jaw dropped, unconscious that his hat was still on his head.
She rose from the big chair in which she had been sitting. How pale and slight she looked. He noticed that in her right hand was a letter. Yes, she was wearing the same black frock she had worn at Folkestone and—yes, red roses, too. He noticed that her cloak was lined with some tint of amber, or was it orange? Then suddenly his faculties returned to him with a rush. With a swift movement he threw his hat, stick and gloves on to a chair.
"Lola!" It was a sob rather than a greeting.
Suddenly there had come back to him with overwhelming force the realisation of what he had planned to do. He was like a man who has just realised that he has passed through some awful danger. It was the reaction. It was the great will to live, and going away would have been death. Where had he heard that before? Yes, he remembered, Tallis had prophesied it.
"Lola!"
At the cry she had merely held out to him a letter. Mechanically he took it. It was the one he had written that afternoon and told the porter to post.
"How" he began.
"I—I came back suddenly." Her voice was almost a whisper. "I felt that something"
She was swaying slightly. How deathly pale she was. She was going to faint.
With a swift movement he clasped her in his arms.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" he whispered passionately, and the only reply was sobs that seemed to tear and rend her whole body.
"But why, why did you?" She looked at him, her lower lip quivering.
"Wasn't it better than becoming the Fortieth Article?" he asked quizzically.
A slight smile flickered across her face. She was lying back in the big leather-covered arm-chair, Beresford kneeling beside her.
"It was so—so unfair," she said.
"Unfair?" he repeated.
"Yes, to—to your friends; but you won't now?" The look of fear was still in her eyes.
"Don't let's talk about it, Rain-Girl," he said steadily.
"But we must talk about it," she persisted. "We must. Promise me?"
He was silent.
"Promise me," she persisted, leaning forward and putting her hand on his shoulder. "Give me your word that you won't?"
"You don't understand."
"I do, oh! I do," she cried. "Oh, you must promise, you must. I felt that something was the matter. I—that is why I had to come back. You must."
The first emotional tension somewhat relaxed, Beresford found himself wondering what was to happen. Suddenly he remembered the letter.
"How did you get my note? I told the man to post it to-night."
"It was brought round by hand," she said.
A whirr from the mantelpiece caused him to look round. The clock was about to strike twelve.
"Lola, look at the time. You mustn't stay here."
"I shall have no reputation now," she said with a wan smile.
"I'll take you back to your hotel."
She shook her head.
"Dearest, you don't understand." He shook her in his eagerness. "You can't stay here, it's twelve o'clock."
"I know," she said quietly.
"But don't you understand?" he persisted.
"Ummmm," she nodded her head.
"Please get up and let me put your cloak on, I'll take you round"
She shook her head decisively.
"But" began Beresford, and then paused.
"Not until you promise," she said quietly.
"Promise," he repeated dully.
She nodded.
For fully a moment he was silent, then in a very quiet, restrained voice he said, "I promise, Lola, to do nothing until I see you again."
"Honest Injun?" she asked, sitting up.
"Honest Injun," he repeated, then they both laughed.
"But I've signed-on as assistant-purser," he said whimsically.
"Signed-on!" she repeated with widening eyes.
"Well, it's really a sort of wangle," he explained. "I shipped as assistant-purser. Tallis arranged it, Lola!"
"Oh!"
She drew back from him into the furthest corner of the chair behind her, covering her face with her hands.
"Lola, what is it; what's the matter?"
"Please, please go away," she moaned, still shielding her face with her hands.
"You must tell me," he persisted. "What have I said; what have I done?"
"I—I thought you were"
Suddenly light dawned upon him.
"You thought I was going to" he hesitated.
She nodded, still with her hands before her face.
"My God! and that is why?" he began.
"Oh! what have I done? what have I done?" she moaned.
"Listen, Rain-Girl," he said quietly, kneeling beside her. "That might have been the way out, but for Tallis. I told you about him."
Gently he drew her hands away; but she still averted her face.
"Don't you see what I" she began, then suddenly she drew in her lower lip as if to still its quivering.
"You must go home now," he said gently, "and I must see you in the morning."
"But—but" she began.
"Promise you will let me see you in the morning," he said. "You will?"
"Yes," she whispered faintly.
Very docilely she permitted him to place her cloak upon her shoulders and then walked to the door, still with averted eyes.
"Please—please try and understand," she whispered.
For answer he lifted her hand to his lips and they went out together.