December Love - Robert Hichens
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Lady Sellingworth had seen young Craven go away from his visit to her
in Beryl's company with perhaps just a touch of half-ironical amusement,
mingled with just a touch of half-wistful longing for the days that
were over and done with. She knew so well that taking possession of
a handsome young man on a first meeting. There was nothing in it but
vanity. She had known and had done that sort of thing when she was a
reigning beauty. Craven had interested and pleased her at once; she
hardly knew why. There was something about him, about his look,
bearing and manner which was sympathetic to her. She had felt a quiet
inclination to know more of him. That was all. Seymour Portman had liked
him, too, and had said so when the door had closed behind the young
couple, leaving the old couple to themselves. He would come again some
day, no doubt. And while she and Sir Seymour had remained by the fire
talking quietly together, in imagination she had seen those two,
linked by their youth--that wonderful bond--walking through the London
twilight, chattering gaily, laughing at trifling jokes, realizing their
freemasonry. And she had asked herself why it was that she could not
feel that other freemasonry--of age. Seymour Portman had loved her for
many years, loved her now, had never married because of her, would give
up anything in London just to be quietly with her, would marry her now,
ravaged though she was, worn, twice a widow, with a past behind her
which he must know about, and which was not edifying. And yet she could
not love him, partly, perhaps chiefly, because there was still rooted in
her that ineradicable passion--it must be that, even now, a passion--for
youth and the fascination of youth. When at last he had gone she had
felt unusually bitter for a few minutes, had asked herself, as human
beings ask themselves every day, the eternal why. "Why, why, why am I as
I am? Why can't I care for the suitable? Why can't I like the gift held
out to me? Why doesn't my soul age with my body? Why must I continue
to be lonely just because of the taint in my nature which forbids me to
find companionship in one who finds perfect companionship in me? Why--to
sum up--am I condemned eternally to be myself?"
There was no answer. The voice was not in the whirlwind. And presently
she had dismissed those useless, those damnable questions, which only
torture because they are never answered.
And then had come the night in Soho. And there for the first time since
they had known each other she had felt herself to be subtly involved in
a woman's obscure conflict with Beryl Van Tuyn. She was not conscious
of having taken up weapons. Nevertheless she had no doubt about the
conflict. And on her side any force brought into play against her
beautiful friend must have issued simply from her personality, from some
influence, perhaps from some charm, which she had not deliberately used.
(At least she thought she was being sincere with herself in telling
herself that.) Craven had been the cause of the conflict, and certainly
he had been fully aware of Beryl Van Tuyn's part in it. And he had
shown quiet determination, willfulness even. That willfulness of his had
pleased Lady Sellingworth more than anything had pleased her for a
very long time. It had even touched her. At first she had thought
that perhaps it had been prompted by chivalry, by something charmingly
old-fashioned, and delicately gentlemanly in Craven. Later on she had
been glad--intimately, warmly glad--to be quite sure that something more
personal had guided him in his conduct that night.
He had simply preferred her company to the company of Beryl Van Tuyn.
She was woman enough to rejoice in that fact. It was even rather
wonderful to her. And it had given Craven a place in her estimation
which no one had had for ten years.
Beryl's pressure upon him had been very definite. She had practically
told him, and asked him, to do a certain thing--to finish the evening
with her. And he had practically denied her right to command, and
refused her request. He had preferred to the Georgians and their lively
American contemporary, sincerely preferred, an Edwardian.
The compliment was the greater because the Edwardian had not encouraged
him. Indeed in a way he had really defied her as well as Beryl Van Tuyn.
She had loved his defiance. When he had flatly told her he did not
intend to go back to the Cafe Royal she had felt thankful to him--just
that. And just before his almost boyish remark, made with genuine
vexation in his voice, about the driving of London chauffeurs had given
her a little happy thrill such as she had not known for years.
She had not had the heart to leave him on her doorstep.
But now, standing by the fire, she knew that it would have been safer to
have left him there. And it would be safer now to ring the bell, summon
the footman, and say that she was not at home to anyone that afternoon.
While she was thinking this the footman entered the room. Hearing him
she turned sharply.
"What is it?"
"Sir Seymour Portman has called, my lady. I told him you were not at
home. But he asked me to make quite sure."
Lady Sellingworth hesitated. After a moment's pause she said, in a dry
voice:
"Not at home."
The footman went out.
There are moments in life which are full of revelation. That was such
a moment for Lady Sellingworth. When she had heard the door open her
instinct had played her false. She had turned sharply feeling certain
that Craven had called. The reaction she felt when she heard the name of
Sir Seymour told her definitely that she was in danger. She felt angry
with herself, even disgusted, as well as half frightened.
"What a brute I am!"
She formed those words with her lips. An acute sense of disappointment
pervaded her because Craven had not come, though she had no reason
whatever to expect him. But she was angry because of her feeling about
Seymour Portman. It was horrible to have such a tepid heart as hers was
when such a long and deep devotion was given to it. The accustomed thing
then made scarcely any impression upon her, while the thing that was
new, untried, perhaps worth very little, excited in her an expectation
which amounted almost to longing!
"How can Seymour go on loving such a woman as I am?" she thought.
Stretching herself a little she was able to look into an oval Venetian
mirror above the high marble frame of the fireplace. She looked to
scourge herself as punishment for what she was feeling.
"You miserable, ridiculous old woman!" she said to herself, as she saw
her lined face which the mirror, an antique one, slightly distorted.
"You ought to be thankful to have such a friendship as Seymour's!"
She said that, and she knew that if, disobeying her order to the
footman, he had come upstairs, her one desire would have been to get rid
of him, at all costs, to get him and his devotion out of the house, lest
Craven should come and she should not have Craven alone. If Seymour knew
that surely even his love would turn into hatred!
And if Craven knew!
She felt that day as if all the rampart of will, which ten years' labour
had built up between her and the dangers and miseries attendant upon
such a temperament as hers, were beginning before her eyes to crumble
into dust, touched by the wand of a maleficent enchanter.
And it was Craven's fault. He should have been like other young men,
obedient to the call of beauty and youth; he should have been wax in
Beryl Van Tuyn's pretty hands. Then this would never have happened, this
crumbling of will. He had done a cruel thing without being aware of his
cruelty. He had been carried away by something that was not primarily
physical. And in yielding to that uncommon impulse, which proved that
he was not typical, he had set in activity, in this hidden and violent
activity, that which had been sleeping so deeply as to seem like
something dead.
As Lady Sellingworth looked into the Venetian mirror, which made her
ugliness of age look uglier than it was, she regretted sharply that she
had allowed herself to grow old in this fearfully definite way. It was
too horrible to look like this and to be waiting eagerly, with an almost
deceiving eagerness, for the opening of a door, a footfall, the sound
of a voice that was young. Mrs. Ackroyd, Lady Archie Brook--they looked
surely twenty years younger than she did. She had been a fool! She had
been a passionate, impulsive fool!
No; she was being a fool now.
If only Caroline Briggs were in London! At that moment Lady Sellingworth
longed to be defended against herself. She felt that she was near to the
edge of a precipice, but that perhaps a strong hand could pull her away
from it into the safety she had known for ten years.
"I am sixty. That settles it. There is nothing to be excited about,
nothing to look for, nothing to draw back from or refuse. The fact that
I am sixty and look as I do settles the whole matter."
They were brave words, but unfortunately they altered nothing.
Feeling was untouched by them. Even conviction was not attained. Lady
Sellingworth knew she was sixty, but she felt like a woman of thirty at
that moment. And yet she was not deceived, was not deceiving herself.
She did know--or felt that she absolutely knew--that the curious spell
she had evidently been able, how she scarcely knew, to exert upon Craven
during his visit to her that night could not possibly be lasting. He
must be a quite unusual young man, perhaps even in some degree abnormal.
But even so the fascination he had felt, and had shown that he felt,
could not possibly be a lasting fascination. In such matters she _knew_.
Therefore surely the way was plain before her. Ten years ago she had
made up her mind, as a woman seldom makes up her mind. She had seen
facts, basic facts, naked in a glare of light. Those facts had not
changed. But she had changed. She was ten years older. The horror of
passing into the fifties had died out in the cold resignation of passing
into the sixties. Any folly now would be ten times more foolish than a
folly of ten years ago. She told herself that, reiterated it.
The clock struck six. She heard it and turned from the fire. Certainly
Craven would not call now. It was too late. Only a very intimate friend
would be likely to call after six o'clock, and Craven was not a very
intimate friend, but only a new acquaintance whom she had been with
twice. When he had said good-bye to her after their long talk by the
fire on the night of the dinner in Soho she had said nothing about his
coming again. And he had not mentioned it. But she had felt then that
to speak of such a thing was quite unnecessary, that it was tacitly
understood between them that of course he would come again, and
soon. And she believed that he had felt as she did. For despite her
self-mockery, and even now when looking back, she had known, and still
knew, that they had gone quite a long way together in a very short time.
That happens sometimes; but perhaps very seldom when one of the
travellers is sixty and the other some thirty years younger. Surely
something peculiar in Craven rather than something unusual in herself
had been at the root of the whole thing.
That night he had seemed so oddly at home in her house, and really he
had seemed so happy and at ease. They had talked about Italy, and he
had told her what Italy meant to him, quite simply and without any pose,
forgetting to be self-conscious in the English way. He had passed a
whole summer on the bay of Naples, and he had told her all about it. And
in the telling he had revealed a good deal of himself. The prelude in
Soho had no doubt prepared the way for such talk by carrying them to
Naples on wings of music. They would not have talked just like that
after a banal dinner at Claridge's or the Carlton. Craven had shown the
enthusiasm that was in him for the sun, the sea, life let loose from
convention, nature and beautiful things. The Foreign Office young
man--quiet, reserved, and rather older than his years--had been pushed
aside by a youth who had some Pagan blood in him, who had some agreeable
wildness under the smooth surface which often covers only other layers
of smoothness. He had told her of his envy of the sea people and she had
understood it; and, in return, she had told him of an American boy whom
she had known long ago, and who, fired by a book about life on the bay
of Naples which he had read in San Francisco, had got hold of a little
money, taken ship to Naples, gone straight to the point at Posilpipo,
and stayed there among the fishermen for nearly two years, living their
life, eating their food, learning to speak their argot, becoming at
length as one of them. So thoroughly indeed had he identified himself
with them that often he had acted as boatman to English and American
tourists, and never had his nationality been discovered. In the end, of
course, he had gone back to San Francisco, and she believed, was now a
lawyer in California. But at least he had been wise enough to give up
two years to a whim, and had bared his skin to the sun for two glorious
summers. And not everyone has the will to adventure even so far as that.
Then they had talked about the passion for adventure, and Craven had
spoken of his love, not yet lost, for Browning's poem, "Waring"; how he
had read it when quite a boy and been fascinated by it as by few other
poems. He had even quoted some lines from it, and said them well, taking
pains and not fearing any criticism or ridicule from her. And they
had wondered whether underneath the smooth surface of Browning, the
persistent diner out, there had not been far down somewhere a brown and
half-savage being who, in some other existence, had known life under
lateen sails on seas that lie beyond the horizon line of civilization.
And they had spoken of the colours of sails, of the red, the brown, the
tawny orange-hued canvases, that, catching the winds under sunset skies,
bring romance, like some rare fruit from hidden magical islands, upon
emerald, bright-blue or indigo seas.
The talk had run on without any effort. They had been happily sunk in
talk. She had kept the fire from her face with the big fan. But the fire
had lit his face up sometimes and the flames had seemed to leap in his
eyes. And watching him without seeming to watch him the self-mockery had
died out of her eyes. She had forgotten to mock at herself and had let
herself go down the stream: floating from subject to subject, never
touching bottom, never striking the bank, never brought up short by an
obstacle. It had been a perfect conversation. Even her imp must have
been quite absorbed in it. For he had not tormented her during it.
But at last the clock had struck one, just one clear chiming blow. And
suddenly Craven had started up. His blue eyes were shining and a dusky
red had come into his cheeks. And he had apologized, had said something
about being "carried away" beyond all recollection of the hour. She
had stayed where she was and had bidden him good night quietly from the
sofa, shutting up her fan and laying it on a table. And she had said:
"I wonder what it was like with the Georgians!" And then he had again
forgotten the hour, and had stood there talking about the ultra-modern
young people of London as if he were very far away from them, were much
older, much simpler, even much more akin to her, than they were. He had
prefaced his remarks with the words, "I had forgotten all about them!"
and she had felt it was true. Beryl Van Tuyn's name had not been
mentioned between them. But she was not a Georgian. Perhaps that fact
accounted for the omission, or perhaps there were other reasons for
their not speaking of her just then. She had done her best to prevent
the evening intimacy which had been theirs. And they both knew it.
Perhaps that was why they did not speak of her. Poor Beryl! Just then
Lady Sellingworth had known a woman's triumph which was the sweeter
because of her disadvantages. Thirty-six years older than the young and
vivid beauty! And yet he had preferred to end his evening with her! He
must be an unusual, even perhaps a rather strange man. Or else--no, the
tremendous humiliation she had endured ten years ago, acting on a nature
which had always been impaired by a secret diffidence, had made her too
humble to believe any longer that she had within herself the conqueror's
power. He was not like other young men. That was it. She had come upon
an exceptional nature. Exceptional natures love, hate, are drawn and
repelled in exceptional ways. The rules which govern others do not apply
to them. Craven was dangerous because he was, he must be, peculiar.
When at last he had left her that night it had been nearly half-past
one. But he had not apologized again. In going he had said: "Thank God
you refused to go to the Cafe Royal!"
Nearly half-past one! Lady Sellingworth now looked at the clock. It was
nearly half-past six.
She had a lonely dinner, a lonely evening before her.
Suddenly all her resignation seemed to leave her, to abandon her, as if
it had had enough of her and could not bear to be with her for another
minute. She saw her life as a desert, without one flower, one growing
green thing in it. How had she been able to endure it for so long? It
was a monstrous injustice that she should be condemned to this horrible,
unnerving loneliness. What was the use of living if one was entirely
alone? What was the use of money, of a great and beautiful house, of
comfort and leisure, if nobody shares them with you? People came to see
her, of course. But what is the use of visitors, of people who drop in,
and drop out just when you most need someone to help you in facing life,
in the evenings and when deep night closes in? At that moment she felt,
in her anger and rebellion, that she had never had anything in her life,
that all the women she knew--except perhaps Caroline Briggs--had had
more than herself, had had a far better time than she had had. During
the last ten years her brilliant past had faded until now she could
scarcely believe in it. It had become like a pale aquarelle. Her memory
retained events, of course, but they seemed to have happened in the life
of someone she had known intimately rather than of herself. They were
to her like things told rather than like things lived. There were times
when she even felt innocent. So much had she changed during the last ten
years. And now she revolted, like a woman who had never lived and wanted
to live for the first time, like a woman who had never had anything and
who demanded possession. She even got up and stood out in the big room,
saying to herself:
"What shall I do to-night? I can't stay here all alone. I must go out. I
must do something unusual to take me out of myself. Mere stagnation here
will drive me mad. I've got to do something to get away from myself."
But what could she do? An elderly well-known woman cannot break out of
her house in the night, like an unknown young man, and run wild in the
streets of London, or wander in the parks, seeking distractions and
adventures.
Ten years ago in Paris she had felt something of the same angry desire
for the freedom of a man, something of the same impotence. Her curbed
wildness then had tortured her. It tortured her now. Life was in violent
activity all about her. Even the shop girls had something to look
forward to. Soon they would be going out with their lovers. She knew
something of the freedom of the modern girl. Women were beginning to
take what men had always had. But all that freedom was too late for her!
(She forgot that she had taken it long ago in Paris and felt that she
had never had it. And that feeling made part of her anger.)
The clock struck the half-hour.
Just then the door was opened and the footman appeared before she had
had time to move. He looked faintly surprised at seeing her standing
facing him in the middle of the room.
"Mr. Craven has called my lady."
"Mr. Craven! But I told you to let him in. Have you sent him away?"
"No, my lady. But Mr. Craven wouldn't come up till I had seen your
ladyship. He said it was so late. He asked me first to tell your
ladyship he had called, and whether he might see you just for a minute,
as he had a message to give your ladyship."
"A message! Please ask him to come up."
The footman went out, and Lady Sellingworth went to sit down near the
fire. She now looked exactly as usual, casual, indifferent, but kind,
not at all like a woman who would ever pity herself. In a moment the
footman announced "Mr. Craven," and Craven walked in with an eager but
slightly anxious expression on his face.
"I know it is much too late for a visit," he said. "But I thought I
might perhaps just speak to you."
"Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?"
He looked surprised.
"Miss Van Tuyn? I haven't seen her."
"Yes?"
"I only wanted--I wondered whether, if you are not doing anything
to-night, I could persuade you to give me a great pleasure. . . . Could
I?"
"But what is it?"
"Would you dine with me at the _Bella Napoli_?"
Lady Sellingworth thought of the shop girls again, but now how
differently!
"I would come and call for you just before eight. It's a fine night.
It's dry, and it will be clear and starry."
"You want me to walk?"
He slightly reddened.
"Or shall we dress and go in a taxi?" he said.
"No, no. But I haven't said I can come."
His face fell.
"I will come," she said. "And we will walk. But what would Mr.
Braybrooke say?"
"Have you seen him? Has he told you?"
"What?"
"About our conversation in the club?"
"I have seen him, and I don't think he is quite pleased about
Shaftesbury Avenue. But never mind. I cannot live to please Mr.
Braybrooke. _Au revoir_. Just before eight."
When he had gone Lady Sellingworth again looked in the glass.
"But it's impossible!" she said to herself. "It's impossible!"
She hated her face at that moment, and could not help bitterly
regretting the fierce impulse of ten years ago. If she had not yielded
to that impulse she might now have been looking, not at a young woman
certainly, but a woman well preserved. Now she was frankly a wreck.
She would surely look almost grotesque dining alone with young Craven.
People would think she was his grandmother. Perhaps it would be better
not to go. She was filled with a sense of painful hesitation. She came
away from the glass. No doubt Craven was "on the telephone." She might
communicate with him, tell him not to come, that she had changed her
mind, did not feel very well. He would not believe her excuse whatever
it was, but that could not be helped. Anything was better than to make
a spectacle of herself in a restaurant. She had not put Craven's address
and telephone number in her address book, but she might perhaps have
kept the note he had written to her before their first meeting. She did
not remember having torn it up. She went to her writing-table, but could
not find the note. She found his card, but it had only his club address
on it. Then she went downstairs to a morning room she had on the ground
floor. There was another big writing-table there. The telephone was
there too. After searching for several minutes she discovered Craven's
note, the only note he had ever written to her. Stamped in the left-hand
corner of the notepaper was a telephone number.
She was about to take down the receiver when she remembered that Craven
had not yet had time to walk back to his flat from her house, even if
he were going straight home. She must wait a few minutes. She came away
from the writing-table, sat down in an armchair, and waited.
Night had closed in. Heavy curtains were drawn across the tall windows.
One electric lamp, which she had just turned on, threw a strong light
on the writing-table, on pens, stationery, an address book, a telephone
book, a big blue-and-gold inkstand, some photographs which stood on
a ledge protected by a tiny gilded rail. The rest of the room was in
shadow. A low fire burned in the grate.
Lady Sellingworth did not take up a book or occupy herself in any way.
She just sat still in the armchair and waited. Now and then she heard a
faint footfall, the hoot of a motor horn, the slight noise of a passing
car. And loneliness crept upon her like something gathering her into a
cold and terrible embrace.
It occurred to her that she might ask Craven presently through the
telephone to come and dine in Berkeley Square. No one would see her with
him if she did that, except her own servants.
But that would be a compromise. She was not fond of compromises. Better
one thing or the other. Either she would go with him to the restaurant
or she would not see him at all that night.
If Caroline Briggs were only here! And yet if she were it would be
difficult to speak about the matter to her. If she were told of it, what
would she say? That would depend upon how she was told. If she were told
all the truth, not mere incidents, but also the feelings attending
them, she would tell her friend to give the whole thing up. Caroline was
always drastic. She always went straight to the point.