December Love - Robert Hichens
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DECEMBER LOVE
By Robert Hichens
DECEMBER LOVE
By Robert Hichens
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
Alick Craven, who was something in the Foreign Office, had been living
in London, except for an interval of military service during the
war, for several years, and had plenty of interesting friends and
acquaintances, when one autumn day, in a club, Frances Braybrooke, who
knew everybody, sat down beside him and began, as his way was, talking
of people. Braybrooke talked well and was an exceedingly agreeable man,
but he seldom discussed ideas. His main interest lay in the doings of
the human race, the "human animal," to use a favorite phrase of his, in
what the human race was "up to." People were his delight. He could not
live away from the centre of their activities. He was never tired
of meeting new faces, and would go to endless trouble to bring an
interesting personality within the circle of his acquaintance. Craven's
comparative indifference about society, his laziness in social matters,
was a perpetual cause of surprise to Braybrooke, who nevertheless was
always ready to do Craven a good turn, whether he wanted it done to him
or not. Indeed, Craven was indebted to his kind old friend for various
introductions which had led to pleasant times, and for these he was
quite grateful. Braybrooke was much older than most people, though he
seldom looked it, and decades older than Craven, and he had a genial way
of taking those younger than himself in charge, always with a view to
their social advancement. He was a very ancient hand at the social
game; he loved to play it; and he wanted as many as possible to join
in, provided, of course, that they were "suitable" for such a purpose.
Perhaps he slightly resembled "the world's governess," as a witty woman
had once called him. But he was really a capital fellow and a mine of
worldly wisdom.
On the occasion in question, after chatting for about an hour, he
happened to mention Lady Sellingworth--"Adela Sellingworth," as he
called her. Craven did not know her, and said so in the simplest way.
"I don't know Lady Sellingworth."
Braybrooke sat for a moment in silence looking at Craven over his
carefully trimmed grey and brown beard.
"How very strange!" he said at last.
"Why is it strange?"
"All these years in London and not know Adela Sellingworth!"
"I know about her, of course. I know she was a famous beauty when King
Edward was Prince of Wales, and was tremendously prominent in society
after he came to the throne. But I have never seen her about since I
have been settled in London. To tell the honest truth, I thought Lady
Sellingworth was what is called a back number."
"Adela Sellingworth a back number!"
Braybrooke bristled gently and caught his beard-point with his
broad-fingered right hand. His small, observant hazel eyes rebuked
Craven mildly, and he slightly shook his head, covered with thick,
crinkly and carefully brushed hair.
"Well--but," Craven protested. "But surely she long ago retired from the
fray! Isn't she over sixty?"
"She is about sixty. But that is nothing nowadays."
"No doubt she had a terrific career."
"Terrific! What do you mean exactly by terrific?"
"Why, that she was what used to be called a professional beauty, a
social ruler, immensely distinguished and smart and all that sort of
thing. But I understood that she suddenly gave it all up. I remember
someone telling me that she abdicated, and that those who knew her best
were most surprised about it."
"A woman told you that, no doubt."
"Yes, I think it was a woman."
"Anything else?"
"If I remember rightly, she said that Lady Sellingworth was the very
last woman one had expected to do such a thing, that she was one of the
old guard, whose motto is 'never give up,' that she went on expecting,
and tacitly demanding, the love and admiration which most men only give
with sincerity to young women long after she was no more young and had
begun to lose her looks. Perhaps it was all lies."
"No, no. There is something in it."
He looked meditative.
"It certainly was a sudden business," he presently added. "I have often
thought so. It came about after her return from Paris some ten years
ago--that time when her jewels were stolen."
"Were they?" said Craven.
"Were they!"
Braybrooke's tone just then really did rather suggest the world's
governess.
"My dear fellow--yes, they were, to the tune of about fifty thousand
pounds."
"What a dreadful business! Did she get them back?"
"No. She never even tried to. But, of course, it came out eventually."
"It seems to me that everything anyone wishes to hide does come out
eventually in London," said Craven, with perhaps rather youthful
cynicism. "But surely Lady Sellingworth must have wanted to get her
jewels back. What can have induced her to be silent about such a loss?"
"It's a mystery. I have wondered why--often," said Braybrooke, gently
stroking his beard.
He even slightly wrinkled his forehead, until he remembered that such
an indulgence is apt to lead to permanent lines, whereupon he abruptly
became as smooth as a baby, and added:
"She must have had a tremendous reason. But I'm not aware that anyone
knows what it is unless--" he paused meditatively. "I have sometimes
suspected that perhaps Seymour Portman--"
"Sir Seymour, the general?"
"Yes. He knows her better than anyone else does. He cared for her when
she was a girl, through both her marriages, and cares for her just as
much still, I believe."
"How were her jewels stolen?" Craven asked.
Braybrooke had roused his interest. A woman who lost jewels worth fifty
thousand pounds, and made no effort to get them back, must surely be an
extraordinary creature.
"They were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord out of a first-class
compartment reserved for Adela Sellingworth. That much came out through
her maid."
"And nothing was done?"
"I believe not. Adela Sellingworth is said to have behaved most
fatalistically when the story came out. She said the jewels were
gone long ago, and there was an end of it, and that she couldn't be
bothered."
"Bothered!--about such a loss?"
"And, what's more, she got rid of the maid."
"Very odd!"
"It was. Very odd! Her abdication also was very odd and abrupt. She
changed her way of living, gave up society, let her hair go white,
allowed her face to do whatever it chose, and, in fact, became very much
what she is now--the most charming _old_ woman in London."
"Oh, is she charming?"
"Is she charming!"
Braybrooke raised his thick eyebrows and looked really pitiful.
"I will see if I can take you there one day," he continued, after
a rebuking pause. "But don't count on it. She doesn't see very many
people. Still, I think she might like you. You have tastes in common.
She is interested in everything that is interesting--except, perhaps, in
love affairs. She doesn't seem to care about love affairs. And yet some
young girls are devoted to her."
"Perhaps that is because she has abdicated."
Braybrooke looked at Craven with rather sharp inquiry.
"I only mean that I don't think, as a rule, young girls are very fond of
elderly women whose motto is 'never give up.'" Craven explained.
"Ah?"
Braybrooke was silent. Then, lighting a cigarette, he remarked:
"Youth is very charming, but one must say that it is set free from
cruelty."
"I agree with you. But what about the old guard?" Craven asked. "Is that
always so very kind?"
Then he suddenly remembered that in London there is an "old guard" of
men, and that undoubtedly Braybrooke belonged to it; and, afraid that he
was blundering, he changed the conversation.
CHAPTER II
A fortnight later Craven received a note from his old friend saying that
Braybrooke had spoken about him to "Adela Sellingworth," and that she
would be glad to know him. Braybrooke was off to Paris to stay with the
Mariguys, but all Craven had to do was to leave a card at Number 18A,
Berkeley Square, and when this formality had been accomplished Lady
Sellingworth would no doubt write to him and suggest an hour for a
meeting. Craven thanked his friend, left a card at Number 18A, and a day
or two later received an invitation to go to tea with Lady Sellingworth
on the following Sunday. He stayed in London on purpose to do this,
although he had promised to go into the country from Saturday to Monday.
Braybrooke had succeeded in rousing keen interest in him. It was not
Craven's habit to be at the feet of old ladies. He much preferred
to them young or youngish women, unmarried or married. But Lady
Sellingworth "intrigued" him. She had been a reigning beauty. She had
"lived" as not many English women had lived. And then--the stolen jewels
and her extraordinary indifference about their loss!
Decidedly he wanted to know her!
Number 18A, Berkeley Square was a large town mansion, and on the green
front door there was a plate upon which was engraved in bold lettering,
"The Dowager Countess of Sellingworth." Craven looked at this plate and
at the big knocker above it as he rang the electric bell. Almost as soon
as he had pressed the button the big door was opened, and a very tall
footman in a pale pink livery appeared. Behind him stood a handsome,
middle-aged butler.
A large square hall was before Craven, with a hooded chair and a big
fire burning on a wide hearth. Beyond was a fine staircase, which had a
balustrade of beautifully wrought ironwork with gold ornamentations. He
gave his hat, coat and stick to the footman--after taking his name,
the butler had moved away, and was pausing not far from the
staircase--Craven suddenly felt as if he stood in a London more solid,
more dignified, more peaceful, even more gentlemanlike, than the London
he was accustomed to. There seemed to be in this house a large calm, an
almost remote stillness, which put modern Bond Street, just around the
corner, at a very great distance. As he followed the butler, walking
softly, up the beautiful staircase, Craven was conscious of a flavour in
this mansion which was new to him, but which savoured of spacious times,
when the servant question was not acute, when decent people did not
move from house to house like gipsies changing camp, when flats were
unknown--spacious times and more elegant times than ours.
The butler and Craven gained a large landing on which was displayed
a remarkable collection of oriental china. The butler opened a tall
mahogany door and bent his head again to receive the murmur of
Craven's name. It was announced, and Craven found himself in a great
drawing-room, at the far end of which, by a fire, were sitting three
people. They were Lady Sellingworth, the faithful Sir Seymour Portman,
and a beautiful girl, slim, fair, with an athletic figure, and vividly
intelligent, though rather sarcastic, violet eyes. This was Miss Beryl
Van Tuyn. (Craven did not know who she was, though he recognized at
once the erect figure, faithful, penetrating eyes and curly white
hair--cauliflower hair--of the general, whom he had often seen about
town and "in attendance" on royalty at functions.)
Lady Sellingworth got up to receive him. As she did so he was almost
startled by her height.
She was astonishingly tall, probably well over six feet, very slim, thin
even, with a small head covered with rather wavy white hair and set on a
long neck, sloping shoulders, long, aristocratic hands on which she wore
loose white gloves, narrow, delicate feet, very fine wrists and ankles.
Her head reminded Craven of the head of a deer. As for her face, once
marvellously beautiful according to the report of competent judges who
had seen all the beauties of their day, it was now quite frankly a ruin,
lined, fallen in here and there, haggard, drawn. Nevertheless, looking
upon it, one could guess that once upon a time it must have been a
face with a mobile, almost imperial, outline, perhaps almost insolently
striking, the arrogant countenance of a conqueror. When gazing at it one
gazed at the ruin, not of a cottage or of a gimcrack villa, but at the
ruins of a palace. Lady Sellingworth's eyes were very dark and still
magnificent, like two brilliant lamps in her head. A keen intelligence
gazed out of them. There was often something half sad, half mocking in
their expression. But Craven thought that they mocked at herself rather
than at others. She was very plainly dressed in black, and her dress was
very high at the neck. She wore no ornaments except a wedding ring, and
two sapphires in her ears, which were tiny and beautiful.
Her greeting to Craven was very kind. He noticed at once that her
manner was as natural almost as a frank, manly schoolboy's, carelessly,
strikingly natural. There could never, he thought, have been a grain
of affectation in her. The idea even came into his head that she was
as natural as a tramp. Nevertheless the stamp of the great lady was
imprinted all over her. She had a voice that was low, very sensitive and
husky.
Instantly she fascinated Craven. Instantly he did not care whether she
was old or young, in perfect preservation or a ruin. For she seemed to
him penetratingly human, simply and absolutely herself as God had made
her. And what a rare joy that was, to meet in London a woman of the
great world totally devoid of the smallest shred of make-believe! Craven
felt that if she appeared before her Maker she would be exactly as she
was when she said how do you do to him.
She introduced him to Miss Van Tuyn and the general, made him sit next
to her, and gave him tea.
Miss Van Tuyn began talking, evidently continuing a conversation
which had been checked for a moment by the arrival of Craven. She was
obviously intelligent and had enormous vitality. She was also obviously
preoccupied with her own beauty and with the effect it was having upon
her hearers. She not only listened to herself while she spoke; she
seemed also to be trying to visualize herself while she spoke. In her
imagination she was certainly watching herself, and noting with interest
and pleasure her young and ardent beauty, which seemed to Craven more
remarkable when she was speaking than when she was silent. She
must, Craven thought, often have stood before a mirror and carefully
"memorized" herself in all her variety and detail. As he sat there
listening he could not help comparing her exquisite bloom of youth with
the ravages of time so apparent in Lady Sellingworth, and being struck
by the inexorable cruelty of life. Yet there was something which
persisted and over which time had no empire--charm. On that afternoon
the charm of Lady Sellingworth's quiet attention to her girl visitor
seemed to Craven even greater than the charm of that girl visitor's
vivid vitality.
Sir Seymour, who had the self-contained and rather detached manner of
the old courtier, mingled with the straight-forward self-possession of
the old soldier thoroughly accustomed to dealing with men in difficult
moments, threw in a word or two occasionally. Although a grave, even a
rather sad-looking man, he was evidently entertained by Miss Van Tuyn's
volubility and almost passionate, yet not vulgar, egoism. Probably he
thought such a lovely girl had a right to admire herself. She talked of
herself in modern Paris with the greatest enthusiasm, cleverly grouping
Paris, its gardens, its monuments, its pictures, its brilliant men and
women as a decor around the one central figure--Miss Beryl Van Tuyn.
"Why do you never come to Paris, dearest?" she presently said to Lady
Sellingworth. "You used to know it so very well, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes; I had an apartment in Paris for years. But that was almost
before you were born," said the husky, sympathetic voice of her hostess.
Craven glanced at her. She was smiling.
"Surely you loved Paris, didn't you?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"Very much, and understood it very well."
"Oh--that! She understands everything, doesn't she, Sir Seymour?"
"Perhaps we ought to except mathematics and military tactics," he
replied, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth half humorous, half
affectionate. "But certainly everything connected with the art of living
is her possession."
"And--the art of dying?" Lady Sellingworth said, with a lightly mocking
sound in her voice.
Miss Van Tuyn opened her violet eyes very wide.
"But is there an art of dying? Living--yes; for that is being and is
continuous. But dying is ceasing."
"And there is an art of ceasing, Beryl. Some day you may know that."
"Well, but even very old people are always planning for the future on
earth. No one expects to cease. Isn't it so, Mr. Craven?"
She turned to him, and he agreed with her and instanced a certain old
duchess who, at the age of eighty, was preparing for a tour round
the world when influenza stepped in and carried her off, to the great
vexation of Thomas Cook and Son.
"We must remember that that duchess was an American," observed Sir
Seymour.
"You mean that we Americans are more determined not to cease than you
English?" she asked. "That we are very persistent?"
"Don't you think so?"
"Perhaps we are."
She turned and laid a hand gently, almost caressingly, on Lady
Sellingworth's.
"I shall persist until I get you over to Paris," she said. "I do want
you to see my apartment, and my bronzes--particularly my bronzes. When
were you last in Paris?"
"Passing through or staying--do you mean?"
"Staying."
Lady Sellingworth was silent for an instant, and Craven saw the half
sad, half mocking expression in her eyes.
"I haven't stayed in Paris for ten years," she said.
She glanced at Sir Seymour, who slightly bent his curly head as if in
assent.
"It's almost incredible, isn't it, Mr. Craven?" said Miss Van Tuyn. "So
unlike the man who expressed a wish to be buried in Paris."
Craven remembered at that moment Braybrooke's remark in the club that
Lady Sellingworth's jewelry were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord ten
years ago. Did Miss Van Tuyn know about that? He wondered as he murmured
something non-committal.
Miss Van Tuyn now tried to extract a word of honour promise from Lady
Sellingworth to visit her in Paris, where, it seemed, she lived very
independently with a _dame de compagnie_, who was always in one room
with a cold reading the novels of Paul Bourget. ("Bourget keeps on
writing for _her_!" the gay girl said, not without malice.)
But Lady Sellingworth evaded her gently.
"I'm too lazy for Paris now," she said. "I no longer care for moving
about. This old town house of mine has become to me like my shell. I'm
lazy, Beryl; I'm lazy. You don't know what that is; nor do you, Mr.
Craven. Even you, Seymour, you don't know. For you are a man of action,
and at Court there is always movement. But I, my friends--" She gave
Craven a deliciously kind yet impersonal smile. "I am a contemplative.
There is nothing oriental about me, but I am just a quiet British
contemplative, untouched by the unrest of your age."
"But it's _your_ age, too!" cried Miss Van Tuyn.
"No, dear. I was an Edwardian."
"I wish I had known you then!" said Miss Van Tuyn impulsively.
"You would not have known _me_ then," returned Lady Sellingworth, with
the slightest possible stress on the penultimate word.
Then she changed the conversation. Craven felt that she was not fond of
talking about herself.
CHAPTER III
That day Craven walked away from Lady Sellingworth's house with Miss Van
Tuyn, leaving Sir Seymour Portman behind him.
Miss Van Tuyn was staying with a friend at the Hyde Park Hotel, and, as
she said she wanted some air, Craven offered to accompany her there on
foot.
"Do!" she said in her frank and very conscious way. "I'm afraid of
London on a Sunday."
"Afraid!"
"As I'm afraid of a heavy, dull person with a morose expression. Please
don't be angry."
Craven smiled.
"I know! Paris is much lighter in hand than London on a Sunday."
"Isn't it? But there are people in London! Isn't _she_ a precious
person?"
"Lady Sellingworth?"
"Yes. You have marvellous old women in London who do all that we young
people do, and who look astonishing. They might almost be somewhere in
the thirties when one knows they are really in the sixties. They play
games, ride, can still dance, have perfect digestions, sit up till two
in the morning and are out shopping in Bond Street as fresh as paint
by eleven, having already written dozens of acceptances to invitations,
arranged dinners, theatre parties, heaven knows what! Made of cast iron,
they seem. They even manage somehow to be fairly attractive to young
men. They are living marvels, and I take off my toque to them. But Lady
Sellingworth, quite old, ravaged, devastated by time one might say, who
goes nowhere and who doesn't even play bridge--she beats them all. I
love her. I love her wrinkled distinction, her husky voice, her careless
walk. She walks anyhow, like a woman alone on a country road. She looks
even older than she is. But what does it matter? If I were a man--"
"Would you fall in love with her?" Craven interposed.
"Oh, no!"
She shot a blue glance at him.
"But I should love her--if only she would let me. But she wouldn't. I
feel that."
"I never saw her till to-day. She charmed me."
"Of course. But she didn't try to."
"Probably not."
"That's it! She doesn't try, and that's partly why she succeeds, being
as God has made her. Do you know that some people hate her?"
"Impossible!"
"They do."
"Who do?"
"The young-old women of her time, the young-old Edwardian women. She
dates them. She shows them up by looking as she does. She is their
contemporary, and she has the impertinence to be old. And they can't
forgive her for it."
"I understand," said Craven. "She has betrayed the 'old guard.' She has
disobeyed the command inscribed on their banner. She has given up."
"Yes. They will never pardon her, never!"
"I wonder what made her do it?" said Craven.
And he proceeded to touch on Miss Van Tuyn's desire to get Lady
Sellingworth to Paris. He soon found out that she did not know about the
jewels episode. She showed curiosity, and he told her what he knew. She
seemed deeply interested.
"I was sure there was a mystery in her life," she said. "I have always
felt it. Ten years ago! And since then she has never stayed in Paris!"
"And since then--from that moment--she has betrayed the 'old guard.'"
"How? I don't understand."
Craven explained. Miss Van Tuyn listened with an intensity of interest
which flattered him. He began to think her quite lovely, and she saw the
pretty thought in his mind.
When he had finished she said:
"No attempt to recover the lost jewels, the desertion of Paris, the
sudden change into old age! What do you make of it?"
"I can make nothing. Unless the chagrin she felt made her throw up
everything in a fit of anger. And then, of course, once the thing was
done she couldn't go back."
"You mean--go back to the Edwardian youthfulness she had abandoned?"
"Yes. One may refuse to grow old, but once one has become definitely,
ruthlessly old, it's practically impossible to jump back to a pretence
of the thirties."
"Of course. It would frighten people. But--it wasn't that."
"No?"
"No. For if she had felt the loss of her jewels so much as you suggest,
she would have made every effort to recover them."
"I suppose she would."
"The heart of the mystery lies in her not wishing to try to get the
jewels back. That, to me, is inexplicable. Because we women love jewels.
And no woman carries about jewels worth fifty thousand pounds without
caring very much for them."
"Just what I have thought," said Craven.
After a short silence he added:
"Could Lady Sellingworth possibly have known who had stolen the jewels,
do you think?"
"What! And refrained from denouncing the thief!"
"She might have had a reason."
Miss Van Tuyn's keen though still girlish eyes looked sharply into
Craven's for an instant.
"I believe you men, you modern men are very apt to think terrible things
about women," she said.
Craven warmly defended himself against this abrupt accusation.
"Well, but what did you mean?" persisted Miss Van Tuyn. "Now, go against
your sex and be truthful for once to a woman."
"I really don't know exactly what I meant," said Craven. "But I suppose
it's possible to conceive of circumstances in which a woman might know
the identity of a thief and yet not wish to prosecute."
"Very well. I'll let you alone," she rejoined. "But this mystery makes
Lady Sellingworth more fascinating to me than ever. I'm not particularly
curious about other people. I'm too busy about myself for that. But
I would give a great deal to know a little more of her truth. Do you
remember her remark when I said 'I wish I had known you then'?"
"Yes. She said, 'You would not have known _me_ then.'"
"There have been two Adela Sellingworths. And I only know one. I do want
to know the other. But I am almost sure I never shall. And yet she's
fond of me. I know that. She likes my being devoted to her. I feel she's
a book of wisdom, and I have only read a few pages."
She walked on quickly with her light, athletic step. Just as they were
passing Hyde Park Corner she said: