December Love - Robert Hichens
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"Did you stay long at the Beau Rivage?" she asked.
"Yes, I did."
"We have missed you."
"I like to think that."
"London loses its most characteristic note for me when you are not in
it."
Miss Van Tuyn's curiosity was becoming intense, but how could she
gratify it? She sought about for an opening, but found none. For it was
seldom her way to be quite blunt with women, though with men she was
often blunt.
"Everyone has been wondering where you were," she said. "Mr. Braybrooke
was quite in a turmoil. Does he know you are back?"
"I haven't told him. But he gets to know everything in less than five
minutes. And what have you been doing?"
This simple question suddenly gave Miss Van Tuyn the idea for a plan of
campaign. It sprang into her brain, flashed upon it like an inspiration.
For a moment she was rigid. Her body was strongly influenced. Then as
the idea made itself at home in her she became supple and soft again.
"I've got a lot to tell you," she said, "if you won't be bored."
"You never bore me, Beryl."
"No, I don't believe I do. Well, first I must tell you how good Dick
Garstin has been to me."
"Garstin the painter?"
"Yes."
And she enlarged upon her intense interest in painting, her admiration
for Garstin's genius, her curiosity about his methods and aims, her
passion for understanding the arts although she could not create
herself. Lady Sellingworth, who knew the girl's genuine interest in all
art developments, listened quite convinced of Beryl's sincerity. Arabian
was never mentioned. Miss Van Tuyn did not go into details. She spoke
only of models, of Garstin's varying moods, of his way of getting a
thing on to canvas, of his views on colour and technique.
"It must be absorbingly interesting to watch such a man at work," Lady
Sellingworth said presently.
"It is. It's fascinating."
"And so that is the reason why you are staying so long in smoky old
London?"
"No, Adela, it isn't. At least, that's not the only reason."
The words were spoken slowly and were followed by a curiously conscious,
almost, indeed, embarrassed look from the girl's violet eyes.
"No?"
After a long pause Beryl said:
"You know I have always looked upon you as a book of wisdom."
"It's very difficult to be wise," said Lady Sellingworth, with a touch
of bitterness. "And sometimes very dull."
"But you are wise, dearest. I feel it. You have known and done so
much, and you have had brains to understand, to seek out the truth from
experience. You have lived with understanding. You are not like the
people who travel round the world and come back just the same as if they
had been from Piccadilly Circus to Hampstead Heath and back. One _feels_
you have been round the world when one is with you."
"Does one?" said Lady Sellingworth, rather drily. "But I fancied
nowadays the young thought all the wisdom lay with them."
"Well, I don't. And, besides, I think you are marvellously discreet."
"Wise! Discreet! I begin to feel as if I ought to sit on the Bench!"
Again there was the touch of bitterness in the voice. A very faint smile
hovered for an instant about Miss Van Tuyn's lips.
"Judging the foolish women! Well, I think you are one of the few who
would have a right to do that. You are so marvellously sensible."
"Anyhow, I have no wish to do it. But--you were going to tell me?"
"In confidence."
"Of course. The book of wisdom never opens its leaves to the mob."
"I want very much to know your opinion of young Alick Craven."
As she heard the word "young" Lady Sellingworth had great difficulty
in keeping her face still. Her mouth wanted to writhe, to twist to the
left. She had the same intense shooting feeling that had hurt her when
Seymour Portman had called Alick Craven a boy.
"Of Mr. Craven!" she said, with sudden severe reserve. "Why? Why?"
Directly she had spoken she regretted the repetition. Her mind felt
stiff, unyielding. And all her body felt stiff too.
"That's what I want to tell you," said Miss Van Tuyn, speaking with some
apparent embarrassment.
And immediately Lady Sellingworth knew that she did not want to hear,
that it would be dangerous, almost deadly, for her to hear. She longed
to spread out her hands in the protesting gesture of one keeping
something off, away from her, to say, "Don't! Don't! I won't hear!" And
she sat very still, and murmured a casual "Yes?"
And then Miss Van Tuyn shot her bolt very cleverly, her aim
being careful and good, her hand steady as a rock, her eyes fixed
undeviatingly on the object she meant to bring down. She consulted
Lady Sellingworth about her great friendship with Craven, told Lady
Sellingworth how for some time, "ever since the night we all went to
the theatre," Craven had been seeking her out persistently, spoke of
his visits, their dinners together, their games of golf at Beaconsfield,
finally came to Sunday, "yesterday."
"In the morning the telephone rang and we had a little talk. A Daimler
car was suggested and a run down to Rye. You know my American ideas,
Adela. A long day alone in the country with a boy--"
"Mr. Craven is scarcely a boy, I think!"
"But we call them boys!"
"Oh, yes!"
"With a boy means nothing extraordinary to a girl with my ideas. But I
think he took it rather differently. Anyhow, we spent the whole day out
playing golf together, and in the evening, when twilight was coming on,
we drove to Camber Sands. Do you know them?"
"No."
"They are vast and absolutely deserted. It was rather stormy, but we
took a long walk on them, and then sat on a sand bank to watch the night
coming on. I dare say it all sounds very ridiculous and sentimental to
you! I am sure it must!"
"No, no. Besides, I know you Americans do all these things with no
sentiment at all, merely _pour passer le temps_."
"Yes, sometimes. But he isn't an American."
Again she looked slightly embarrassed and seemed to hesitate.
"You mean--you think that he--?"
"It was that evening . . . last night only, in fact--"
"Oh, yes, of course it was last night. To-day is Monday."
"That I began to realize that we were getting into a rather different
relation to each other. When it began to get dark he wanted to hold my
hand and--but I needn't go into all that. It would only seem silly to
you. You see, we are both young, though, of course, he is older than
I. But he is very young, quite a boy in feeling and even in manner very
often. I have seen him lately in all sorts of circumstances, so I know."
She stopped as if thinking. Lady Sellingworth sat very upright on her
sofa, with her head held rather high, and her hands, in their long white
gloves, quite still. And there was a moment of absolute silence in the
drawing-room. At last Miss Van Tuyn spoke again.
"I feel since last night that things are different between Alick and
me."
"Are you engaged to him--to Mr. Craven?"
"Oh, no. He hasn't asked me to be. But I want to know what you think of
him. It would help me. I like him very much. But you know far more about
men than I do."
"I doubt it, Beryl. I see scarcely anyone now. You live in Paris
surrounded by clever men and--"
"But you have had decades more of experience than I have. In fact, _you_
have been round the world and I have, so to speak, only crossed the
Channel. Do help me, Adela. I am full of hesitation and doubt, and yet
I am getting very fond of Alick. And I don't want to hurt him. I think I
hurt him a little yesterday, but--"
"Sir Seymour Portman!" said Murgatroyd's heavy voice at the door.
And the old courtier entered almost eagerly, his dark eyes shining under
the thatch of eyebrows and the white gleam of the "cauliflower."
And very soon Miss Van Tuyn went away, without the advice which she was
so anxious to have. As she walked through Berkeley Square she felt
more at ease than when she had come into it. But she was puzzled about
something. And she said to herself:
"Can she have tried monkey glands too?"
CHAPTER V
Lady Sellingworth of course understood Beryl's purpose in visiting her
so soon and in being so unreserved to her. The girl's intention was
absolutely clear to her mind horribly experienced in the cruel ways of
women. Nevertheless she believed that Beryl had spoken the truth about
what had happened at Camber.
When it began to get dark Craven had wanted to hold Beryl's hand.
Lady Sellingworth felt that she hated Beryl, hated Alick Craven. And
herself? She did not want to contemplate herself. It seemed to her that
she was fastened up with, chained to, a being she longed to ignore, to
be without knowledge of. Something of her was struggling to be away from
something else of her that was hideous. Battle, confusion, dust, dying
cries, flying, terror-stricken feet! She was aware of tumult and despair
in the silence of her beautiful house. And she was aware also of that
slow and terrible creeping of hatred, the thing that did harm to her,
that set her far away from any nobility she possessed.
She had gone abroad to fight, and had come back having lost her battle.
And already she was being scourged for her failure.
When she had been striving alone these two had evidently forgotten her
existence. Directly she had passed for a short time out of their lives
they had come together. Youth had instinctively sought out youth, and
she, the old woman, had been as one dead to them. If she had stayed away
for years, if she had never come back, it would not have mattered to
them.
Beryl's lack of all affection for her did not seriously trouble her. She
knew the dryness of vanity; she knew that it was practically impossible
for a girl so vain as Beryl to care deeply, or at all unselfishly, for
another woman. But Craven's conduct was not what she had looked for.
It seemed to stamp him as typical, and she had supposed him to be
exceptional. When Beryl had told her about Camber--so little and yet so
much--she had been struck to the heart; and yet she had seen a vision of
servants, the footman out in the dark with the under housemaid.
Seymour Portman's observant old eyes, the terrible eyes of affection,
took in the change in her, not quite as a woman's eyes would have done,
but in their own adequate way. His Adela looked different. Something had
happened to her. The envelope had been touched up in some, to him, quite
mysterious manner. And he did not like it. It even gave him a mild
sort of shock. The touch of artificiality was cold on this amazingly
straightforward old man. He loved his Adela with all the wrinkles, with
the sagging skin, and the lined throat, and the curiously experienced
weariness about the temples. She lived for him in the brilliant eyes,
and was loved by him in them. And why should she suddenly try to change
her appearance? It had certainly not been done for him--this Something.
She was looking handsomer than usual, and yet he seemed to be aware that
beneath the improved surface there was a tragic haggardness which had
come into existence while she had been away.
He did not reproach her for the mystery of her absence, or for her
silence; he did not ask her questions about where she had been, what
she had done; he just sat with her and loved her. And his love made her
horribly uneasy that day. She could not be still under it. She felt as
if the soul of her kept shifting about, as a child shifts about under
the watchful eyes of an elder. She felt the physical tingle of guilt.
And she was thankful when at last Seymour went away and left her alone
with her hatred.
All those weeks! She had deliberately left the ground free to Beryl for
all those weeks, and she had returned with no expectation of the thing
that of course had happened. And yet she had believed that she had an
excellent knowledge of life and of human beings. No doubt she had been
so concentrated upon herself, and the struggle within herself that she
had been unable to make any use of that knowledge. And so now she was
full of hatred and of profound humiliation.
When she had abruptly left England she had made up her mind to "have
done with it," that is to have done with love, to have done even
with sentimental friendship. She had resolved to plunge into complete
loneliness. Since she could not take Seymour into her intimate life,
since she now knew that was absolutely impossible, she must somehow
manage to get along permanently with nothing. And so, yielding to a
desperate impulse, she had resolved to seek an unaccustomed solitude.
She had fled from London. But she had stopped in Paris; although she had
intended to pass through it and to go straight on to Marseilles and the
Riviera. When the train had run in to the Gare du Nord she had told
her surprised maid that she was tired and would not go on that night.
Suddenly she had decided to seek out Caroline Briggs, to make a
confession, to ask for help and sympathy. And she had sent her maid to a
hotel, and had driven to Caroline's house.
But Caroline was not in Paris. A blue-cheeked, close-shaven French
footman had informed her that his mistress had been obliged to sail for
America three days before.
It had been a great blow to her. Confession, the cry for help, had been
almost on her lips as she had stood at the door before the keen-eyed
young man. And she had gone away feeling strangely lost and abandoned.
On the following morning she had left Paris and had travelled to the
Riviera. And, there, she had fought against herself and had lost the
battle.
Perhaps if she had been able to see Caroline the issue would have been
different. She almost believed that if she had once told the absolute
truth about herself to someone she might have found the courage to
put personal dignity in its right place at the head of her life as the
arbiter of what must not be done. Although she had defied Caroline ten
years ago, and had been punished for her defiance, she still had a deep
belief in Caroline's strength of character and clear insight. And she
knew that Caroline was really fond of her.
But Fate had removed her friend from her. And was it not because of that
removal that she had lost her battle? The sense of loneliness, of a
cold finality, had been too great for her. She had had too much time
for remembrance. And she had remembered certain hours with Craven by
the fire, had remembered the human warmth of them, till the longing for
happiness had overpowered everything else in her. They had been very
happy together. She had been able to make him happy. His eager eyes had
shown it. And their joy had been quite innocent; there had been no
harm in it at all. Why should she deliberately forego such innocent
contentment? Walking alone on the sea front at Cannes in the warm and
brilliant weather she had asked herself that question. If Craven were
there! And in the long loneliness she had begun presently, as often
before, to try to cheat herself. The drastic heart of London had seemed
to change into another heart. And at last she had followed the example
of a woman in Paris some ten years ago.
She had as it were got out of the train once more.
She had not, perhaps, been fully conscious of the terrible repetition
brought about by a temperament which apparently refused to change.
She had no doubt tried to deceive herself though she had not deceived
herself ten years ago at the Gare du Nord. She had even lied to herself,
saying that in London she had given way to a foolish and morbid mood of
fear, induced in her by memories of disasters in the past, that she had
imagined danger where no danger existed. In London panic had seized her.
But now in a different atmosphere and environment, quite alone and able,
therefore, to consider things carefully and quietly, to see them in
their true light, she had told herself that it was preposterous to
give up an innocent joy merely because long ago she had been subject to
folly. Ten years had elapsed since her last fit of folly. She must have
changed since then. It was inevitable that she had changed. She had
lied to herself in London when she had told herself that Craven would be
satisfied in their friendship, while she would be almost starving. Her
subsequent prayer had been answered. Passion was dead in her. A tender,
almost a motherly feeling--that really was what she felt and would
always feel for Alick Craven. She need not fear such a feeling. She
would not fear it. Morbidity had possessed her. The sunshine of Cannes
had driven it away. She had presently been glad that she had not found
Caroline in Paris. For if she had made that confession she would have
put an obstacle in the path which she now resolved to tread.
She had told herself that, and finally she had decided to return to
London.
But she had gone first to Geneva, and had put herself there into the
hands of a certain specialist, whose fame had recently reached the ears
of a prominent member of the "old guard," no other than the Duchess of
Wellingborough.
And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on the
threshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences.
She had not yet told Craven of her return. For the moment she was glad
that she had not given way to her impulse and telephoned to him on
the Sunday. She might have caught him with her message just as he was
starting for Rye with Beryl. That would have been horrible. Of course
she would not telephone to him now. She resolved to ignore him. He had
forgotten all about her. She would seem to forget about him. There was
nothing else to be done. Pride, the pride of the _Grande Dame_ which she
had never totally lost, rose up in her, hot, fiery even; it mingled with
an intense jealousy, and made her wish to inflict punishment. She was
like a wounded animal that longs to strike, to tear with its claws, to
lacerate and leave bleeding. Nevertheless she had no intention of taking
action against either of those who had hurt her. Beryl should have her
triumph. Youth should be left in peace with its own cruelty.
Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth's return to
Berkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added the
information that she had arrived on the previous Saturday.
"Oh!" said Craven, with apparent indifference. "Have you seen her?"
Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking, in
his opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual.
"She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and in
Switzerland."
"In Switzerland!" said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke's remarks about
Catherine Bewdley and Lausanne.
"Yes, but I don't think she has been ill. I ventured to--just to say a
word as to doctors, and she assured me she had been perfectly well all
the time she was away. Are you going to see her?"
"I've got a good deal to do just now," said Craven, coldly and with a
slight rise of colour. "But of course I hope to see Lady Sellingworth
again some day. She is a charming woman. It's always a pleasure to have
a talk with her."
"Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn's extraordinarily
good-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?"
"What friend?" asked Craven, with sudden sharpness.
"The tall man she has been seen about with lately."
"I don't know."
After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke's part, Craven
replied:
"Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people."
"To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a little
inclined to gossip."
"Lady Archie Brooke?"
"Yes. She has met Miss Van Tuyn two or three times in Glebe Place, it
seems, walking with a man whom she describes as a marvel of good looks.
But there's Antring. I must have a word with him. He is just over from
Paris."
And Braybrooke walked away with his usual discreet gait. He was feeling
decidedly satisfied. Young Craven had certainly not been pleased with
the information so casually imparted. It had aroused--Braybrooke was
convinced of it--a sensation of jealousy which promised well for the
future. Braybrooke was almost sure now that his young friend had
fallen thoroughly in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. The coldness about Adela
Sellingworth, the sudden touch of heat about Beryl Van Tuyn, surely
indicated that. Braybrooke was not seriously upset about Lady Archie's
remarks. She really was a tremendous gossip, although of course a
delightful woman. And Miss Van Tuyn was always surrounded by men.
Nevertheless he was decidedly curious about the good-looking stranger
who had been seen in Glebe Place. He had a retentive memory, and had not
forgotten Dick Garstin's extraordinary remark about the blackmailer.
Braybrooke was not mistaken about Craven. The information about Adela
Sellingworth had renewed Craven's hot sense of injury. Braybrooke did
not understand that. But the subsequent remark about Beryl Van Tuyn
had added fuel to the fire, and the sharp jealousy of sensitive youth
mingled with the feeling of injury. Craven had been hurt by the elderly
woman. Was he now to be hurt by the girl? Braybrooke's news had made him
feel really angry. Yet he knew he had no right to be angry. He began to
wish that he had never gone to Berkeley Square on that autumn afternoon,
had never met the two women who were beginning to complicate his life.
For a moment he thought of dropping them both. But had not one of them
already dropped him? He would certainly not call again in Berkeley
Square. If Lady Sellingworth did not ask him to go there he would not
attempt to see her. He was not going to fight for her friendship. And
as to Beryl Van Tuyn--The curious name--Nicolas Arabian--came into his
mind and a conversation at a box at a theatre. Miss Van Tuyn had told
him about this magnificently handsome man, this "living bronze," but
somehow he had never thought of her as specially intimate with a fellow
who frequented the Cafe Royal, and who apparently sat as a model to
painters. But now he realized that this must be the man of Glebe Place,
and he felt more angry, more injured than before.
Yet he was not in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. Or had he fallen in
love with her without being aware of it? She attracted him very much
physically at times. She amused him, interested him. He liked being with
her. He was angry at the thought of another man's intimacy with her. He
wanted her to be fond of him, to need him, to prefer him to all other
men. But he often felt critical about her, about her character, though
not about her beauty. A lover surely could not feel like that. A lover
just loved, and there was an end of it.
He could not understand his own feelings. But when he thought of Beryl
Van Tuyn he felt full of the fighting instinct, and ready to take
the initiative. He would never fight to retain Lady Sellingworth's
friendship, but he would fight to assert himself with the beautiful
American. She should not take him up and use him merely as a means to
amusement without any care for what was due to him. Lady Sellingworth
was old, and in a sense famous. Such a woman could do as she pleased.
With her, protest would be ridiculous. But he would find a way with
Beryl Van Tuyn.
On that day and the next Craven did not see Miss Van Tuyn. No message
came to him from Lady Sellingworth. Evidently the latter wished to have
nothing more to do with him. She had now been in London for nearly a
week without letting him know it. Miss Van Tuyn had telephoned once
suggesting a meeting. But Craven had charmingly put her off, alleging a
tiresome engagement. He did not choose now to seem eager to meet her.
He was considering what he would do. If he could manage to meet her
in Glebe Place! But how to contrive such an encounter? While he was
meditating about this he was again rung up by Miss Van Tuyn, who
suggested that he should play golf with her at Beaconsfield on the
following day, Saturday.
"You can't pretend you are working overtime at the F.O. to-morrow," she
said.
Craven replied that the F.O. kept him very long even on Saturdays.
"What's the matter? What are you angry about?" asked Miss Van Tuyn
through the telephone.
Craven intended to make a quietly evasive reply, but he found himself
saying:
"If I work overtime at the F.O., are there not others who do much the
same--in Glebe Place?"
After a pause Miss Van Tuyn said:
"I haven't an idea what you mean."
Craven said nothing. Already he was angry with himself, and regretted
his impulsiveness.
"Well?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"Well?" retorted Craven, feeling rather absurd.
Again there was a pause. Then, speaking quickly, Miss Van Tuyn said: "If
you can escape from the F.O. you might be in Glebe Place about five on
Monday. Good-bye!"
And she rang off, leaving Craven with the pleasant sensation that, as
often before, he had "given himself away." Certainly he had shown Miss
Van Tuyn his jealousy. She must have guessed what his mention of Glebe
Place meant. And yet she had asked him to go there on the following
Monday. If he did not go perhaps that neglect would cancel his
imprudence at the telephone.
He made up his mind not to go.
Nevertheless, when he left the Foreign Office on the Monday about
half-past four, instead of going towards Mayfair he found himself
walking quickly in the direction of Chelsea.