December Love - Robert Hichens
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"I quite understand that. I've just been with the fellow."
Miss Van Tuyn started up.
"You've seen him?"
"Yes."
"Where? Here?"
"I went to Mr. Garstin's studio to have a look at the portrait and say a
word to him. While I was there Arabian called. I stayed on and sat with
him for some time. Afterwards I walked with him to the building where he
is living temporarily and went in."
"Went in? _You_ went into his flat!"
"As I say."
Miss Van Tuyn looked at him without speaking. Her expression showed
intense astonishment, amounting almost to incredulity.
"I had it out with him," said Sir Seymour grimly, after a pause. "And in
the heat of the moment I told him something which I had not intended to
tell him, which I had not meant to speak of at all."
"What? What?"
"I told him I knew about the theft of ten years ago."
"Oh!"
"And I told him also that you knew about it."
"That I--oh! How did he take it? What did he say?"
"I didn't wait to hear. The flat was--well--scented, and I wanted to get
out of it."
His face expressed such a stern and acute disgust that Miss Van Tuyn's
eyes dropped beneath his.
"You may think--it would be natural to think that the fact of my having
told the man about your knowledge of his crime would prevent him from
ever attempting to see you again," Sir Seymour continued, "but I don't
feel sure of that."
"You think that even after that he might--"
"I'll be frank with you. I can't tell what he might or might not do. He
may follow my suggestion--"
"What did you--"
"I suggested to him that he had better clear out of the country at once.
It's quite possible that he may take my view and go, but in case he
doesn't, and tries to bother you any more--"
"He's been! He's written! He says he _will_ see me. He has guessed that
something has turned me against him."
"He knows now what it is. Now I want you to write a note to him which
I will leave at the bureau in case he calls to-night or to-morrow
morning."
"Yes."
She went to the writing-table and sat down.
"If you will allow me to suggest the wording."
"Please--please do!"
She took up a pen and dipped it in the ink. Then Sir Seymour dictated:
SIR,--Sir Seymour Portman has told me of his meeting with you to-day and
of what occurred at it. What he said to you about me is true. I _know_.
If you call you will not see me. I refuse absolutely to see you or to
have anything more to do with you, now or at any future time.
"And then your name at the end."
Miss van Tuyn wrote with a hand that slightly trembled. "B. VAN TUYN."
"If you will put that into an envelope and address it I will take it
down and leave it at the bureau."
"Thank you."
Miss Van Tuyn put the note into an envelope, closed the envelope and
addressed it.
"That's right."
Sir Seymour held out his hand and she gave him the note.
"Now, good night."
"You are going!"
He smiled slightly.
"I don't sleep at Claridge's as you and Miss Cronin do."
"No, of course not. Thank you so very, very much! But I can never thank
you properly."
She paused. Then she said with sudden bitterness:
"And I used to pride myself on my independence!"
"Ah--independence! A word!" said Sir Seymour.
He turned away to go, but when he was near the door he stopped and
seemed hesitating.
"What is it?" said Miss Van Tuyn anxiously.
"Even men sometimes have instincts," he said, turning round.
"Yes?"
"May I use your telephone?"
"Of course! But--do--you--"
"Where--Oh, there it is!"
He went to it and called up the bureau. Then he said: "Sir Seymour
Portman is speaking from Miss Van Tuyn's sitting-room . . . is that Mr.
Henriques? Please tell me, has that man, Arabian, of whom we spoke just
now, called again?"
There was a silence in which Miss Van Tuyn, watching, saw a frown
wrinkle deeply Sir Seymour's forehead.
"Ah! Has he gone? Did you get rid of him? . . . How long ago? . . . Only
two or three minutes! . . . Do you think he knows I am here? . . . Thank
you. I'll be down in a moment."
He put the receiver back.
"Oh, but don't leave me!" said Miss Van Tuyn distractedly. "You see, in
spite of what you told him he _has_ come!"
"Yes. He has been. He's a determined fellow."
"He'll never give it up! What can I do?"
"All you can do at present is to remain quietly up here in your
comfortable rooms. Leave the rest to me."
"But if he gets in?"
"He won't. Even if he came upstairs--and he won't be allowed to--he has
no key of your outer door. Now I'll go down and leave this note at the
bureau. If he comes back and receives it, that will probably decide him
to give the thing up. He is counting on the weakness of your will. This
note will show him you have made up your mind. By the way"--he fixed his
dark eyes on her--"you _have_ made up your mind?"
She blushed up to her hair.
"Oh, yes--yes!"
"Very well. To-morrow I shall go to Scotland Yard. We'll get him out of
the country one way or another."
She accompanied him to the outer door of the apartment. When he had
gone out she shut it behind him, and he heard the click of a bolt being
pushed home.
Before leaving the hotel Sir Seymour again sought his discreet friend
Henriques, to whom he gave Miss Van Tuyn's note.
"So the fellow has been?" he said.
"Yes, Sir Seymour."
"Did you get rid of him easily?"
"Well, to tell the truth, Sir Seymour, he tried to be obstinate. I
think--if you'll excuse me--I certainly think that he was slightly under
the influence of drink. Not drunk, you'll understand, not at all as much
as that! But still--"
"Yes--yes. If he comes back give him that note. And--do you think it
would be wise to give him a hint that any further annoyance might lead
to the intervention of the police? The young lady is very much upset
and frightened. Do you think you might drop a word or two--at your
discretion?"
"I'll manage it, Sir Seymour. Leave it to me!"
"Very good of you, Henriques. Good night."
"Good night, Sir Seymour. Always very glad to do anything for you."
"Thank you."
As Sir Seymour stepped out into Brook Street he glanced swiftly up and
down the thoroughfare. But he did not see the man he was looking for. He
stood still for a moment. There was hesitation in his mind. The natural
thing, he felt, would be to go at once to Berkeley Square and to have
a talk with Adela. It was late. He was beginning to feel hungry. Adela
would give him some dinner. But--could he go to Adela just now? No; he
could not. And he hailed a cab and drove home. Something the beast
had said had made a horrible impression upon the faithful lover, an
impression which remained with him, which seemed to be eating its way,
like a powerful acid, into his very soul, corroding, destroying.
Adela--young Craven!
Was it possible? Was there then never to be an end to that mania, which
had been Adela's curse, and the tragedy of the man who had loved her
with the long love which is so rare among men?
There was bitterness in Sir Seymour's heart that night, and that
bitterness sent him home, to the home that was no real home, to the
solitude that _she_ had given him.
CHAPTER XV
On the following morning, true to his word, Sir Seymour visited Scotland
Yard, and had a talk with a certain authority there who was a very old
friend of his. The authority asked a few questions, but no questions
that were indiscreet, or that Sir Seymour was unable to answer
without betraying Lady Sellingworth's confidence. The sequel to this
conversation was that a tall, thin, lemon-coloured man, with tight lips
and small, dull-looking eyes, which saw much more than most bright eyes
ever see, accompanied Sir Seymour in a cab to Glebe Place. They arrived
there about half-past eleven. Sir Seymour rang the bell, and in a moment
Dick Garstin opened the door.
"What's the matter?" was Sir Seymour's unconventional greeting to him.
For the painter's face was flushed in patches and his small eyes glowed
fiercely.
"Who's this?" he said, looking at Sir Seymour's companion.
"Detective Inspector Horridge--Mr. Dick Garstin," said Sir Seymour.
"Oh, come to see the picture! Well, you're too late!" said Garstin in a
harsh voice.
"Too late!"
"Yes, a damned sight too late! But come up!"
They went in, and Garstin, without any more words, took them up to the
studio.
"There you are!" he said, still in the harsh and unnatural voice.
He flung out his arm towards the easel which stood in the middle of the
room. Sir Seymour and the inspector went up to it. Part of the canvas on
which Arabian's portrait had been painted was still there. But the head
and face had been cleanly cut away. Only the torso remained.
"When was this done?" asked Sir Seymour.
"Some time last night, I suppose."
"But--"
"I didn't sleep here. I often don't, more often than not. But last night
I was a fool to be away. Well, I've paid for my folly!"
"But how--"
"God knows! The fellow got in. It doesn't much matter how. A false key,
I suppose."
"Does anyone know?"
"Not a soul, except us."
Sir Seymour was silent. He had realized at once that Miss Van Tuyn was
safe now, safe, too, from further scandal, unless Garstin chose to make
trouble. He looked at the painter, and from him to the inspector.
"What are you going to do?" he said to Dick Garstin.
"I don't know!" said Garstin.
And he flung himself down on the old sofa by the wall.
"I don't know!"
For a moment he put his hands up to his temples and stared on the
ground. As he sat there thus he looked like a man who had just been
thrashed. After a moment Sir Seymour went over to him and laid a hand on
his shoulder.
Garstin looked up.
"What's that for?"
He stared into Sir Seymour's face for an instant. Perhaps he read
something there. For he seemed to pull himself together, and got up.
"Well, inspector," he said, "you've had your visit for nothing. It
wasn't a bad picture, either. I should like you to have had a squint at
it. But--perhaps I'll do better yet. Who knows? Perhaps I've stuck to
those Cafe Royal types too long. Eh, Sir Seymour? Perhaps I'd better
make a start in a new line. Have a whisky?"
"Thank you. But it's rather too early," said the lemon-coloured man. "Do
you wish--"
"No, I don't!" said Garstin. "We'll leave it at that?"
Again he flung out his arm towards the mutilated canvas.
"I made a bargain with the fellow whose portrait that was. I was to
paint it and exhibit it, and then he was to have it. Well, I suppose
we're about quits. I can't exhibit it, but I'm damned if he can make
much money out of it. We're quits!"
Sir Seymour turned to the inspector.
"Well, inspector, I'm very sorry to have given you this trouble for
nothing," he said. "I know you're a busy man. You take the cab back to
Scotland Yard. Here--you must allow me to pay the shot. I'll stay on for
a few minutes. And"--he glanced towards Garstin--"by the way, we may
as well keep this matter between us, if Mr. Garstin is good enough to
agree."
"I agree! I agree!" said Garstin.
"The fact is there's a woman in it, quite a girl. We don't want a
scandal. It would distress her. And I suppose this is really--this
outrage--I suppose it is purely a matter for Mr. Garstin to decide
whether he wishes any sequel to it or not."
"Oh, certainly," said the inspector. "If Mr. Garstin doesn't wish any
action to be taken--"
"I don't! That's flat!"
"Very well," said the inspector. "Good morning."
"Back in a moment," said Garstin to Sir Seymour. And he went downstairs
to let the inspector out.
"So that's how it ends!" said Sir Seymour to himself when he was alone.
"That's how it ends!"
And he went over to what had been Arabian's portrait, and gazed at
the hole which surmounted the magnificent torso. He had no doubt that
Arabian had gone out of Miss Van Tuyn's life for ever. Probably, almost
certainly, he had returned to the hotel on the previous evening, had
been given the note Miss Van Tuyn had written to dictation, and also
a hint from that very discreet and capable fellow, Henriques, of what
might happen if he persisted in trying to force himself upon her. And
then he had come to the decision which had led to the outrage in the
studio. Where was he now? No longer in Rose Tree Gardens if Sir Seymour
knew anything of men.
"The morning boat to Paris, and--the underworld!" Sir Seymour muttered
to himself.
"Not much to look at now, is it?" said Garstin's voice behind him.
He turned round quickly.
Garstin was gazing at his ruined masterpiece with a curious twisted
smile.
"What can one say?" said Sir Seymour. "When Horridge was here I thought:
'When he's gone I'll tell Mr. Garstin!' And now he is gone, and--and--"
He went up to Garstin and held out his hand.
"I know I don't understand what you feel about this. No one could but a
fellow-painter as big as you are. But I wish I could make you understand
what I feel about something else."
"And what's that?" said Garstin, as he took Sir Seymour's hand, almost
doubtfully.
"About the way you've taken it, and your letting the blackguard off."
"Oh, as to that, I bet you he'll be in Paris by five to-day."
"Just what I think. But still--"
He pressed Garstin's hand, and Garstin returned the pressure.
"Beryl wanted me to paint him, but I painted him to please myself. I'm a
selfish brute, like most painters, I suppose."
"But you're letting him go because of Miss Van Tuyn."
"Damn it, I believe I am. I say, are you ever coming here again?"
"If I may."
"I wish you would."
He gazed at Sir Seymour's strong head.
"I've spent half my life in showing people up on canvas," he said. "I
should like to try something else."
"And what's that?"
"I should like to try to reveal the underneath fine instead of the
underneath filth. It'd be a new experiment for me."
He laughed.
"Perhaps I should make a failure of it. But--if you'd allow me--I would
try to make a start with you."
"I can only say I shall be honoured," said Sir Seymour, with a touch of
almost shamefaced modesty which he endeavoured to hide with a very grave
courtliness. "Please let me know, if you don't change your mind. I'm a
good bit battered, but such as I am I am always at your service--out of
work hours."
His last words to Garstin at the street door were:
"You've taught an old soldier how to take a hard knock."
CHAPTER XVI
Sir Seymour usually called on Lady Sellingworth about five o'clock
in the afternoon when he was not detained by work or inevitable
engagements. On the day of his visit to Garstin's studio with the
inspector he felt that he owed it to Adela to go to Berkeley Square and
to tell her what had happened in connexion with Arabian since he had
last seen her. She must be anxious for news. It was not likely that she
had seen Miss Van Tuyn, that beautiful prisoner in Claridge's hotel.
Miss Van Tuyn might have telephoned to her and told her of his visits to
the hotel. But Adela would certainly expect to see him, would certainly
be waiting for him. He ought to go to her. Since the morning he had
been very busy. He had not had time to call again on Miss Van Tuyn, who
could, therefore--so at least he believed--know nothing of the outrage
in the studio. That piece of news which would surely be welcome to her
if she understood what it implied, should rightly come to her from the
woman who had been unselfish for her sake. Adela ought to tell her that.
But first it was his duty to tell Adela. He must go to Berkeley Square.
And he decided to go and set out on foot. But as he walked he was
conscious of a strange and hideous reluctance to pay the customary
visit--the visit which had been the bright spot in his day for so long.
He had interfered with the design of Arabian. But Arabian unconsciously
had stabbed him to the heart with a sentence, meant to be malicious,
about Adela, but surely not intended to pierce him.
Young Craven! Young Craven!
When he reached the familiar door and was standing before it he
hesitated to press the bell. He feared that he would not be perfectly
natural with Adela. He feared that he would be constrained, that he
would be unable not to seem cold and rigid. Almost he was tempted to
turn away. He could write his news to her. Perhaps even now young Craven
was in the house with her. Perhaps he, the old man, would be unwanted,
would only be in the way if he went in. But it was not his habit to
recoil from anything and, after a moment of uneasy waiting, he put his
hand to the bell.
Murgatroyd opened the door.
"Good day, Murgatroyd. Is her Ladyship at home?"
"Yes, Sir Seymour."
He stepped into the hall, left his hat, coat and stick, and prepared to
go upstairs.
"Anyone with her Ladyship?"
"No, Sir Seymour. Her Ladyship is alone."
A moment later Murgatroyd opened the drawing-room door and made the
familiar announcement:
"Sir Seymour Portman!"
Adela was as usual on the sofa by the tea-table, near to the fireplace
in which ship logs were blazing. She got up to greet him, and looked at
him eagerly, almost anxiously.
"I was hoping you would come. Has anything happened?"
"Yes, a great deal," he said, as he took her hand.
"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked.
"But--do I look at you differently from--"
"Yes," she interrupted him.
He lowered his eyes, feeling almost guilty.
"But in what way?"
"As if you wanted to know something, as if--have you changed towards
me?"
"My dear Adela! What a question from you after all these years!"
"You might change."
"Nonsense, my dear."
"No, no, it is not! Anyone may change. We are all incalculable."
"Give me some tea now. And let me tell you my news."
She sat down again, but her luminous eyes were still fixed on him, and
there was an almost terrified expression in them.
"You haven't seen--him?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You have! I felt it! He has said something about me, something
horrible!"
"Adela, do you really think I would take an opinion of you from a
blackguard like that?"
"Please tell me everything," she said.
She looked painfully agitated, and something in her agitation made him
feel very tender, for it gave her in his eyes a strange semblance of
youthfulness. Yes, despite all she had done, all the years she had lived
through, there was something youthful in her still. Perhaps it was that
which persistently held out hands to youth! The thought struck him and
the tenderness was lessened in his eyes.
"Seymour, you are hiding something from me," she said.
"Adela, give me a little time! I am going to tell you my news."
"Yes, yes, please do!"
"I want my tea," he said, with a smile.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!"
"How young you are!" he said.
"Young! How can you say such a thing?"
"Now really, Adela! As if I could ever be sarcastic with you!"
"That remark could only be sarcastic."
He sipped his tea.
"No; you will always have youth in you. It is undying. It makes half
your charm, my dear. And perhaps--"
"Yes?"
"Well, perhaps it has caused most of the trouble in your life."
She looked down.
"Our best gifts have their--what shall I say--their shady side, I
suppose. And we seem to have to pay very often for what are thought of
as gifts. But now I must tell you."
"Yes."
And then he began to relate to her, swiftly although he was old, the
events of his mission. She listened, and while she listened she sat very
still. She had looked up. Her eyes were fixed upon him. Presently
he reached the point in his narrative where Arabian walked into Dick
Garstin's studio. Then she moved. She seemed suddenly seized with an
uncontrollable restlessness. He went on without looking at her, but he
heard her movements, the rustle of her gown, the touch of her hand on a
sofa cushion, on the tea-table, the chink of moved china, touching other
china. And two or three times he heard the faint sound of her breathing.
He knew she was suffering intensely, and he believed it was because of
the haunting, inexorable remembrance of the enticement that abominable
fellow, Arabian, had had for her. But he had to go on. And he went on
till he came to the scene in the flat at Rose Tree Gardens.
"You--you went to his room!" she then said, interrupting him.
"Yes."
He heard her sigh. But she said nothing more. He told what had happened
in the flat, but not fully. He said nothing of Arabian's mention of her
name, but he did tell her that he himself had spoken of her, had said
that he was a friend of hers. And finally he told her how, carried away
by indignation, he had spoken of his and Miss Van Tuyn's knowledge that
Arabian had stolen her jewels.
"I didn't mean to tell him that," he added. "But--well, it came out.
I--I hope you forgive me?"
He did not wait for her answer, but told her of his abrupt departure
from the flat, and of his subsequent visit to Miss Van Tuyn, of what he
had learnt at the hotel, and of what he had done there.
"The police!" she said, as if startled. "But if--if there should be a
scandal! Oh, Seymour, that would be too horrible! I couldn't bear that!
He might--it might come out! And my name--"
She got up from the sofa. Her face looked drawn with an anxiety that was
like agony. He got up too.
"It was only a threat. But in any case it will be all right, Adela."
"But we don't know what he may do!" she said, with desperation.
"Wait till you know what he has done."
"What has he done?"
And then he told her of the outrage in the studio. When he was silent
she made a slight swaying movement and took hold of the mantelpiece.
He saw by her face that she had grasped at once what Arabian's action
implied.
Flight!
"You see--he's done with. We've done with the fellow!" he said at last
as she did not speak.
"Yes."
Her face, when not interfered with, was always pale. But now it looked
horribly, unnaturally white. Relief, he believed, had shaken her in the
very soul.
"Adela, did you think your good deed was going to recoil on you?" he
said. "Did you really think it was going to bring punishment on you? I
don't believe things go like that even in this distracted, inexplicable
old world."
"Don't they? Mightn't they?"
"Surely not. You have saved that girl. You have paid back that
scoundrel. And you have nothing to fear."
"Why did you look at me like that when you came into the room?"
"But you are--"
"No. You haven't told me something. Tell me!"
"Be happy in the good result of your self-sacrifice, Adela."
"I want you to tell me. There is something. I know there is."
"Yes. But it only concerns me."
"Seymour, I don't believe that!"
He was silent, looking at her with the old dog's eyes. But now there was
something else in them besides faithfulness.
"Well, Adela," he said at last, "I believe very much in absolute
sincerity between real friends. But I suppose friendship must be very
real indeed to stand absolute sincerity. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, I do. But our friendship is as real as any friendship can be, I
think."
"Yes, but on my side it is mixed up, it has always been mixed up, with
something else."
"Yes, I know," she said in a low voice.
"And besides I'm afraid, if I speak quite frankly, I shall hurt you, my
dear!"
"Then--hurt me, Seymour!"
"Shall I? Can I do that?"
"Be frank with me. I have been very frank with you. I have told _you_."
"Yes, indeed. You have been nobly, gloriously frank. Well, then--that
horrible fellow did say something which I haven't told you, something
that, I confess it, has upset me."
"What was it?" she said, still in the low voice, and bending her small
head a little like one expecting punishment.
"He alluded to a friend of yours. He mentioned that nice boy I met here,
young Craven?"
"Yes?"
"I really can't get what he said over my lips, Adela."
"I know what he said. You needn't tell me."
The were both silent for a minute. Then she came close to him.
"Seymour, perhaps you want to ask me a question about Mr. Craven.
But--don't! You needn't. I have done, absolutely done, with all that
side of my life which you hate. A part of my nature has persecuted me.
It has often led me into follies and worse, as you know. But I have
done with it. Indeed, indeed I can answer for myself. I wouldn't dare to
speak like this to you, the soul of sincerity, if I couldn't. But I'll
prove it to you. Seymour, you know what I am. I dare say you have always
known. But the other night I told you myself."
"Yes."
"If I hadn't I shouldn't dare now to ask you what I am going to ask you.
Is it possible that you still love me enough to care to be more than the
friend you have always been to me?"
"Do you mean--"
He paused.
"Yes," she said.
"I ask nothing more of life than that, Adela."
"Nor do I, dear Seymour."
CHAPTER XVII
That evening Miss Van Tuyn learnt through the telephone from Lady
Sellingworth what had happened in Dick Garstin's studio during the
previous night. On the following morning at breakfast time she learnt
from Sir Seymour that the flat in Rose Tree Gardens had been abruptly
deserted by its tenant, who had left very early the day before.
She was free from persecution, and, of course, she realized her freedom;
but, so strange are human impulses, she was at first unable to be happy
in her knowledge that the burden of fear had been lifted from her.
The misfortune which had fallen on Dick Garstin obsessed her mind. Her
egoism was drowned in her passionate anger at what Arabian had done. She
went early to the studio and found Garstin there alone.