But it was not passion—it was care, affection, even love; she loved him, yes, but she was not in love with him. He held all of her save that one part that Breton alone, of all human beings, had called out of her.
But she had learnt discipline during these weeks—down, down she drove rebellion, memory. She was Roddy's—she had dedicated her life to his happiness.
Then they came to London, Lizzie returned to her mother and to Lady Adela, and Rachel was alone. Life was again very difficult for her. Roddy was wonderfully cheerful, but Rachel found that she could not do very much for him. He liked to have her there, but she knew that many of his friends who could tell him the town gossip, the latest from clubs, the hunting and racing chatter entertained him more than she did. She had not, since her marriage, made many friends and she knew that almost everyone who came to their little house came for Roddy's sake rather than for hers. She did not mind that—she was glad that he was happy ... but she wished that he needed her a little more. Roddy urged her to drive, to see people, to dine and go to the theatre. She went because she saw that it disturbed him if he felt that she stayed indoors for his sake, but she did not enjoy her gaiety. When she was out she wished to hurry back to him and then, when she was with him again, she often wondered whether her presence made him any happier. Through all his intercourse with her she discerned a wistful restraint as though he would like to ask her for something that he had not got and yet was afraid. When she felt this in him she redoubled her affection towards him, but she thought that he noticed this and knew her effort.
Her thoughts went often now to Francis Breton, not as to anyone whom she would ever see again—but she hoped that he was happy, wondered whether there was anyone to look after him, wished that he had some friend so that she might know that he was safe. Her pride did not allow her to speak to Lizzie Rand about him; they had had one talk when Lizzie had taken her letter, but that was all.
Then, as February drew to a close, she was unwell; that was so unusual for her that she might have been disturbed had it been anything more material than headaches, strange fits of indifference to everything and a general failure of energy. She thought that she was indoors too much and was now in the air as often as her duties to Roddy allowed her.
But the indifference persisted. Her feelings for Roddy were an odd confusion; there were times, when she was away from him, and the thought of him made her heart beat—"This is love—at last." There were times again when, as she sat beside him, she could have beaten her hands against the walls for very boredom and for his impenetrable taciturnity as he read The Times from the Births and Marriages on the front page to the advertisements on the last and flung her details—"London Scottish won their game at Richmond—That Fettes man got over three times," or "I wouldn't give a button for that horse of old Tranty Stummits they're all so gone on. You mark my words...." "I'd like to see that new piece of Edwardes'"—"They've got a girl in it who dances on her nose—jolly pretty she is, too, so Massiter says. He's been five times and there's a song about moonlight or some old rot that they say is spiffin'——" How to adjust this horrible stupidity with the courage, the humour, the affection, even the poetry that she found in him at other times?
There were days when she cared for him with a new thrilling emotion, something that had in it a quality of curiosity as though he were coming before her as someone unknown and unexpected. There were other days when she wondered how he could have remained, through all the crisis, so precisely the same Roddy.
Meanwhile between all these uncertainties she lost touch with herself. It was as though her soul flew, like some bird in a strange country, from point to point, restless, unsatisfied....